He opened an oak door, ushering her into a simple room with but two pieces of furniture: a bed and a stool. There was no fireplace, and the room was cold. There were wood shutters drawn across the single window, but no curtains. It was spare, but they were unlikely to be disturbed. He laid his cloak upon the stool, then gently unbuttoned the frogs fastening her outdoor garment, and, removing it, put it with his own. Taking her face in his hands he smiled down into her eyes. “This is not fine enough for you,” he told her. Then he found the candle and lit it, before closing the door behind them and turning the key in the lock.

“Kiss me,” she responded softly.

With a sigh he complied, his chill lips warming atop hers. Rosamund slid her arms about his neck, drawing him closer. Her full breasts pressed against the velvet that covered his chest. Their kisses blended one into another until her mouth ached. Finally she drew her head away from his, saying as she did, “I can but hope you are a good lady’s maid, my lord.”

He laughed softly. “It has been many years since I have undone such finery, Rosamund, but I hope I may remember,” Patrick told her. Then he turned her about and began to unlace her bodice while placing small kisses upon the back of her neck. She smelled fresh, and of a scent he recognized as white heather. He put the elegant little bodice atop the pile of cloaks. Next he unknotted the drawstring holding her skirt up and let the heavy material drop to the wood floor. Then he lifted her from the velvet heap, setting her back upon the floor. “Now, what is that thing you have fastened about you?” he demanded, puzzled. Rosamund giggled. “ ’Tis called a shakefold, and it is used to plump my skirts out in a fashionable manner,” she explained.