“It’s bringing the artist, Paolo Loredano,” Patrick said as he joined her on the terrace.

“Perhaps the ship belongs to the doge himself,” Rosamund remarked.

“Or perhaps it belongs to Maestro Loredano himself,” the earl suggested. “He is famed for his portraits, as was his first master, Gentile Bellini. The duke is anxious to have him do portraits of himself and his family. Loredano, however, is very particular about whom he paints. He will not take just any commission offered, and has offended more than a few.”

“What is the duke like?” Rosamund asked.

“Older even than I am,” the earl teased her. “Of medium height, a bit corpulent from too-good living. His hair was once dark, but now it is gray. He will appear the good host and will go out of his way to charm you, but never forget that he is clever, he is ruthless, and he is a seducer.”

“Should I fear him, then?” she wondered.

“Nay,” he said. “You have treated with kings, Rosamund. Just use your own charm, and remember he is but a duke,” Patrick said.

“I will remember,” she told him. “Do you want to share my tub, my lord?”

He smiled a slow smile. “I have been waiting for you to ask, my darling,” he said.

After stripping his clothing off where he stood, Patrick climbed into the great tub with her. She offered him a sip of her wine, which he accepted. Then, setting the goblet aside on the tub’s edge, she took up the flannel cloth, rubbed her soap over it, and began to bathe him herself.

“They say in earlier days, the lady of the castle and her serving girls always washed important guests,” Rosamund told him. “They do not say if she got into the tub with her guests, however.” She gently washed his face, saying as she did, “You must have Dermid shave you again before tonight. I can already see the shadow on your jaw, my lord.” She kissed his mouth quickly.

He yanked her hard against him, and she felt his manhood pressing with some urgency against her thigh. His eyes blazed down into hers. His mouth fused itself against hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth to play with hers. Her full breasts were flattened against his broad chest. He held her face between his two hands while he continued to kiss her, his passions rising even as he felt her passions rise. “I do not believe,” he said in a hard voice, “that I have ever fucked you in our tub, Rosamund, but I am about to do it now,” he growled, His hands plunged beneath the warm water, and pressing her back against the side of the tub, he lifted her up, impaling her on his hardness. “Ahh, my love,” he groaned. She was tight and hot.

Rosamund’s eyes closed with her pleasure as she slid her arms about his neck. He filled her with his passion, and her head fell onto his shoulder as he loved her until their combined desire burst, leaving them both weak but sated. “I adore you, Patrick Leslie,” she said softly in his ear. “I shall never love another as I love you.”

His tongue licked at her face, her throat, her chest and shoulder as he stood, his manhood still hard and deep within her. “You consume me,” he groaned softly. “I cannot get enough of your sweetness, Rosamund.”

She entwined her legs about him, enabling him to press farther, and he groaned again. “I want to soar,” she whispered in his ear, and she licked at the curled flesh.

Their bodies tightly locked together, he began to thrust and withdraw until they were both dizzy with the rapture their enthusiasm in each other gave them. The intensity of their mutual desire was intoxicating, and as their carnality overcame them, they both cried out, finally satisfied, if only briefly. Her arms still about his neck, her legs fell away from his firm body.

“If I let go of you,” she said, “I shall drown here, for my limbs are as weak as a newborn’s, Patrick.”

He laughed softly. “You are an outrageous woman, Rosamund. I have never known anyone like you, nor do I expect I ever will.”

“We have to get out of this water,” she told him, but she still clung to him.

“Did you enjoy our little water sport?” he teased her.

“Aye,” she murmured, and then, to his delight, she blushed. “I never considered making the beast with two backs in water, Patrick.”

“But you liked it?” His gaze caressed her face.

“I did! It was most stimulating. I do not believe I have ever been made love to other than in a bed,” she admitted.

“One day I shall take you in a stable on a pile of sweet-smelling hay,” he promised her, and he laughed. “Or perhaps I shall catch you in a linen cupboard, my love.”

“I think I am feeling stronger now,” Rosamund answered him. It was said that the older men grew the less well they performed in bed. But, Rosamund thought, she had had a husband considered an older man and a young lover in King Henry, but neither of these men had made love to her with such unflagging enthusiasm or suggested such a variety of passion as did Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk. She let go of him now and climbed from the tub. The water sluiced down her lush form as she reached for the drying cloth.

He watched her appreciatively until, finally satisfied, she invited him from their bath, and standing naked in the sunshine, began to dry him off.

“Be careful, madame, lest you arouse my baser nature again,” he warned her.

“Oh, no!” she scolded him, laughing. “I do not intend to go to the duke’s fete tonight, meeting the man for the first time, with the scent of lust hanging about me, Patrick. You will behave yourself, for you shall not have me again until after the fete. Your head must be clear, my lord, for it is likely you will meet one or both of your contacts tonight.”

“And it does not disturb you that Scotland will attempt to undo Henry Tudor’s ambitions?” he asked her, as he had on several occasions.

“I have told you, Patrick, that I do not consider trying to stop a war treasonous to England. Hal might, for anything interfering with his plans is anathema to him, but no reasonable man or woman would. Do what you must. If you Scots come over the border, it is my home that will be in danger first, not Henry Tudor’s,” Rosamund said.

He laughed. “Ever the practical lady of Friarsgate,” he teased her. Then he looked about him. “Do you think we can be seen?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Rosamund said. “There is but one villa just above us to the east, but no one seems to be inhabiting it.” She took his hand and led him back into their apartment. “Go to your own bed, and rest,” she instructed.

“I should rather rest in your bed,” he said with a small grin.

“Neither of us would get any rest if we shared my bed, my lord, and well you know it. Celestina brought you a beautiful set of clothing for tonight. Now, go make certain Dermid laid it out so it will not be creased.”

“You are a hard woman,” he grumbled.

“I will see you later, my lord,” she told him firmly, but she smiled when she spoke.

He left her, and Rosamund put on a clean chemise and laid down. She could hardly believe the incredible turn her life had taken over the last few months. She had found true love. And she was hundreds of miles from Friarsgate, yet she was happy. She missed her daughters, but there was something both thrilling and wonderful about being loved by a man like Patrick Leslie. They would love each other forever, even if they would part eventually to return to their own lives. This was but a fantasy, a beautiful day-dream. She wished it might be otherwise, but she knew it could not. Neither of them could eschew their responsibilities, and neither of them would give up what was theirs.

But they had today, and they would not think about tomorrow until it was done and past.


Annie came and brought her a light supper as the sun was setting. Rosamund was well rested, for she had actually slept for several hours. Her mind was clear, and while she intended being nothing more this evening than Lord Leslie’s beautiful mistress, she would keep her ears open for whatever tidbits she might gather. Her French had improved considerably since their arrival a few days ago. She had just needed to use it again. She remembered how patient Owein had been as he had taught her French so she would not appear ignorant when she first came to court. It all seemed like a hundred years ago.

Annie helped her dress. Another chemise, one that would fit perfectly beneath the gown, was substituted for the one Rosamund had been wearing. Cream-colored silk stockings embraced her legs. The neckline of the gown was even lower than it had appeared when the bodice had been lying innocently on the chair. Rosamund’s round breasts swelled dangerously over the lace edging of the gown’s pearl-strewn top. Her shoulders and part of her upper arms were bare. The slashed sleeves were almost gauzy. Annie fitted her mistress with several silk petticoats and then brought the underskirt.

“Is there no shakefold?” Rosamund asked, looking for the stiffened hooplike garment usually worn beneath her gowns at home.

“Celestina says just a couple of petticoats, my lady. She says it permits the fabric to drape gracefully, showing the gown and its wearer to better advantage,” Annie parroted. She tied the laces of the undergown tightly, then fitted the overgown atop it, fastening it neatly. Then the servant stepped back. “Oh, my lady, it is so beautiful, so elegant, and I think a bit naughty. But Celestina assures me that it is the fashion here.”

Rosamund nodded. “She would not lie. She is long past her passion for the earl, and her father’s position would be endangered if she did me a disservice.” She twirled, seeing how the gown moved, and was pleased. “Let us finish my hair,” she said.

“Celestina’s daughter Martina has been sent to do it, my lady,” Annie said. “I am to learn from her.”

“Have her come in, then,” Rosamund replied, sitting down at a little table.