Virginia Henley by Insatiable

had not bothered to seek her out and compliment her on her performance. He had neither greeted her nor even glanced her way this evening.
    As she changed partners and stood before him, she felt unreasonable anger surge through her because she had to put her head back to look up at him. Why are you so bloody tall? She waited for his compliment, which never came. She noticed the emblem on his black velvet doublet. The solid silver horse head had an emerald eye. Horse’s head indeed—horse’s arse would be more apt!
    With disdain she reached up and tapped it with her fingernail. “Have any spat upon the emblem of your outlawed father, Bothwell?”
    “None dare. I always carry a knife.” His grin was wolfish.
    “Tell me, Lord Stewart, did you enjoy the masque?”
    His dark glance swept her with amusement. “Not really. I don’t much care for idolatry. Your queen has made you addicted to heroine worship. Don’t expect it from me, Lady Catherine.”
    “I should slap your face,” she hissed furiously.
    “It is beyond your reach, Hellcat.”
    With chagrin, she saw that it was. She had managed to scratch him once, but that had been in a dream. Hadn’t it?
    The final measure of the lavolta reached a crescendo. His large hands easily spanned her tiny waist, and he swept her up so high that her silk petticoats as well as her ankles were revealed for all to see. He held her motionless in the air with sheer brute strength, compelling her to grasp his wide shoulders for support. Her amber eyes flashed golden fire as she gasped with outrage, and, as if relenting, he lowered her toward the floor.
    Before her feet could touch, however, he swung her up again, demonstrating that he was the one who was in control.
    Fury had almost choked her by the time he released her. “I shall repeat your disrespectful criticism to Her Majesty the queen.”
    “No need, ma petite . I shall inform her myself.” He gave her a curt nod of dismissal and made his way to the dais. Going down on one knee he made a gallant bow to Elizabeth and made no move to rise until she crooked her finger. As protocol dictated, he respectfully waited until she addressed him first.
    “I often welcomed the admiral to my Court, and now I welcome you. What brings you to London, Lord Stewart?” she asked bluntly.
    “Mundane trade, Your Majesty. Your fair city is the trading center of the world. I came to sell horses and buy wine, in an effort to replenish my empty coffers.”
    “Speaking of wine, you must join me in a glass.” Elizabeth signaled to a maid of honor sitting on the dais beside a small table that held refreshments. She was there to serve the queen and also taste the monarch’s food and wine for poison. The young lady filled two glasses and brought them over with a linen napkin.
    “Allow me, Your Majesty.” Patrick took the first glass from the maid of honor, tasted it, wiped the rim with the linen, and then proffered it to the queen. “Since you enjoy sweet wine, I’ll take the liberty of sending you some casks of Canary tomorrow.”
    Elizabeth tapped his broad chest with her fan. “I warrant you enjoy taking liberties, Hepburn, as your father did before you.”
    Patrick smiled into her eyes. “I must confess that I do.”
    “Bothwell and I dealt well together. He was ever a staunch Protestant and a strong bastion against the Catholics who sought to rule Scotland.”
    Taking care not to stare, he saw that her face was a cobweb of wrinkles in spite of the heavy white maquillage and red rouge. Despite the magnificent wired and padded gown he could see that beneath the jeweled satin, the royal body was emaciated. He was glad that he had not made the mistake of offering to partner her in the dance. She was far too frail for such physical exertion. Her spirit alone was keeping her alive. Yet he could clearly see that her spirit was amazingly strong. Strong enough to demand adulation. Strong enough to vent her temper should something or someone dare