Buch lesen: «The Maid's Lover»

Anne Percy lived for her secret trysts with Robert,

Viscount Langley, heir to a wealthy earldom and star

of Queen Elizabeth’s court. Only then could she forget

her life as a poor orphan at the mercy of her noble

relatives and lose herself in the delights of his body.

Every time they came together, it was just as

passionate and wonderful as their first encounter. But

even though Robert seemed to want her as much as she

craved him, marriage appeared to be one thing they

couldn’t share.

Now the lovers are reunited at the Queen’s Christmas

feast—where Robert vows to show Anne they should

never be apart…and to give her a very sensual

Christmas Eve surprise.

Amanda McCabe wrote her first romance novel at the age of sixteen in Algebra class, an epic starring all her friends as characters! That story will never be published (and she nearly failed Algebra), but now she’s the RITA-nominated, award-winning author of many other books and novellas. She lives in Oklahoma with two cats, a Pug, and a bossy miniature Poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs, and watching the Food Network—even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at ammandamccabe.com for Behind the Book information, contests, and upcoming releases, and at riskyregencies.blogspot.com.

If you liked this story by Amanda McCabe, check out her other historical romances always available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk:

The Winter Queen

The Diamonds of Welbourne Manor

High Seas Stowaway

Shipwrecked and Seduced

A Sinful Alliance

A Notorious Woman

For more information about Amanda and her books, visit her at:

Her website: http://ammandamccabe.com/

Her blog: http://riskyregencies.blogspot.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/people/Amanda-McCabe/851099381

Twitter: http://twitter.com/Amandamccabe1

The Maid’s Lover
Amanda McCabe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Author Note

When I started writing the book The Winter Queen(part of Mills & Boon volume Christmas Betrothals), about Anton Gustavson and Lady Rosamund Ramsay, I meant for Anne Percy and Lord Langley to be the friends of the hero and heroine and help their story along. But then they started stealing long, simmering glances at each other—and Anne seemed quite angry about something. I just had to find out what was going on there! Luckily, this story gave me the chance to do just that, and to give Anne and Robert their own happy ending. I doubt their lives together will always be peaceful, but they will be quite exciting!

I also loved getting the chance to research Renaissance Christmas traditions for these two stories. Queen Elizabeth certainly knew how to throw a great party! Be sure and visit my website (http://ammandamccabe.com), especially the “Behind the Book” page, for some research sources and tidbits about Christmases in the sixteenth century and the ultra-cold winter of 1564 (plus some Elizabethan holiday recipes!)

Prologue
Summer 1564

Anne Percy ran as fast as she could down the rocky path. The leafy undergrowth to either side, lush and thick in the summer warmth, caught at the hem of her skirts, snagging the delicate silk. She hoisted them high above her stockinged ankles, dashing onward as her lungs ached as if they would burst.

The bright sun beat down on her uncovered hair from the brilliant blue sky; a welcome heat after the long days of rain. She had sat indoors for what seemed like years, sewing in her grandmother’s great hall as she listened to the other ladies bicker and quarrel and shriek. Their high, shrill voices combined with the clacking of her grandmother’s French-speaking parrot, gave her a piercing headache. She had scarcely a moment to be alone, to think.

And she had so much to think about, so much to—savor.

Anne glanced over her shoulder at a sudden rush of laughter, sure she was being followed. Her grandmother’s wards, forced together too much in dull days of sewing, reading and prayers, loved nothing more than to spy and tattle on each other. But they were still in the gardens near the house, enjoying a game of blindman’s buff in the wondrous sunlight. With luck, she would not be missed for hours.

She slipped through a gate in the tall yew hedge that enclosed the formal gardens, running even faster down the lane to the forested great park. Her uncle often hunted there, but they were all off at Court, accompanying Queen Elizabeth on her summer progress. There would be no one to see her there.

The shadows of the woods were cool and delicious after the sun’s heat, casting dark fingers over her neck and shoulders, bared by her light silk bodice. She shrugged the heavy fall of her dark hair down her back, slowing her pace so she wouldn’t trip over the stones and tree roots. The silence closed around her, and it seemed even deeper after the constant noise of the house. Anne did like company and parties and fine conversation, but enough was sometimes enough.

Especially when she could not speak of what was really in her heart. She burst to talk about him, about all her hopes, her exhilaration, her confusion. Her fear.

She couldn’t, though. Not yet. Not until she was sure. And she was so far from “sure.” The whole thing was so fragile and precious. It could collapse into ruins at any moment.

She came to a small clearing, an almost eerily perfect circle of trees where there was no sound at all. Not even a bird sang; there was no rustle of wind in the trees. She remembered an old maidservant of her grandmother’s, who used to try to frighten her when she was a child with tales of fairy rings and humans who stumbled onto them unaware. The fairies would snatch them and dance them to death—or worse.

Anne could not be frightened back then, much to the maid’s chagrin. She would just laugh at the tales, but deep down she half hoped a fairy would kidnap her. Her own precarious life, as a poor orphan at the mercy of noble relations, was dull and frightening. To be a fairy dancer would surely be an improvement.

And since she had met him, she sometimes felt she really had fallen into some enchanted world. When they had their stolen moments, she could forget, just for an instant, the realities of her life. She could relax her constant vigilance, her prickly barbs that kept her safe, and just be Anne. He was her safety then.

She feared that was an illusion, too, one that could not last long. But for now it was wondrously sweet. She lived for these moments, and was terrified that she had begun to want more. To need more. She wanted his assurance that, despite everything, they had a future together.

And where was he, anyway?

Anne rubbed her arms, suddenly prickly-cold in her folded-back silk sleeves, and peered deeper into the shadows. She had burned his note, as she always did, but she was sure this was the meeting place. Sometimes he was detained, or she could not slip away, and their meetings were thwarted. She hated the sharp disappointment of those times, hated the way they were becoming more and more acute. Today could not be one of those days, though. Not with the perfect sunlight all around her.

She kicked at a rotted log, then immediately regretted it as pain shot through her toes. God’s blood! Her best shoes, brocaded and with pointed toes and delicate heels, were not meant for fits of pique! But she had worn them for him, worn her fine dress and pearl earrings in hopes his eyes would kindle with that fire of desire and he would think her beautiful. Would think she looked like a worthy future countess, a worthy wife.

Suddenly hard muscled arms came around her waist, holding her fast. For a moment, she stiffened, instantly preparing to scream and kick, to run! But then she smelled him, the scent of leather and clean linen, of some citrus-sharpness, and she laughed. His arms tightened, and he dragged her back against his chest.

He kissed the side of her neck, his lips hot, sliding enticingly over her skin. “Cursing again, love? So unladylike…”

Anne slapped at the hand against her waist, making him draw her even closer against him. She felt his tall, lean body tight along hers, the heat of him. The swell of his erection against her backside.

“I wouldn’t have to curse if you were not so late,” she said. She ran her fingertips over his hand, tracing a caress over the bare skin of his knuckles, the light calluses along the ridge of his palm, the elegant length of his fingers. The heavy old gold of his signet ring, which signified his family’s high rank.

“I am not late…you are early,” he said. He licked at the soft spot at the curve of her neck and shoulder, blowing on it lightly until she shivered. That hot, damp heaviness deep inside washed over her, making her knees weak. “So eager to see me, then?”

He scraped his teeth gently along her collarbone, pressing an openmouthed kiss on her shoulder where her silk sleeve began. His hand flattened on her waist as it slid over her belly, lower, lower, gathering up the folds of her skirt as he went. Anne ached to feel his touch there, to lose herself to the delights they always found together, but she closed her fist over his wandering hand to hold him still.

“Not so fast, my eager lord,” she whispered. “You did keep me waiting, so you must pay a forfeit.”

He laughed, the sound deep and rough against her skin. “I am at my lady’s command, as always.”

If only that was so. But Anne Percy, aristocratic but poor, could never really command Viscount Langley, wealthy heir to an earldom and darling of Queen Elizabeth’s glittering Court. Only here, when they were alone, could her body have what it craved from his. Her emotions—she could not entirely reveal those. Not yet.

Especially if those rumors she heard of his imminent betrothal were true.

Anne slipped out of his embrace, spinning around to face him. His green eyes glowed in the shadows, narrowed slightly as he watched her with a half smile on his sensual lips. How she loved that smile, which could turn from amused to mocking to bemused in a moment! She loved his eyes, like exotic emeralds, the sharp angles of his face, the russet-brown hair that fell in thick waves to his shoulders. Most of all she loved the way she felt when she was with him, the way he made her feel. As if she was the only woman in all the world, wrapped up in a delight that was only theirs and entirely special.

She trailed her fingers slowly up the front of his doublet, reveling in the feel of his hard chest under the wool and leather. He was lean and muscled from days of riding and fencing and tennis, so strong and beautiful. Nothing like the fat old men her uncle wanted her to marry; men with gout and poor bathing habits. Robert was strong and young…

“Oh,” she sighed, as she unfastened the doublet and peeled it back to reveal golden, smooth skin, damp with the day’s sun, gleaming. He was like some ancient pagan god, too beautiful to be real. She rubbed the back of her hand over that skin, reveling in the feel of hot satin over steel, the pounding of his heart.

His stomach muscles tightened as her touch slid lower, near the band of his leather breeches. “Anne…”

“Hush,” she said hoarsely. “You have to pay your forfeit, remember?”

“And what might that forfeit be, my lady?”

“You have to be still, and not touch me until I say so.”

Those jewel-green eyes darkened. Lord Langley was not accustomed to being commanded; she knew that. He was the one who gave the commands, and was always obeyed. But he dropped his hands to his sides, his fingers curled into fists, and said nothing. She knew that would not last long, but she would enjoy it while she could.

She pushed the doublet back from his shoulders and he shrugged it off, letting it fall to the ground. Then she drew the shirt up over his head, watching as it fluttered down to join the doublet. He stood before her, naked to the waist. His breeches rode low on his hips, and a tiny gold medallion on a thin chain nestled in the light brown curls arrowing over his torso.

Anne eased closer to him, tracing a soft caress over his tense shoulders, down his arms, skimming over his ribs. Until she met Robert, until they came together, she had never imagined a man could look like this. Now, every night when she closed her eyes, she saw him exactly so. It was like heady French wine, making her feel so blurry and hot and forgetful.

That was so dangerous. A woman in her perilous position could not afford to forget, ever. But when she was with Robert, he was all she knew or cared about at all.

She closed her eyes, leaning close to him. She inhaled deeply; he smelled like sunshine, she thought dizzily, of all the heat and goodness she longed to absorb into herself. She wanted to curl herself inside of him and never be apart from him again.

She pressed her lips to his bare chest, just above that beat of his heart, and tasted the damp salt of his skin. The tip of her tongue slid over him, and she bit lightly at his flat, brown nipple. He groaned but did not touch her, even when she wrapped her arms around him.

Her palms crushed against his spine, pulling him closer to her as she explored his bare skin with her mouth. She slid her hands down, delighting in the feel of him, so strong and hot and alive, until she curved her touch over his backside. He was tight and hard through the leather, and she drew him closer into the curve of her body.

And that was the limit of her command. “Anne!” he moaned, and he seized her by the waist. He carried her down to the soft, leaf-covered ground, his body tight over hers.

Her legs parted, her skirts falling back as she wrapped her calves around his hips. The soft leather rubbed against her thighs above her stockings, making her gasp at the prickling, delicious sensations. His lips came down on hers, hard and hot and wet as he arched his hips against hers. His tongue slid into her mouth, and she met him with a delighted sigh. That hot, blurry haze closed around her. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she tried to pull him even closer.

“Anne, Anne.” His lips slid from hers, open and hungry as he kissed her jaw, the side of her neck, her shoulder. He drew her silk bodice lower, freeing her breast to his avid gaze. Her nipple was already erect, dark pink and aching. “You are so beautiful,” he muttered, licking at the soft underside of her breast.

She tangled her fingers in his hair, pressing him against her. Finally he gave her what she longed for, taking that nipple deep into his mouth and suckling at it until she moaned. His hand covered her other breast, rolling and plucking as she tumbled over that precipice of pleasure-pain and was lost. There was only him now, only the two of them together.

She reached between them to unlace the front of his breeches. In her eager haste, the thongs tangled, but at last she managed to pull them free. His penis sprang out into her hand, hot and hard, the veins throbbing. He wanted her, then, as much as she wanted him. That was surely a kind of power.

She tightened her clasp around him, running her caress slowly down the full length of him and then up again, balancing his balls on her palm as he moaned. In their secret meetings, she had learned what pleasured him, just as he learned her every secret, sensitive spot. It was wondrous, but still she wondered what it would be like to have a soft bed and a whole, uninterrupted night to explore each other. To learn more and ever more.

Or maybe that would be too much pleasure, and she would die of it. At least she would die with a smile on her face.