The Last Boleyn(74)
“Will, please. I do not need your reprimands. I need your love and understanding.”
“’You have my duty, wife. After that, things get most difficult. The barges wait on the other side of that hedge, beyond the roses. Since we undoubtedly ride back on different boats anyway, I am certain you can find your own path when you are finished crying for your little Harry and what the Bullens will say when they hear Anne walks at Hampton with Henry Tudor in place of golden Mary.” He mockingly bowed to her and spun on his heel.
Mary’s first impulse was to throw herself flat on the grass and scream and sob. His anger and bitterness astounded her. He kept it tightly bottled most of the time but when it exploded...He did hate her. He had finally admitted it. She crumpled weakly on a carved bench under a bewinged marble Cupid. The tears which would help release her agony did not come. She felt drained, totally enervated, and she dreaded raising her eyes again to the trellised arbor where Staff made passionate love to that woman.
She breathed hard in great quivering gasps drifting between outrage and desolation. Perhaps she was beyond crying ever again. She felt the urge to run away and hide, to flee like a child playing hide-and-seek in the gardens. They would wonder where she was, they would search, but they would have to return to the palace without her.
She craned her neck and looked at last. Staff and Maud had disappeared. Or maybe they were sprawled on the grass. She heaved a deep sigh. The garden was so unutterably beautiful, and she was so wretched. If anyone noticed her here alone, the gossip would be all over the court. The blonde Bullen sits alone and her husband and the king desert her. She thought to laugh at what father would say to that, but she heard a few huge raindrops plop on the gravel path and watched them bounce the green rose leaves. She tilted her head up to the pearl gray sky and blinked as a drop drenched her thick lashes. She moved to stand under the enclosed arched trellis and saw Mary Tudor and her Duke of Suffolk run laughing along the path to the watergate. She must go back. They would all be coming now, but she stepped back hidden in her tiny shelter in the rose garden.
She saw him then and instinctively took another step back into the thorns. He was so tall and the peacock blue of his garments stood out clearly in the riot of pinks and whites and greens at his back. But he was going the wrong way, not toward the barges. What had he done with his little paramour, Maud?
Mary watched him silently as he walked farther away from her. When he spun back, he caught sight of her and strode in huge steps through the rain to her. She thought to run, to lead him a chase through the gardens, but she was frozen in anguish and fascination. He put a hand on each side of the little enclosed bower blocking her in.
“It is going to pour, Mary. Why did you not come back with Will? He says His Grace chooses to take the little Bullen for a walk.”
“Yes. Will and I had an argument and he preferred not to enjoy my company either. Did he tell you that? I am returning to the barge now. Please do not concern yourself. I know you have more important people to look after. Let me pass.”
“Stop this nonsense. Everyone will be coming back soon and we have not much time.” He took a step closer to her in the cool protection of the sweet-scented bower. “They will not notice us here, and we will return separately in a moment. I should take the few minutes we have to give you one of my educational messages about being careful not to scold the king about his attentions to your sister, or doing something foolish like pleading with the king to restore little Harry to you, but I need this time for something far more important.”
He dropped his hands to her waist, and she took a step back, pressing closer into the leaves, blooms and prickers. He reached again and pulled her gently to him.
“Do not dare to ever touch me again!” she spat at him. “Go caress your Maud, go kiss her in the roses!” A little sob tore from her throat, and the stubborn tears sprang to her eyes again.
He loosed her waist and took one of her hands firmly in both of his warm ones. “I am in your bad graces, sweetheart, and rightly so. I did not know you and Will stood so close in the garden.”
“I am certain it would not have made one tiny difference to you if the cardinal himself would have stood there watching!”
His teeth shone white in the dim bower as he smiled and the rain splattered down around their protective arch of leaves. “I am elated that my attention to other ladies displeases you.”
“I could not care less what you do, William Stafford!”
“Really? Fine, because I am going to kiss you and if we had the time, I would carry you to one of those three hundred silken beds in that great pile of Wolsey’s bricks and make hot love to you whether you were willing or not. I told you I do not love the little Jennings, Mary, and I told you true. You know whom I do love, do you not, sweetheart?”
His voice was so low and caressing, his dark eyes so mesmerizing in the regular patter of raindrops that she almost relaxed against him. His strong hands went to her waist again, he gave a little pull and she leaned full on him as his lips descended. She went limp; her thoughts and fear subsided as she returned kiss for searing kiss. Her arms stole up his back, and she pressed her open palms against his iron muscles through the velvet doublet. He shifted his weight and tipped her back a bit in his encircling arms. His lips traced fire down her throat, down to where her breasts swelled above the tiny lace rim of her decolletage. Her head dropped back on his shoulder, and she savored the touch of his tongue. His breath scalded her there.