Tyballis said, ‘But what about Elizabeth’s horrid brother?’
‘Ah.’ Andrew smiled. ‘Dear Oliver. He’s been taken to the Marshalsea. But he will not be there long. I intend to make sure he is quickly released.’
Tyballis sat up straight again. ‘You want him let out? Why?’
‘My dear child,’ Andrew said softly, ‘must you know all my business? You’ll not always like my answers. Simply, Oliver will be far harder to kill while under the jurisdiction of the Marshalsea guards. I want him free. But he will not be free for long.’
‘Oh,’ Tyballis said in a very small voice. She paused before adding, ‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’
He smiled and gathered her again into his embrace. ‘Indeed, I am far more interested in saving lives than eradicating them. So, let us discuss the sweeter things I mentioned before.’
Tyballis hesitated. ‘There is one more thing, Drew. Just a very little thing. In the apothecary’s shop, I heard men talking behind a door. They spoke softly and I heard very little. But some words were quite distinct. They said, “… once Easter is over and the wine plentiful again.” Then one of them said, “Is it the same recipe?” And the other said, “The same, and more of it this time.” Then I couldn’t make out anything at all, until one suddenly said, “The man Luke has proved our saviour.”’ She looked up timidly at Andrew, watching his expression.
He frowned. ‘You think Luke is involved in this? I doubt it, my love. There are a hundred Lukes in London, perhaps more. Luke Parris has no interest in such matters.’ He thought a moment, then said, ‘When her brother attacked Elizabeth, you came running from the attic stairs. You’d been with Luke. Did he speak of anything important? I imagine he enjoyed disparaging me, and I’ve no need to hear of that. But did he give you doubt – cause, perhaps – to suspect him of treason?’
‘Oh no, no.’ She was flustered. ‘And he didn’t speak against you, Drew, nothing disparaging at all. He was complimentary. In fact, he said he owed you his life and freedom. I’m sure he’s not involved in anything as dreadful as treason. It was just seeing that cloak, and then hearing his name. But after all, he was a monk. A man of God and the Bible.’
‘A runaway monk is no monk at all,’ Andrew sighed. ‘And the Bible preaches bloodshed and advocates warfare as does our saintly Pope. But I consider Luke’s involvement in this most unlikely, my love, and I have my reasons for thinking it. Besides, we cannot be sure of what you heard. An idle conversation perhaps, concerning some friendly celebration after Easter. So, forget suspicion and misery, my sweet. I repeat, I’ve a mind to other, quite different things.’
‘Other business, Drew? Other troubles?’
He grinned. ‘Not at all. Neither business nor troubles.’ His hand slipped lower, pushing firmly past the shoulders of her gown and crawling into the small hint of her cleavage. His fingertips at once wandered inside her bodice, caressing the rise of her breasts, quickly discovering the moist warmth between them and the hardening of her nipples. ‘If I’m not to tear this gauze,’ he murmured, ‘I think it best removed.’ He found the lacing below her arm, and began to pull it loose. His mouth was against her cheek and his breath was tantalising. He whispered, ‘Come to me. Lie with me,’ and tugged her opened gown down over her breasts.
Her skin tingled, suddenly exposed to the leap of the flames and the rough urgency of his hands. She reached for him, but found her arms trapped by the lowered neck of her gown. ‘Not here,’ she whispered. ‘Anyone could come – could see.’
The palms of his hands, long accustomed to the pommel of a sword, were ridged and hardened and his fingertips were callused. She felt their pressure and their strength as he traced the fire’s dancing reflections across her body. ‘Let them come. Let them see,’ he said, pulling her gown further from her.
She felt something rip and peered down at herself. ‘My gown, Drew,’ she mumbled, ‘you’ve …’
‘By inclination, I’d be tearing every stitch from you.’ Quickly opening her torn collar, his fingers caressed her belly and smoothed the way below, again playing over the dappled shadows. ‘But no one will dare come, nor dare interrupt. I’ve long taught them the evenings are mine. Only you, my love, ever dared creep down here to disturb my solitary contemplations.’ The heat of the fire was in her face, the heat of his hands persistent. She could not free her arms, the great swathes of her velvet sleeves now tangled around her hands, her fingers twisted within the cuffs of her shift. He laughed. ‘Good. I have you prisoner.’
She whispered, ‘I don’t want to escape.’
He stood suddenly, pulling her up tight against him. As he kissed her, bending her over backwards, his hands were busy again, releasing the bundled material from around her hips. Mounds of blue camelot and soft velvet tumbled about her feet. On the ground before the fire two blankets still lay, left after the mattresses and their patients had gone. Andrew kicked the covers into place. ‘Here,’ he commanded. ‘I want you here.’ The firelight glinted as he swept her up, then laid her down and knelt beside her. ‘But this evening,’ he murmured, ‘I have time and I have patience. Tonight I’ll explore every shadow of you, and discover every pleasure I can give you. And I’ll show you the pleasure you can give me, my love, and how to keep me prisoner.’
She smiled up at him. He had started to undress. She watched as he unlaced his doublet and tugged it off, flinging his shirt over his head and quickly untying his hose and braies. The first time she had seen him naked it had troubled her. Now she was enchanted to watch him. She said, ‘Don’t I give you pleasure anyway, my love? Am I so dull you have to teach me?’
He grinned. His back was to the fire and now she lay in the long dark of his shadow, shaded from the flames’ intensity. ‘You are my pleasure,’ he said as he bent over her. ‘Watching you gives me pleasure, touching you gives me the greatest pleasure. Just seeing you clothed arouses me, and when you lie naked I cannot resist the wanting of you. But you’re inexperienced, my sweet. You’re timid and don’t know how to touch me. If you let me, I’ll teach you.’
‘So, is it safe,’ she whispered, ‘to touch you there?’ He had taken her hand in his, guiding her fingers.
‘You think it might bite?’
‘I think I might hurt you.’
He chuckled. ‘Try hurting me, beloved. Then I’ll show you how to hurt me more.’
She whispered, ‘You want to be hurt?’
The laughter sparkled in his eyes. ‘You haven’t the strength to hurt me, little one, and I’d stop you if you did. Look, press here. This isn’t pain, it’s arousal. Now hold me here. There are a hundred paths to arousal, my love. And I shall teach you all of mine, and every one of yours.’
Chapter Forty-One
The rain had found a tile loose in the roof over Andrew Cobham’s bed and, slipping between slats and beams and the soaring chimney bricks, finally oozed a dark dampness beside the rising velvet tester. Andrew lay uncovered and at ease against his pillows, gazing up at the spread of the stain, his hands clasped behind his head. ‘It will soon grow mould,’ he reflected, speaking to no one in particular. ‘The house is as rotten as its owner.’