A VERY TUDOR CHRISTMAS by Amanda Mccabe Page A

the local gentry.
    “Are you hurt?” he shouted, and reached up to sweep off his plumed hat as he ran toward her.
    The panic was brushed away in a warm rush of joy as she saw it was him. Robert Erroll. Back again at last.
    “I—I am quite fine, Master Erroll,” she called, hurrying toward him. “You do seem in a great hurry.”
    “Mistress Clifford!” he said, a wide, bright grin breaking across his face. He was so very handsome, with his dark hair ruffled by the wind around his face. “I’m on my way to your own house. My parents are to call on your family, but their new coach is too slow for me. I’m most happy I came on ahead now, if it means I can see you.”
    Meg laughed as she tilted her head to look up at him—he was so wondrously tall. And he laughed with her, too, his face even more beautiful in mirth, if that was possible.
    “Pretty Mistress Margaret,” he said. “I have thought of you often since our New Year’s dance.”
    Meg felt a burst of raw, pure joy that he remembered, as she did. “Have you indeed, Master Erroll?” she answered pertly. A country miss she might be, but surely she knew better than to seem too eager. Especially with a man like this, a handsome, strong court gentleman. “Most extraordinary of you.”
    His laugh rang out even louder, sweeter. “Do you mean to say you have not thought of me at all?”
    “Life is busy here, you know. Not so busy as at the queen’s court, perhaps, but we have little time for idle thoughts.” Meg turned and slowly strolled along down the lane, wondering wildly all the time if he watched her, if he would follow.
    And follow he did. She heard the fall of his booted feet on the dirt, and he quickly caught up to her as they reached a low stone wall. He caught her arm in his gloved hand.
    Meg swung around to him, startled and excited and scared all at once.
    “Court is full of color and scandal and events of all kinds, assuredly,” he said. “But you would rival any lady there with your beauty and sweetness, Mistress Margaret. I’ve never seen eyes like yours....”
    The tips of his fingers trailed over her cheek, the merest featherlight touch, but it made Meg shiver as she stared up at him. Oh, how she wanted to believe him! How she wanted his sweet words to be true. And indeed he looked at her as if she had always dreamed a handsome suitor might, with a solemn wonder writ on the chiseled planes of his face.
    But she also knew that her eyes were the plainest of browns. And she knew, too, that what she was doing here with him was not something a proper young lady should do. That if her parents saw her they would be angry, and part of her wanted to run away from these feelings.
    The bigger part of her, the part she feared meant she was not entirely proper, made her stay.
    “I—I fear you seek to flatter me, sirrah,” she said, trying to laugh.
    “No flattery. If you could see the women at court...” He gently traced a strand of her brown hair that had escaped her hood. “There are none like you.”
    His hands slid down her arms, his touch light, teasing. Until suddenly his arms were around her waist, tugging her closer to him. She went with him, unresisting. She was overcome with curiosity, with that heady, overpowering emotion he always evoked when he came near her. It made her feel dizzy with it, with his nearness, and she clutched at his shoulders to hold herself up.
    How wonderful it was to feel like that, Meg thought giddily. Like too much spiced wine, or lying in warm grass on a summer’s day. He made her senses whirl and spin, just from the feel of him under her hands, hard and warm and alive.
    It frightened her, but it was also so very exciting.
    As she looked up into his blue eyes, she felt as if she was caught in a dream. Yet everything was so much more immediate, so much brighter and clearer than anything else she had ever known. Then, wonder of wonders, his eyes grew darker. His head bent toward hers and he kissed her.
    The