Beloved Enemy, page 26
“There are many heavenly planes,” Alex remarked, not taking his eyes off her as he shrugged out of his coat and pulled off his shirt. “But I think the bath is definitely a good idea.”
“You must order your own,” Ginny said, wriggling her toes.
“I would rather share yours,” he replied, tugging off his boots and stockings.
“There is no room,” she said unarguably.
“Then I must hurry you up. I will wash your back.”
“Pray do not trouble, sir. I can manage myself.” Throughout the by-play, the delicious tension built, wreathing and coiling between them, and Ginny continued to wriggle her toes absently until Alex dropped to his knees by the bath and seized her feet in both hands. Ginny squealed and squirmed helplessly as his fingers danced over the ticklish soles; then he bent his head, taking her toes in his mouth, sucking with a rhythmic fervor that seemed to transfer itself to every nerve center of her body. Half moaning, half laughing, she begged him to stop although she did not know whether that was what she really wanted and, when he did stop, knew that it wasn’t.
Alex chuckled and felt around in the water for the soap, his hands deliberately straying into nooks and crannies where no soap cake could possibly have hidden. “Here!” Ginny said in mock irritation. “Is this what you are looking for?” Taking his hand, she slapped the soap into his palm.
“Among other things,” Alex murmured, soaping the wash cloth. “Sit up and lean forward.”
When she showed no signs of compliance, he moved behind her, encircling her waist with an iron-firm arm, lifting her up out of the water, bending her forward over his hand as he soaped her back with gentle, circular movements that nevertheless contrived to be very thorough. “Stop wriggling,” he commanded when she struggled, more playfully than in earnest, and slipped his hand round her body, clasping one soap-slick breast.
“Bully!” Ginny accused him as his hold grew firmer under her struggles. “I did not realize quite how imperative was your need for a bath, sir. If you will unhand me, I will leave you in sole possession.”
Alex dropped her abruptly, and she fell back into the tub with a splash that slurped water over the rim onto the wooden boards. He grinned at her indignant expression and picked up the towel from the stool where it lay. “Out.” An imperative finger crooked, and Ginny rose, pink and dripping, from the fragrant water.
For long minutes, he looked at her until, with a shy smile, she said, “Please do not look at me like that.”
“But you are beautiful,” he said softly. “I cannot help looking at you. Lift your arms behind your head.”
Tremulously, she did so, feeling her skin stretch taut across her rib cage, her breasts rise with the movement. Alex exhaled on a long, slow breath. “I want you now,” he breathed, “but I am rank with sweat and horseflesh and would not sully such sweet-scented skin.” He tossed her the towel. “You must dry yourself, I fear, for if I touch you I shall be lost.”
Ginny blotted the water from her skin, watching in her turn as he pushed off his britches and dipped into the soap-clouded water. “Allow me to wash your back, sir,” she said, discarding the towel and coming to kneel beside the tub. Alex lay back under her ministering hands, his eyes closed in blissful peace as she soaped him from top to toe, running her fingers delicately down the sword scars on his ribs and thigh. How many more of those would he acquire before the fighting was done? The thought rose, unbidden and terrifying, and with it the dreadful memory of her dream that had haunted her as she sat, what now seemed an eon ago, on the dining room window seat while Parliament’s colonel waited patiently for her breaking. She stopped, stood up, and reached again for the towel.
“What is it?” Alex asked, instantly aware of the change of mood.
“Why, nothing, Alex.” Shrugging, she offered him a smile that should have been inviting, but was instead painful.
“You must not lie to me,” he said quietly, stepping from the bath. “Not when we are lovers, sweet Ginny.”
“I was suddenly afraid for you,” she said in a low voice. “I do not think I could bear your death.”
Alex came to her in one long stride, wrapping her in his arms, cradling and soothing her with soft murmurs as he eased them both onto the bed and simply held her until her shudders ceased and the peace of acceptance again entered her soul.
When he made love to her, it was with the utmost gentleness, taking her with slow, sure strokes into the green depths of oblivion, and then, when he felt her renewal, he possessed her again, but this time with a fierce, exorcising power that drained her of all but exquisite sensation and cleansed her thoughts of all fear.
“Sweetheart?” He brushed aside the heavy locks of chestnut hair obscuring her face. “We must get dressed. We are summoned to dine at Whitehall, if you remember?”
“Yes, I do.” Ginny sat up. “Why am I to meet Cromwell? He can have no interest in a Cavalier prisoner, the daughter of a Malignant.”
“On the contrary,” Alex said dryly. “It is just those factors that do interest him. He also, I suspect, wishes to see for himself what creature it is that could so cause me to take leave of my senses.”
“That does not sound altogether complimentary,” Ginny said, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed where they dangled a good six inches from the floor. “In what manner have you taken leave of your senses?”
A sharp fingernail scribbled a path down her spine. “I have told my lord and master that I wish to assume responsibility for you personally. That means, my little rebel, that any crimes against Parliament that you commit will fall to my hand. It means I undertake to protect you and to make the necessary provisions for your keep, be it at my side or in the charge of someone I designate in my stead.”
“You dare!” Ginny turned on him fiercely. “We agreed that I would follow the drum.”
Alex laughed and pulled her back on the bed. “I have no intention of foisting you on any poor, unsuspecting soul,” he declared. “We march to Scotland in three days, and I swear that I shall make a good soldier of you before the journey’s done.”
And afterward? But Ginny kept the question to herself. The trick of existence in these days of schism seemed to be to look no further than the next morning.
Alex suddenly leaped from the bed with a surge of energy and went to pick up the parcel that he had deposited on the chair when he had first entered the chamber. “I have a gift for you, Ginny, my love. It is to be hoped my eye is as good as I think it.”
He dropped the parcel onto her bare thighs, and she looked up at him, startled. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
She unfastened the twine and drew from its wrapping a heap of soft turquoise linen. Her eyes shot toward him as he stood, gloriously, unconsciously naked, watching her face intently. “It’s lovely,” she whispered, shaking out the folds to reveal a gown with a deep, scalloped lace collar, sleeves puffed full from the shoulder, narrowing below the elbow with a row of tiny buttons to the wrist. She had not had a new gown since her wedding. “I cannot accept it, Alex.”
“And why not, pray?” His face darkened.
“But I cannot reciprocate,” she said hesitantly. “I have nothing of my own . . .” She looked at him, helplessly, hoping he would understand.
“No,” he agreed calmly. “You have nothing of your own but what is contained in that baggage roll.” He indicated the only possessions she had been able to bring with her from her home. “You have no inheritance, no dowry, no guardian. The first two, I wrested from you as the fortunes of war; the latter role, I have in some measure undertaken myself.” He let the statement lie for a minute, then said softly, “Will you argue with me, my raggle-taggle gypsy? Will you argue with my obligation to provide for you? Will you argue with the lover’s right to give pleasure as he is able?”
“I will not argue with the latter,” she said quietly, “and will accept the lover’s gift. As to the first, no.” She shook her head, the straight chestnut mane swirling vigorously. “I come with you of my own free will, and you are under no obligations, any more than I am obliged to accept your authority.”
“And the authority of a husband? Would you accept that?” The question with all its implications hung in the room where the dust motes danced in the last rays of the evening sun.
“I would have no choice but to do so,” she said eventually. “But we are not husband and wife.”
“No,” he agreed. “We are not. But I am responsible for you, nevertheless. However, let us not discuss this further; it can only lead to acrimony Put on the gown. I wish to see if I judged the size correctly.”
Ginny, accepting the need to leave a discussion for which there could be no mutually agreeable conclusion, willingly obliged and received her own pleasure in Alex’s clear delight in the accuracy of length, fit, and color that deepened and darkened her gray eyes, and drew attention to the burnished luster of her chestnut hair.
“You have a good eye, sir,” she said, preening herself in front of her patchy reflection in the mullioned window. “Too good for one inexperienced in these matters.” Her eyes twinkled roguishly.
“Not your concern, mistress,” he said, adjusting the collar and turning her round to retie the sash. “There, that is better.” His flat palm lingered for a moment on her bottom, then he sighed regretfully. “We must go, mistress mine. Cromwell does not forgive unpunctuality even from his generals.”
“What?” Ginny whirled on him and took in his gleeful expression. “Truly? You are promoted?”
“It seems so,” he said, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably. “Lieutenant-General Marshall at your service, Mistress Courtney.”
“Well, I may have little sympathy for the military mind,” Ginny said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him, “and even less for the side you support, but I can still find it in my heart to be pleased for you.”
Arm in arm, they descended the stairs, receiving the bobbed curtsies of the goodwife and her wenches, the bow of mine host. Ginny realized with a small shock that her wedding ring would not have escaped notice, and there would only be one respectable conclusion to be drawn. Well, let it be so. It could do no harm.
It was but a short distance to the Palace of Whitehall, and they walked, for once unaccompanied by soldierly escort, almost as if they were a prewar strolling couple. “It is to be hoped I do not say anything to offend your Mr. Cromwell,” Ginny commented as they turned into the courtyard.
“That is certainly to be hoped,” Alex concurred, pausing, his hand on her arm drawing her to a stop. “Cromwell has an exceedingly fiery temper, although it is generally controlled. He is also a most compassionate man and capable of much tenderness. But he will not tolerate lack of respect to himself. You would do well to accord him a degree of reverence”.
“I reserve reverence for my king,” Ginny said simply, “but I will try not to be impolite.”
Alex was little reassured by this, knowing as he did Ginny’s capacity for fearless, and generally unthinking, challenges. He had not sought this meeting between his Royalist mistress and his commander-in-chief, but Oliver Cromwell’s invitations were in the nature of commands and not lightly rejected.
They passed into the great hall, thronged with officers, dressed like Alex in full uniform, soberly clad civilians, and ordinary soldiers strategically placed at the doors and windows. There were also women, Ginny noted with interest, and not of the Southwark barracks type either. These were the wives of the men who made up Parliament’s court at Whitehall, men and women who, for the most part, had had little experience of power until they had taken the right side in civil war. Few of them would have frequented the court of King Charles, and Ginny felt her hackles rising as she examined the fine linens and lace of their gowns, the silk slippers, the glitter of jewelry. Out in the country, the king’s loyal subjects were deprived of their lands, of their manors, of the basic necessities of life in many cases. They were hunted like vermin and when they were caught were tortured and strung up for the crows to pick. While these parasites bought for a song the estates of the nobility, proudly displayed the looted jewels, and behaved for all the world as if they were born landed gentry with an impeccable family tree behind them.
“I cannot stay here,” she said abruptly and turned back to the door.
“You must!” Alex hissed desperately, seeing Cromwell beckon to him from across the room. “Take a hold of yourself, for God’s sake. If you antagonize anyone here, I cannot vouch for the consequences.”
“Then you had better let me go,” she replied tightly. “I am not afraid of confronting my enemies, but if you are afraid of such a thing—”
“You are going nowhere!” he rasped, hanging onto her arm with a frantic strength. “You chose to follow the drum, to stay by my side, and so you must do things you do not wish to do. You are going to make your curtsy to Cromwell and keep your indiscreet tongue still.”
Slowly the sense of what he was saying penetrated the fog of fury clouding her brain. She was in the midst of her enemies, and only a fool would deliberately court trouble in such a situation. She could keep her integrity in a disdainful silence. With a haughty toss of her head, she allowed Alex to lead her over to the group of officers where Oliver Cromwell held sway.
Her first thought was that this supremely powerful man cut a poor figure. He was not much taller than she, plainly dressed in an ill-cut tunic with wrinkled sash, and his linen was not clean. There was a speck of blood on the narrow collar, and he had no hatband. Then she became aware of a strength emanating from the compact figure, his hand resting on his sword hilt as if it rarely left it, an intelligence to the florid complexion.
“Mistress Virginia Courtney, sir,” Alex was saying, and the pressure of his fingers on her arm increased.
Ginny curtsied with care, according Oliver Cromwell just the depth she would consider suitable for a country squire. And she did not lower her eyes. The significance was not lost on Alex, or, indeed, on anyone familiar with the finer points of court etiquette.
Oliver Cromwell frowned. “I understand from General Marshall that you are considered a ward of Parliament, mistress. Is that a position you are content with?” His voice was sharp and unmelodious.
“I would prefer still to be my father’s daughter, sir,” Ginny replied in a tone devoid of expression. She did not add, “or my husband’s wife,” for that would be a lie, although it would add even greater weight to her statement.
Cromwell glanced thoughtfully up at his newest general, who was staring stonily into the middle distance. “It is not Parliament’s custom to cast the orphans of this war penniless upon the world,” he said, “even when those victims be our enemies, Mistress Courtney. General Marshall acted correctly and compassionately.”
“I am certain it must be as you say, sir,” she responded in a flat voice. “I am hardly in a position to argue.”
“What d’ye intend doing with her, Alex?” Cromwell, abandoning the attempt to persuade the prisoner of Parliament’s point of view, addressed her protector instead.
“Do you mean at this moment, sir? Or in the long term?” Alex gritted, making no attempt to conceal his angry discomfiture at Ginny’s insolence.
A glint of humor softened the commander-in-chief’s stern countenance. “I leave the details to you, General. I am sure you are more than equal to the task. Now, what were you saying, Mr. Maidstone?” He turned away, after according Ginny a brief nod, and resumed his interrupted conversation with his steward and member of Parliament, John Maidstone.
“I did warn you,” Ginny declared in an impassioned whisper to the frozen-faced Alex. “My father died fighting against that man; you could not expect me to accord him—”
“I expected you to accord him ordinary civility,” Alex interrupted.
“So I did,” she maintained stoutly. “I spoke only the truth. If Oliver Cromwell does not care to hear it, then more fool him.”
“Well, fortunately it did no harm,” he said with a sigh. “I cannot really blame you, but your sense of self-preservation is sadly unformed, my dear Virginia. Had he so pleased, Cromwell could have ordered you lodged with some loyal family in Spital Fields, or somewhere, and there would you remain.”
“I do not think you believe that,” Ginny said, hiding her relief at the cessation of his annoyance. “I do not believe I would remain there at all.”
Alex chuckled involuntarily. “No, I do not believe you would either, my resourceful rebel. Let us follow the company into dinner.” Guests were already seating themselves at long tables in the banqueting house, and servants were bearing in dishes as Alex and Ginny entered the noisy room where the air was heavy with the rich scents of perfume and spicy food.
“I am not going to the high table,” Ginny said, hanging back, when she saw where he was leading her. “That is too much, Alex, to be stared at and prodded like the fat lady at the fair.”
“Well, I am damned if I’ll dine anywhere else,” declared General Marshall, the youngest son of the earl of Grantham. “You may sit below the salt if you please.”
Ginny did not please, so was obliged to grit her teeth and endure as he seated her at the table on the dais where dined Cromwell’s intimates and the most powerful members of his retinue, feasting well above the common herd. She drew a fair degree of attention, but Alex, to her relief, made no attempt to draw her into any of the conversations he was having, introducing her only when it was unavoidable. Thus neglected, and content to be so, she was able to observe the company with as much dispassionate disdain as she pleased. Her platter was piled high with roast boar, her goblet constantly refilled with rich burgundy, and having little else to do, Ginny consumed the food absently. When Alex assisted her to her feet at the end of the meal, her legs seemed to have taken on the consistency of jelly.
“Take me back to the inn,” she whispered with some urgency.
“What is it?” Alex looked at her in concern.
