Bertrice Small - Until You

“And you also,” the Venetian said, bowing a deeper, more respectful bow.

The Earl of Glenkirk departed the artist’s villa and joined Rosamund outside. They mounted their horses, and they began their ride back to the Scots villa. The day was actually growing quite warm, and the earl suggested, a gleam in his eye, that perhaps they should have their tub filled and enjoy the afternoon together.

Rosamund laughed. “We will not be using our tub until I can have an awning put up, Patrick. Our terrace, it seems, is visible from the artist’s studio. He has sketched us in our tub and out. I have the sketches with me, but we must see his view is compromised so we may retain our privacy.”

Patrick didn’t know whether or not to laugh. “He’s a bold fellow, this Paolo Loredano. Tell me, Rosamund, have you ever been swimming in the sea?”

“I have never really been swimming at all,” she told him. “I paddled about a stream at Friarsgate as a child, but I do not really know how to swim.”

“Then I shall teach you,” he said. “This afternoon we shall go to a little hidden beach outside of town. The sea here is gentle and warm.”

“Can we take a picnic?” she asked him.

“ ’Tis a fine idea, sweetheart,” he replied.

They arrived back at Lord MacDuff’s villa to find the servants bustling about for the supper party that the earl had promised the baroness was to be held late the next afternoon. There was much preparation to be done before then. Still, the cook in the embassy kitchens was happy to make up a basket for the earl. He filled it with fresh bread, a soft wax-covered cheese wrapped in cheesecloth, half of a cold chicken, some thinly sliced ham, and a large bunch of green grapes. Lastly, he tucked in a bottle of wine and sent his helper off to bring the basket to the earl.

Rosamund had gone to their apartments to change into something less formal than she had been wearing. She slipped into a dark-colored skirt and a shirt. Annie was nowhere to be found, but Rosamund was quite capable of dressing herself. The earl entered, and she spread the charcoal sketches that the artist had given her upon a table for him to see. There was one of her in the tub, another of her completely naked as she stepped from the tub, and several studies of her using the drying cloth. There was a sketch of the earl as God had made him and another of him in the tub with her. Rosamund blushed again as she looked at that particular view, for it was obvious that they were coupling in the tub.

“He has a good eye,” the earl remarked dryly as he studied the sketches.

“It is too sharp for my taste,” Rosamund said. Then she picked up the last sketch, which had been lying facedown, and turned it over. “God’s foot!” she exclaimed.

Patrick chuckled wickedly.

“It is not funny!” Rosamund said angrily. “I am responsible for the girl!” The sketch they viewed was of Annie and Dermid, who had been caught in a most compromising pose. The earl’s man had Annie against the wall of the villa, and he was obviously futtering her for all she was worth. Annie’s eyes were closed in utter bliss, her arms about her lover, her legs about his middle while his hands cupped her bottom. “He must marry her!” Rosamund declared.

“I agree,” the earl responded. “Your Annie is not foolish, and I am certain that Dermid has made promises that you and I will see he keeps; but for now, let us go down to the sea and spend a quiet afternoon.”

They left their apartments and went out to where fresh horses were awaiting them. The picnic basket was already attached to the earl’s saddle. The animals moved slowly off out into the road, Patrick leading and Rosamund following. They did not ride through the town, but rather turned off on a small side path. Following it as it twisted and turned brought them at last to a small crescent of golden sand. They left their horses to graze in the little shady grove of trees at the foot of the hill they had just descended. The earl spread a cloth on the sand and set the basket down. He began to unlace his clothing.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“We cannot swim in our clothes,” he told her.

“I thought we would swim in our undergarments,” she answered.

“And then they will be wet when we must dress and ride home,” he replied.

“Very well,” Rosamund said, and she undid her skirt, letting it fall to the ground. She stepped from it and laid it neatly aside, setting her slippers next to it. “The sand is warm!” she exclaimed as she pulled her blouse off, putting it with the skirt. Lastly came her chemise. She was nude now.

“Go into the water,” he said to her, pulling the last of his own garments off. And he took her hand and ran down to the sea with her.

“Oh, it is cold!” Rosamund said.

“No, it isn’t!” he laughed. “If you had ever been in the seas off of Scotland you would know what cold really is, my love. Duck under a moment, and then you will see. The air is cooler, I’ll vow.”

“I don’t want to go any farther,” she said nervously.

“You are as far out as you should be,” he said. “The water is at your waist, and now I shall teach you how to swim, my love.”

And he did, much to Rosamund’s surprise. Soon she was paddling about in the shallows with confidence. Gradually, he lured her out into deeper water, and she suddenly discovered the water was over her head. A look of panic swept her face.

He quickly took her hand, reassuring her as he did. “The water is calm, my love, and warm. You are just slightly over your head. See? I am still standing. Now kick and paddle as I have taught you as your make your way back towards the shore.”

Her heartbeat calmed itself, and no longer frightened, Rosamund swam slowly back, finally standing to discover the water just up to her knees. She turned about, grinning proudly.

“Now swim back out to me,” he said.

Bravely, she obeyed his command, swimming out into the deep water again, turning, and going back into the shallows. The water was wonderful, Rosamund thought. It caressed her skin, and she was amazed at how buoyant it made her. He stayed near her wherever she swam so she would not be frightened. Eventually they began to play, as Rosamund’s confidence grew, and finally, unable to help himself, the Earl of Glenkirk drew the deliciously wet lady of Friarsgate into his arms and kissed her passionately.

“I adore you,” he told her. “Where you are, I must be. You have breathed life into me again after so many years of sorrow.” He brushed her face tenderly with his fingertips. “I shall always love you, Rosamund. Always!” Then he picked her up in his arms and returned to the beach with her, laying her gently on the sand, his big body covering hers as he entered her. He moved on her slowly at first and then with increasing urgency as his need sought to be satisfied. He felt her fingernails raking sharply down his long back. Her teeth sunk into the fleshy part of his shoulder.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she sobbed in his ear, clinging to him. Her breasts were aching as their embrace flattened them. Her nipples tingled. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on his manhood filling her, hungering for her, wanting her. She allowed the walls of her love sheath to enclose him, squeezing him until he groaned with delight. He probed her fiercely until she was weeping with her pleasure, and then together that pleasure burst to wrap and enfold them in a sweetness that for a brief moment seemed neverending. “Oh, Patrick!” was all she could whisper when it all faded away.

They lay together for a time, the sun warming their nakedness. Then he drew her up, and they entered the sea together to cleanse themselves of their heated passions. When they came again from the water they sat upon the cloth he had spread upon the sand and opened the picnic basket. Their appetites were great, and in no time at all the basket had been emptied of the chicken, the thinly sliced ham, the bread, and the cheese. Then they sat together in the afternoon sunlight feeding each other from the great bunch of grapes, and drinking the sweet wine of San Lorenzo.

“Tell me what happened with the artist,” Rosamund said quietly.

“It is as King James suspected. Venice will not weaken the alliance. I suggested they be neutral, but the doge wants no difficulties with the pope. However, I believe I have given the Venetians more insight into Henry Tudor than they had. I have warned them that he is a ruthless, determined man. I think they did not realize that of him, for he is so young a king and not yet well known. I also reminded them of the Ottoman menace that touches them first should the sultan decide to move farther west. While Venice will give lip service to the pope, I think they will be slow to commit their troops, but commit them they will. We are still no better off than we were.”

“You still have the baroness to speak with, my love,” Rosamund said.

“It is even more unlikely the emperor will cooperate with Scotland. Without the pope’s blessing he cannot rule at all. His alleged empire is but a group of German states, each governed by its own prince, or count, or baron, and very loosely held together by Maximilian the first. I must try, but I hold out even less hope.”

“What do you think of the maestro?” she asked him, a twinkle in her eye.

“He is far more intelligent than he would have the world at large know. He is more valuable to his family by appearing to be nothing more than an artist. I have commissioned him to paint your portrait,” the Earl of Glenkirk told her.

“With or without my clothes?” she inquired sweetly.

“With, I think. The without I prefer to retain within my mind’s eye, sweetheart,” Patrick replied with a grin. “The artist comes tomorrow. I shall be curious to see what he does with this opportunity I have given him.”

“I will expect Annie with me while I pose for him,” she said.

“I will expect Annie with you,” he said. “And Annie and Dermid must wed before any unfortunate incident is brought to light by the enthusiasm Loredano’s sketch exhibited to us. I warned Dermid. That he was unable to help himself, and seduced her, I have not a doubt.”

“And I did warn Annie,” Rosamund said. “Aye, they must be wed quickly.” She lay back on the cloth again. “Kiss me again, Patrick, for I am yet starved for your love.”

“With pleasure, madame,” he responded, and then he complied most willingly.

The Scottish ambassador’s villa rang with laughter as the entertainer with the dogs set his animals to dancing. The early evening was fair and warm. The great terrace, where the rectangular oak dining table had been set out, was lit by delicate lanterns strung over the area and great footed candelabras set about the red tiled floor. The guests had eaten well and now were being diverted by a traveling troupe of players who sang, danced, and provided other amusements for the ambassador’s guests. No one paid a great deal of attention when the Earl of Glenkirk left the table to be followed shortly thereafter by Baroness Von Kreutzenkampe. The lady moved discreetly through the terrace doors back into the villa.

“This way, madame,” she heard the earl’s voice directing her, and following the sound, she moved across the salon and out into the hall where he awaited her. “Come with me, my dear baroness,” Patrick said, and taking her hand, he led her into the ambassador’s private library, where he seated her.

“You are a careful man, my lord,” she murmured. “That was very well done, but that the artist was watching us.”

“He represents the doge as you represent the emperor,” Patrick replied.

“Gott im himmel! That popinjay?”

The earl laughed. “He does give that impression publicly, but believe me, madame, he is a clever fellow.”

“The buffoon is a pose, then?” she asked, and when he nodded she smiled. “I would not have thought the old doge so clever yet. It is said his mind wanders. I thank you for telling me, but then you meant to put me on my guard with the Venetian, my lord. What is it that you want of the emperor?”

“I come from King James of Scotland, baroness. My master is concerned that this alliance your emperor has formed with the English king may not be to his advantage.”

Irina Von Kreutzenkampe laughed her throaty laugh. “Your master has been Pope Julius’ favorite for many years, my lord. Now the pope treats with the English king. Is King James jealous? I know little of him but that he is said to be noble and devout.”

“He is extremely honorable, baroness, and it is this very honor that prevents him from joining your Holy League. France has ever been Scotland’s ally. King James has no just cause to betray King Louis, and he will not. King Henry knows this, and he uses his knowledge to incite the pope to another way while driving a wedge between Scotland and the Holy Father. Henry Tudor is an ambitious and dangerous man. I think your emperor has little idea of how treacherous an ally he is dealing with, baroness.”