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“If you think I will fall at your feet and surrender…”
He ran his tongue teasingly along the outside of her lips. “Then I shall accept the alternative payment.” Each touch of his tongue was like plucking a lute string, taking the pitch higher and higher and higher. She blamed the brew for stripping her of reason, for the ache and heat in her loins. Someone moaned. It may have been her for her mouth was suddenly open and in exquisite slow motion, Robert McCrae covered her mouth with his. The kiss grew deeper, longer, and more desperate. Their hips took on a slow grinding motion. He let go of her wrists and cupped her breasts through the fabric of her dress, his thumbs circling the outline of her nipples while their tongues clashed and tangled, mimicking the act their bodies relentlessly craved. She slipped a hand down a gap in the points of his breeches, burrowing and grasping, claiming her own power and control. He let out a cry and shuddered beneath her. “ Oh Lucinda,” he groaned, his hand hitching up her skirts to find her center, sending quivers of pleasure that spread and cascaded, leaving her panting and limp in his arms. “You will have to marry me now,” he said, “no matter what obstacles are in our way.”
They lay still for a while, as their breathing slowed until it synchronized into a steady, effortless flow. His fingers played with her hair, while her hand rested on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt and the scrape of his beard against her neck. Neither of them spoke. What could they say that would not seem trite? Until finally McCrae whispered in her ear. “The music. It was played at court. It was a new piece composed for Queen Anne’s first masque. I know because I was there to hear it.”
Straddling his torso with her thighs she sat bolt upright. “So whoever was at the masque is a suspect. The rapist is someone connected to the Court!”
“Hush!” he said covering her mouth with his hand, pushing himself up onto his elbows and untwining their legs. “You must not say anything of this. No one can know what we suspect.”
“Except your uncle who has to know everything,” she said bitterly, though the bitterness was laced with hope. “This brings us closer to finding him, doesn’t it?”
“There were a great many men at that performance.”
“Though not so many with an accent or speech impediment and a disfigured hand.”
Robbie put out his hand to help her to her feet. Again she blamed the effect of what was in Dee’s concoction, but the aftermath of their impassioned frenzy seemed perfectly natural, not tainted by awkwardness as they untwisted clothing and patted down disheveled hair. They walked arm in arm to the barge like any courting couple, an unspoken agreement between them not to discuss or try to explain, deny or excuse what had happened. The wind blew in their faces as the river glinted with the orange of sunset. From the water, London was a city of countless roof tops and spires. On the water the city belonged to the boats and birds.
“Lucinda?”
“Yes.”
“There is something I would be honored for you to consider.” He began to stroke the back of her hand with his thumb.
“Yes.”
“Would you mind if I asked you to call me Robbie? Only when no one else can hear if that is your preference.”
“Tis a difficult request…” She paused to think for a time. So much eagerness was hidden beneath his solemn bearing. She turned to him with a smile. “I thought you would never ask. I already think of you as Robbie.” She said his name again trying to imitate his soft rolling burr, an attempt so woeful it made him laugh. She leaned her head on his shoulder and gazed up at the red and orange-streaked sky. The smell of chimney smoke and river brine and a faint whiff of the Fleet ditch drifted on the evening air. “What will you report to your uncle?”
“I will tell him that the undertaking was successful. I will tell him about uncovering the tune. I will also tell him you are unaware of the tune’s origins, for he will seek to contain this. For your own safety it is better if he believes you to be ignorant. Too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”
The problem with having a particular feature drawn to your attention is that once you begin to look for it, you see it everywhere. Accents for instance. Whitefriars was awash with them: Scottish, Welsh, Spanish, French, Lowlanders, West Country, the list was long and numerous. As for hand disfigurements, this was a fencing academy, so they were also numerous. Ferguson, the Scottish fencing master had a scar like a blade slash across the back of his hand. One of the older Welsh patrons had a tightening of the tendons which gave his hand a claw like appearance. The handsome young Spaniard who liked to flirt with her wickedly had a thin scar that almost perfectly bisected the length of his thumb. Another Spaniard was missing the tip of his little finger. It was quite a collection thus far.
Were they all to be suspects? That would depend on whether they had been present to witness the Queen’s first masque. In order to include or eliminate them she was going to need Robbie’s help, but he had been notably absent from the academy. In fact she had not seen him since the afternoon they travelled to Whitehall together which was five days ago. It was quite out of character since previously he had come to train at the academy nearly every day. Was he so ashamed by what they had done behind the curtains that he could not bear to face her? Of course he did not mean it when he said he would have to marry her, but there was more to his absence than that. The worry of it weighed upon her like a dress with a lead-weighted hem. When Robbie brought Rosalind to the Sisters class tomorrow, she would find out what was going on, even if it meant she had to wrestle him to the ground.
Tomorrow arrived along with a thick fog that swirled up from the river and made it hard to see her hand in front of her face. The number of women who came to seek Grandma’s advice was a little less than usual, so she anticipated the Sisters of the Sword would also be depleted in number. A river crossing was out of the question, and the bridge would be mayhem. There were always upset carts and mishaps when London drowned in thick fog. To her surprise Rosalind was the first to arrive, her cloak damp, her hands like ice, the sudden chill in the balmy spring weather reflecting Lucinda’s own mood. “Is your brother still about?”
Rosalind shook her head. “He disappeared before you even opened the door.”
“When he comes to fetch you, could you tell him that I need to speak with him?”
“I am afraid that will not be possible. Robbie has another meeting to attend, so I am to make my way to the entrance of the Inns of Court and a friend of his will escort me home.”
“Alone? All the way to the Inns of Court?” McCrae was normally so protective of Rosalind, and yet he planned to let her wander about in this calamitous fog and be accompanied home by some strange man. Curious, if not downright negligent.
“I have met him before. He is a good friend of Robbie’s,” Rosalind added, quickly coming to his defense. He would need a mighty powerful reason to place his sister at such risk. She knew McCrae was avoiding her but that would not be reason enough to endanger Rosalind. This had the mark of Cavendish all over it. What was he up to? She would sorely like to know, but with the Sisters ready to start, she put her concerns aside to concentrate on teaching.
She began the lesson with lots of footwork, rapid steps forward and back, stepping to the side with the back foot and pivoting onto the front foot, all sorts of variations that kept a fencer out of danger but gave proximity to strike if used with sufficient speed. As everyone stepped forward and to the left, Lizzie wrong-footed and stepped right, her hips side-swiping Rosalind and knocking her to the floor. Either her concentration was completely shot or the bump to Rosalind was deliberate. It was already more difficult for Rosalind to keep her balance since she still wore a dress when training. Robbie might approve of her learning to defend herself but dressing like a man would be going way too far.
”Is something troubling you?” Lucinda asked when Lizzie stood with her arms folded, rather than help Rosalind back to her feet.
“She has been in a foul mood all morning,” Moll complained. “Redheads for you!”
“Tis not me that is the problem. Nor the color of my hair. I am not the traitor!”
“Meaning?” Lucinda laid down her weapon and approached Lizzie. Lizzie threw down her own weapon, appealing to her friend Annie.
“You tell ’em. I am too upset.” She squatted on her haunches with her back against the wall, resting her chin in both fists while the other girls gathered in a tight circle around Annie and Lucinda. Annie cast a nervous glance Lizzie’s way and began in an apologetic manner, her blue eyes over-bright and darting all around the circle, her gaze like pulling on a purse string to keep the contents contained and covered.
