The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell Read Online Free PDF

to him again, forgive herself her age and ugliness so that she could let herself love him as she had Robin Dudley. But she did not soften, did not speak. Only silently bade him go.
    Thereafter she had heaped honors on Essex, favored him above all her other men. She showered him with affection, openly caressing and embracing him. She made him many rich gifts and continued even to call him her “Robin.” All the Court knew of their tryst and she had not disabused them of her change of heart. As far as her ladies and gentlemen were concerned, she and Essex were, in the truest sense, still lovers. But never once after that night did she allow him into her bed.
    The depth of his hurt had surprised him. He ’d not realized the precise nature of his affection until her rejection of him, and he was faced with the truth: Elizabeth was not a trophy. He took no pride in the accomplishment of bedding the Queen of England. He had loved her as a woman. Worshiped her body. Joined his mind and spirit with hers. He had never felt so deeply for anyone. Ever.
    She had refused to allow him to leave Court, even to privately lick his wounds. He had desperately needed time to think, to ponder his heartbreak. His grief was therefore protracted, his understanding delayed.
    It came to him one afternoon when his mother had summoned him to attend her on a matter of finance. They’d sat side by side poring over the household ledger. Lettice had been haranguing him for several minutes regarding some gambling debts, though he knew her recent bitterness was in large measure caused by his love affair with the queen, one that recalled her second husband ’s obsession with the same woman. As her tirade had continued, he refused to meet her eye. Now as he turned to face her the sound of his mother’s voice faded and her lips moved in silence. The strangeness of the event rattled him, but he was suddenly aware that he was seeing Lettice clearly for the first time.
    She was a bitch and a whore, and she had never loved him. Had never even seen him. She ’d neither rejoiced in his brilliance nor accepted his shortcomings.
    Elizabeth had.
    He was forced to turn quickly before the tears overflowed his eyes and his mother think him hurt by her ranting. Risking her fury he excused himself, claiming one of his sick headaches, and locked himself in his rooms.
    He lay motionless on his bed. His thoughts were jumbled, memories flooding his mind. A severe childhood fever, cared for by his nurse, Lettice never once coming to his bedside . . . his father raging before the fire at his cold, faithless wife . . . the queen’s face softening as she silently read the small verse he ’d written in her honor . . . at a New Year’s feast, Elizabeth’s long white fingers affectionately tickling his neck . . . those same fingers lightly grasping the hardness between his legs. Elizabeth . . .
    He knew enough to realize that the rejection from her bed was a matter of personal vanity. She was too proud to ever again be seen in her imperfect nakedness by any man. But she loved him nevertheless.
    Would keep him near her, forward his career . . . forgive him his tantrums and indiscretions. He was, he realized in that moment, to be the last man to whom Elizabeth would ever give herself.
    “Robin . . .”
    Essex was wrenched from his reveries. He turned to see the queen standing behind him in her white, brocaded gown. Gheerhaerts had involved himself in cleaning his brushes, and the solid orange robe on which the artist had imagined embroidered eyes, ears, and mouths now hung in careful folds over the top of a tall screen.
    “Majesty.” Essex bowed low and, taking Elizabeth’s hand, kissed it with delicate passion.
    “You’re very pale,” she said. “Are you ill?”
    “I could be if it would make you fawn over me this evening,” he teased.
    She smiled indulgently, a self-conscious, closed-mouth smile. Her ivory teeth had recently begun to turn brown. “What do you think of