Simeon was laughing silently. He carried her swiftly through the chattering nobles, out the door and down one of the myriad corridors of St. James’s Palace.
Isidore lay her head against his chest, loving the strong beat of his heart, not bothering to ask what the danger was. Simeon was with her. All would be well.
A few moments later he whisked her through a door. It was a velvety dark space. He put her on her feet.
“Simeon?” she asked. It felt as if they were in a very small room. “Where are we?”
“A closet,” he said. “But there’s room to lie down…in case you felt like it.”
She laughed, but he fell to his knees, and pulled up her skirts. She put her hands on his powerful shoulders, bracing herself against the intoxicating little kisses that were burning a path up her legs.
“But, Simeon,” she gasped, feeling her knees weaken, knowing that in a moment she’d be lying on the floor of a broom closet in the king’s own palace. “I thought you would use that word baalomaal only in moments of great danger.”
He didn’t choose to answer until her breath was coming quickly and she was leaning against the wall, uttering broken little moans. Then he stood up, stripped off his coat, and put it on the floor. It was a magnificent coat, worked by Villiers’s own embroiderer, black roses on deep brown…It was also soft and made an excellent improvised bed.
A moment later Simeon was kissing his wife’s inner thigh again, and Isidore was having trouble keeping her mind on the conversation.
“There was danger,” he said, but only when she wasn’t sure what he was talking about anymore.
He waited until her breath was coming and going in unsteady little pants, and he was poised above her in the velvety darkness, feeling her twist up against him, begging, pleading…
Then he entered her in one swift stroke, savoring the exquisite beauty of sharing her body, her breath, her love. “Because I love you,” he said, his voice rough, the voice of a man who was come to understand that control is only worth having if it’s worth throwing away—at certain moments.
“I love you too,” she breathed, arching toward him, urging him on.
“It was a matter of some danger,” he told her.
He could feel her giggle. “Hmmm.”
The time for talking was over but he had to say it first. “Those men were in danger, Isidore. In grave danger. It makes me ache just to look at you. It makes me enraged to see other men look at you, let alone touch you.”
Her hands were sliding over his rear, inflaming him.
“You’re mine,” he said fiercely, taking her mouth in a kiss as possessive as he felt.
“I’m yours,” she said, kissing him back. “And you’re mine.”
An Epilogue
in Two Parts
Part One
The Bishop’s Study
Canterbury Cathedral
A month or so later
The Archbishop of Canterbury had to admit that the rules surrounding the reconsecration of a marriage were vague, even to him. It was hardly his fault; no one ever requested the ceremony. He spent a great deal of his time putting together couples whom he knew perfectly well were not bound for matrimonial bliss.
Now this couple probably would be blissful. Or perhaps it was better to say that they were blissful.
They had said their vows, holding tightly to each other’s hands. They’d said “I do,” with commendably loud voices.
But even so they didn’t seem to want to stop vowing things to each other.
“I’ll always love you,” the groom said. “You’re the ballast to my soul.”
“I promise to be less impulsive,” she was saying. The bishop knew what that meant. His mother had been impulsive. He sighed and wondered if they were ever leaving.
“I adore you just as you are,” the groom whispered.
Oh really.
Kissing again.
He poured himself another glass of sherry. It was going to be a long evening.
Epilogue
Part Two
Revels House
A year or so later
There was a baby crying. Simeon staggered to his feet, shocked out of the sleep of the truly exhausted. Isidore lay next to him, not even stirring. He spared a lopsided smile for his wife, loving her tangled curls and long eyelashes, the arm flung over her head, even the dark circles under her eyes.
He made it to the door, banged a knee on the bedside table, and swallowed a curse. Life seemed more chaotic all the time, and his ability to remain calm in the eye of a storm wasn’t any stronger. As he opened the door, the nanny was already halfway down the corridor. “Here’s Lucia,” she said, handing over a warm little bundle.
A small red face ringed in soft black curls looked up at him for one moment, registered that he wasn’t the milk-providing parent, and erupted back into a howl. There was no telling Lucia that she was a pebble on the shores of eternity. She was a living, breathing, adorable source of chaos, and he loved her so much that it felt as if his heart were beating outside his body.
“Hush, sweetie,” Simeon said to her, running a finger down her passionate little nose. “Mama’s sleeping…won’t you let mama sleep for just another moment or two?”
She looked at him with her mother’s huge, almond-shaped eyes. But she knew exactly who she was in life, and exactly what she could command. She was the lady of the bedchamber, and the sitting room, and the whole of Revels House, so she opened her mouth again to make that quite clear, just in case her papa mistook the situation.
He kissed her, and gave her a last cuddle, and handed her over to her mother. Who didn’t bother with endearments, just propped herself up against the headboard and tucked Lucia exactly where she wanted to be. Simeon just lay back down when he cocked an ear, sighed, and swung his legs off the bed again.
“It hasn’t been a terrible night,” Isidore offered sleepily. “I think we had at least three hours.”
“Lovely,” he said, trying to sound grumpier than he felt.
“Dante,” the nurse said cheerfully, handing him over. “And Pietro, but he’s still half asleep and won’t mind waiting for a moment or two.”
Simeon walked back into his bedchamber, his arms full of the reasons why he had given up an attempt to remain calm. He kissed little Dante (the smallest of the three) on the nose, and handed him over.
Then he sat down holding Pietro, who opened his eyes and blinked about a little before deciding to try out his newest, most precious accomplishment.
A smile.
That was the problem with living in a clean tent on the banks of the Ganges River. There were no gummy smiles, no warm little bundles, no beautiful, impetuous wives, no responsibilities…
No life. Real life.
In other words, no love.