England, Christmas 1602
The young woman’s heavily embroidered skirts rustled as she shivered and pulled her woolen wrapper tighter around her shoulders. At this time of the evening, the solar was too cold for the other women of the household. During the day the large room, generously lit by many windows allowing the sun to warm the space, was a popular place for the Duchess and her ladies to sit, sew, and gossip. But at night, it was used only as a convenient and hopefully private place for trysts.
Solitude, rather than a lovers’ tryst, was what Tamara had been seeking. She sat near the small fire she’d lit and set her neat stitches in the linen she was holding; the flame from the large wax work-candle gave her enough light to see by. Wax was a luxury, but one she could afford, and her eyes didn’t need a lot of light to see the fine pattern she was fashioning with her needle.
As one of the Duchess’ ladies-in-waiting, she had many duties, but this evening with the festivities in the great hall, she didn’t think she’d be missed. She’d needed a little time alone to consider the effect Her Grace’s unexpected guest might have on her life.
It was Yuletide in the year of our Lord 1602. Queen Elizabeth, although frail, was still on the throne of England, and Tamara had a secret; a secret, that if it were made known, would have her hunted down like an animal.
A secret that was shared by the man who’d arrived that very day.
She’d made discreet inquiries and found that his name was Malcolm Colburn and that he came from the wilds of Ireland. Never having met anyone from Ireland before, his voice had sent shivers down her spine when she first heard him speak. Although his accent was similar to that of the Spanish Ambassador, it had a sweet lilting overtone to it that made his voice sound like music. Chewing on her lip, she wondered where the handsome stranger stood in the hierarchy of her kind.
Tamara had sensed, had smelled, what he was as soon as he’d stepped into the hall; just as surely as he had been aware that she was the same as him. She’d breathed in his scent; a scent that was as welcome as a summer shower after a hot spell, or the wonderful smell of newly cut hay.
Their eyes had met across the hall during the evening meal, and he’d inclined his head in acknowledgment of their similarities. She thought, now, of those eyes, the deep blue that seemed to burn into her soul; his black hair that had made her fingers tingle with longing to touch it.
Would he seek her out?
Her sharp ears picked up a slight sound on the stairwell. Turning her head in the direction of the opening at the far end of the room, she had a moment to steady her composure before he appeared in the doorway.
Tamara put aside her sewing and stood, patiently waiting for him to approach. She knew she should be modest and keep her eyes lowered, but she couldn’t resist meeting his gaze. With silent cat-like grace, which obviously came so naturally to him, he advanced to where she was standing, and swept her a bow. Straightening, he took her offered hand and raised it to his lips.
“My lady. You are alone in this house?” He gestured for her to take her seat again, remaining standing until she’d done so. She knew he hadn’t meant physically alone.
When he was seated on the settle on the opposite side of the hearth, she answered him. “Yes, my lord. My parents sent me to Her Grace’s household when I was young.”
“And the family has not yet discovered you?”
“No, my lord. The fashion for white paint has allowed me to disguise my lack of ageing, but I fear I will need to leave soon. Her Grace is beginning to look at me askance; we have the same number of years, but she feels hers as I do not.” She pulled her sewing onto her lap to give her hands something to hold; to stop them from trembling.
“Where does your family hail from?”
“My people have spent the last several hundred years in Northumberland, my lord.” Even though she was strongly tempted to be bold and look him in the eye, she managed to keep hers demurely downcast.
“They supported the true queen?”
“Aye, my lord, and will be happy when her son sits on the throne of England.”
“Do you know who I am, my lady?” His voice held a touch of impatience.
“I have not heard of your name before, my lord.”
He rose from his seat and came to stand before her. She watched in some confusion as he pulled his sleeve back from his wrist. “Amongst my family I am known as Malik bin Fahm. I am the heir.” There, on his forearm, was a birthmark in the shape of a panther’s head.
Tamara’s eyes grew wide, and she scrambled to her feet before sinking into a deep curtsey; her sampler falling to the floor. “Your Highness! I did not realize. Please forgive me.”
With regal grace, he reached down and placed one finger under her chin to make her rise up. “Please, there is no need to bow before me.”
Standing, she dared look at his beautiful face again. “But, Your Highness, one day you will be my sovereign.”
“And when that day comes, who will you owe allegiance to? Prince Jamie who will be King of England or to the leader of your kind?”
“To both of you, Your Highness.” She lifted her chin a little higher. “We must obey the laws of the land in which we live.”
“And if I would have you stand by my side as my mate and as my queen; what would you say?”
Tamara swallowed and wondered if her future really lay with this very regal creature. From deep inside, her pride made itself known. “I would say...that I would want to be courted first.”
Malik stepped closer and, taking her hand again, he lifted it to his lips. She was mesmerized by his gaze as his lips lingered on her skin longer than was proper. As if he were daring her to protest, he caressed the delicate skin with his mouth and with the roughness of his tongue. “I think I could do that.” He smiled at her and led her to the settle, pulling her down next to him as he sat.
Facing the hearth, he held her hand, and as the flames danced in the darkness creating a world of magic, they talked of the future.
A future that she hoped would hold centuries of love, freedom, and the continuation of a dynasty.
* * * * *