“I kept Will’s position for him, Mary, and I stayed away from his wife, whom I love and he does not, damned fool that he is, and now he owes me. He owes me that I can be near you and I will be, I will be.” He nuzzled her hair and bent to kiss her throat. A little stifled cry escaped her as he leaned gently against her. He raised his head and stared down into her wide eyes. His lips descended upon hers. He was so warm and strong. All the loneliness and pain flowed out of her as she returned his caressing, probing kiss. His kisses deepened and she felt his breath hot against her cheek. She forgot she was pressed to a cold wall in the slums of vast Greenwich and that her husband did not love her and she had fallen far from the good graces of her king. Here was all that mattered.
She lifted her arms to his broad shoulders and pressed him close in return, arching up against him. Her robe fell open but she no longer needed its furry warmth. He moved a half step away, parted it slowly and put his hands to her waist, covered only by the thin chemise. The span of his hands nearly encircled her. His thumbs moved slowly over the tiny swell of her belly. He lifted her, his arms like metal bands around her. The heavy robe dangled straight down from her shoulders to the floor. He laid her in its warm folds on the bed, strode to the door and shot the bolt. His boots thudded on the floor beside the bed and he yanked his doublet and shirt over his head as though they were one garment.
“Staff, we cannot. Will might...”
He silenced her with a hot kiss, and his hands went to her waist again. “Hush, love. Will is thinking of the king and the Carey name. None of that has anything to do with us.”
Her limbs felt like water, and a hot pulse raced low in her stomach. She wanted this so much. She wanted him and had for years. She went limp as his hands crept up to her pointed breasts and his knee rode intimately across her legs.
“I told you once that I was not a very patient man, Mary. I—and we—have waited quite long enough, but if you choose not to submit, I shall take it on myself, and you may blame me in the morning. I want you, sweetheart, to make up for a lot of lonely hours, and countless advice, and worry that your kings and father would totally ruin your life, and for a lot of your own tart words. And for the wasted years. Tonight we are going to begin catching up and it will take a long, long time for us to be even.”
His voice mesmerized her, and the flickering flames, dancing in his dark eyes, entranced her. As she held to him, his hands went everywhere. This was far different from Henry Tudor’s rough caresses or Will’s swift, cold possessiveness. This was madness. How often, how many years in Henry’s vast bed or in Will’s narrow one, had she dreamed that Staff would seize her and love her. And now it was real.
He stripped off his breeches while she smiled deep inside for the pure joy of having him look on her that way. His body hovered over her like a warm, protective roof against the cold world. She reached up and encircled his neck with her arms.
“Your face is always beautiful, my love,” he whispered, “and that is why men desire you. But it is honest, too. Honest and so clearly lovely within. That is why this man has loved you and desired you all this time. Until the late winter dawn I am going to make love to you, and I will watch your face and know you love me too. You are mine, Mary Bullen, from this time on, no matter what befalls.”
Sometime later, minutes or hours or eons, collapsed against her, he raised his disheveled head and looked down into her eyes only inches away. He smiled.
“I would almost have to say that those few minutes were worth seven years of hell, sweetheart.” He reached down and pulled her discarded fur robe over their perspiring bodies. They lay with her head tucked under his chin as he stroked her hair gently. Her free hand rested in the curly hair of his chest.
She sighed. “I have never felt so safe and content. But I am old enough to know that the real world is outside there, outside that door.”
“Yes, my Mary. But there are many doors in His Grace’s palaces, and someday we may have a door of our own.” His voice broke and he hesitated. “Someday.”
She felt incredibly happy. Even if the king, her wide-eyed sister and screaming father beat down the door, she would not care —nor budge—one whit.
CHAPTER TWENTY
April 27, 1526
Hampton Court
The weeks, days and hours were precious now and not to be dreaded as Mary had feared: each meal, each walk through the wood-paneled and tapestried halls of Greenwich, Whitehall, Nonesuch, or Hampton—any moment she might see Staff.