When he awoke several hours later, Rosamund was gone from their bed, but he could hear her in the dayroom beyond. He gave himself a few moments for his head to clear, and then he stretched before arising to walk towards the sound of her voice.

“Ah, you are awake,” she said, seeing him. She was seated at a table, eating ravenously. “Come and eat so we may siesta again,” she told him, and she licked her fingers clean of grease from the chicken wing she was devouring. “I am going to enjoy this southern style of living, my darling.”

He sat down opposite her with a grin and helped himself to the full bowl of oysters, which he began cracking open and swallowing whole.

“I left them for you,” she said sweetly. “I thought you might need your strength, my lord.” She picked up her goblet. “You are right. This San Lorenzan wine is delicious.” Then she reached out for the pitcher and poured a generous measure into his goblet. “The seamstress is coming later,” she said.

“So Annie said,” he replied as he picked up the goblet to drink some wine.

“She is Pietro’s daughter, an old friend of yours, I believe,” Rosamund said innocently.

He choked upon his wine. “Celestina? Jesu! Maria!”

Rosamund giggled mischievously. “Pietro says you will not recognize her, for she has grown with age, bairns, and her busy enterprise. I shall be fascinated to meet her.”

“You will behave yourself, madame,” he said sternly.

“Now, Patrick, it is not often that the current mistress is permitted to meet the mistress of one’s youth,” she teased him wickedly.

His green eyes narrowed. “You’re a bad wench,” he said.

“I am,” she agreed, “but I promise to behave. Will you have some of this delicious roast kid?” She carved several slices and put them on his plate together with an artichoke that had been steamed in wine, some fresh bread, and a wedge of soft cheese. “The ambassador has an excellent cook,” she noted, and then she returned to her own meal.

“If you continue to eat like that, you shall end up like Celestina obviously has,” he teased her.

“I have almost starved these past few weeks,” she complained. “You did not tell me that food would be so scarce, or cold, or tasteless along the road, my lord. I shall eat like this every day and bathe daily as well,” she told him.

“Was it you who suggested the tub be put out on the terrace overlooking the sea?” he asked her.

She nodded. “I thought how lovely to bathe while looking out at the hills and the sea and the town below.”

He smiled at her. “Then we shall keep the tub there while we are here, sweetheart.”

“How did your meeting with Lord MacDuff go?” she queried him.

“He was surprised to see us, of course, but once he had read the king’s letter he understood. You were right. The English ambassador is Richard Howard, and he is an unctuous little man, always bowing and scraping to the duke when he isn’t being arrogant and making demands on behalf of his master.”

“And does the duke of this place know you are here and for what purpose?” Rosamund asked her lover.

“I brought a missive for Duke Sebastian, and MacDuff will deliver it tomorrow,” Glenkirk answered her. “I do not believe the representatives from Venice and the emperor have arrived yet.”

“Have you not taken a chance coming without the duke’s knowledge, my lord?” she wondered.

“Duke Sebastian was sent a letter in advance of our arrival saying that I was returning to San Lorenzo sometime this winter, but that my coming must remain secret,” the earl told Rosamund. “He is intelligent enough to know that something is afoot. And he will cooperate until it is convenient for him to do otherwise,” Glenkirk explained. “Sebastian di San Lorenzo is a politic and clever man. He never does anything without reason, or anything that will not benefit him or the duchy. Slow and steady is the path we must take, unlike your king who wants everything immediately if not forthwith.”

“Henry Tudor is an ambitious man,” Rosamund responded. “They say he looks like his grandfather, King Edward the fourth, and some say he is like him in character, with lofty, grandiose plans and ideas for England. I repeat what I have heard, for I cannot vouch for his character. He was determined to bed me although I was not pleased by his attentions. He is a man who thinks only of himself and what he wants. Perhaps that is a good thing in a king. I cannot say.”

“It is a good thing in a king when that king is thoughtful of his rule,” Patrick replied. “How long were you his mistress?”

“A very brief few months,” she answered. “I lived in terror that the queen would learn of my betrayal, for she was my friend when I was a girl at court. Owein and I aided her in the years in which King Henry the seventh could not make up his mind if he still wanted her for a daughter-in-law or not. She was treated very shabbily. It was she who invited me back to court after Owein died. I did not want to go, but one does not refuse a queen.”

“Or a king,” he noted bitterly.

“You are jealous,” she said, surprised. “You need not be jealous, my love.”

“I am jealous of all the men who have been in your life before me, Rosamund,” he told her. “I am jealous of the men who will know you after I have passed from your life. I have never loved a woman as I love you. When you are gone from me, whatever is left of my life will be cold and bleak.” Reaching out, he took her hand and kissed it tenderly.

“Do not speak of our parting yet, my darling,” Rosamund answered him. “We have much time before us. I know it!” She caressed his cheek with the hand he had kissed. “Are you going to shave that dreadful beard away, my lord? Certainly there is a barber in Arcobaleno who could service you.”

“You do not like my beard?” he teased her.

“Nay! I know you could not shave it on the road, but we are no longer on the road,” she said.

“I do not need a barber. Dermid will do the deed. Dermid!” he called to his manservant, and the young man was immediately at his master’s side. “My lady will have my beard off, laddie. Let us do it, for I am now clean and well fed and ready for my siesta.”

“At once, my lord! I’ll get a bowl and the razor,” came the answer.

“I’ll await you, my darling,” Rosamund told him, and she got up from the table, wiping her mouth and hands with the linen napkin that had been in her lap. With a seductive smile, she walked slowly to her bedchamber and shut the door behind her.

Dermid grinned. “I’ve been told that Englishwomen are cold, my lord, but it certainly don’t seem so, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“You’ve had your eye on my lady’s Annie,” Glenkirk said. “She’s a respectable lass, Dermid, and her mistress would be most distressed if you treated her badly.”

“Oh, nay, my lord! No man will ever treat Annie badly. She’d lay them out, she would, if they tried. I’m thinking of courting her, for there is none at home who pleases me as well. She’s got a good temper on her, does Annie. She’ll make fine bairns for a man. I’d even be willing to stay in England for her.”

“If she loves you as well, Dermid, she will come home to Glenkirk with you,” the earl said. “But there is time before either of you must make such a decision.”

Dermid nodded. Then he went to fetch what he would need to shave his master, and after returning quickly, he set to work removing the growth of dark beard, streaked here and there with silver, that the earl had grown in the last few weeks. When he had finished, he said frankly, “Well, you look better without a beard than with one, my lord. Younger by far, I’d say.”

Patrick winced at the remark. Dermid had meant nothing by it, but it was a reminder of the years that separated him and Rosamund. He arose from the table, and thanking his servant, went into his bedchamber. Stripping off the drying cloth, he looked at himself in the full-length mirror by the wardrobe. He was still lean and hard of body despite his years. He knew men far younger grew flabby, but he had not. His hair was yet dark, though here and there he saw silver. He had all his teeth, and none were rotting. His gaze was still sharp, and his appetite for Rosamund’s fair body grew with each passing day. He was, he knew, still a very vigorous lover. Turning, he looked for the hidden door that would connect their chambers, and finding it, pressed the lock, and when the door opened, he stepped through into the next room.

She lay dozing again, the graceful curve of her back to him. He realized how difficult a journey it had been for her, though she had never once complained. She had removed her cloth and was as naked as he was. He lay down next to her, and she murmured softly as she felt the bed sag.

“Patrick?” she said.

“Nay, ’tis the king of your heart,” he told her, and she rolled over into his arms to face him. He gave her a slow, sweet kiss.

“That is nice,” she whispered against his mouth when he had broken off their embrace. “I have missed the leisure of laying in bed with you, my lord.”

“Is that all you have missed?” he teased her. The touch of her, the fragrance that emanated from her lovely body, excited him. He was shocked by his body’s swift reaction to the mere touch and smell of her. “My God!” he said quietly.

Rosamund laughed softly. “I am as bad as you are, my darling.” Reaching out, she caressed his love rod. “I am more than ready, Patrick. I shall surely die if you do not put yourself into me now!”

He complied, finding her hot, wet, and indeed very ready to receive him. He had barely begun the rhythm when he felt the head of his manhood drenched by her love juices. Now it was he who laughed. “Rosamund! Rosamund!” he groaned against her ear, and his own juices burst forth to flood her womb. “I need make no apologies, sweetheart,” he told her. “And now that we have satisfied our lust, we shall begin anew, slowly, slowly until you are weeping with your satisfaction.” He withdrew from her.

She sighed happily. “I have missed our passion so very much, Patrick. Forgive me for my eagerness, which was but matched by yours.” She propped herself up on an elbow and stared down into his face. “I love you so much, my lord. I regret we cannot make a child together.”

“So do I,” he told her, and he drew her down so that her auburn head was against his broad chest. “Are your daughters like you, Rosamund?”

“Philippa and Banon are said to favor me, but not Bessie. She is her father’s lass. He was a good father, Owein Meredith. You were a good father too, I think.”

“I tried,” he said. “If loving my son and daughter was being a good father, then aye, for I loved them both well. Janet’s loss broke my heart. Yet now that I am here again with you, it is different, sweetheart. I remember that time, but it somehow does not seem so cruel to me anymore. We tried to get her back, you know, but we could not.”

“You have never told me what happened,” Rosamund said.

“The long and the short of it was she was kidnapped by slavers and sold in the great market of Candia for a large sum of money. She was young, a virgin, and very beautiful. My son, Adam, still seeks for her, despite the years that have passed. He is determined to find her, though she may be long dead. I do not know. She is lost to me.”

“I am sorry,” Rosamund told him. “I think it is better to know that someone is dead than to not know what has happened to them.”

“You know that I love you, don’t you?” he replied, changing the subject adroitly.

“And you know that I love you,” she answered him, understanding that he did not wish to speak on the subject of his daughter any longer.

“I shall have Celestina make you a wardrobe to suit a princess,” he said. “You cannot meet the duke until you are properly garbed. I am so proud of you and of your beauty that I would flaunt you, Rosamund.”

“I am not beautiful,” she protested. “Perhaps very pretty, but surely not beautiful.”

“If another woman demurred so,” he told her, “I should think her being coy, but not you, my darling. However, I find you beautiful, and so will the duke. He has a roving eye, Rosamund, so beware of him. He will charm you as he does all the lovely women who cross his path. He has been widowed for years, but is content to remain so.”

“As you have been,” she teased him. “You widowers do not dupe me. You love being able to flit among the ladies like a bumblebee among the flowers.”

“Buzz! Buzz!” he harried her, nuzzling the soft hollow between her neck and her shoulder. “I am your bumblebee, my darling, and like the bumblebee, I wish to make love to my beautiful English rose.”

Rosamund giggled as his tongue tickled the whorl of her ear and a frisson of a shiver rippled down her spine. “Will you sting me, Master Bumbles?” she asked mischievously.