Cicely's Lord Lincoln

by Sandra Heath Wilson

  By now he knew so very well how to coax her, how to tease the response she did not want to give, least of all today, when she had been kissed by Jack de la Pole. What she felt for her cousin was infinitely greater, deeper and more vital than anything she had shared with this king, but Henry was wooing her now, and wanted her to return his kisses. When he wished, he exerted an allure that was close to enchantment. And he wished it now.

  Henry’s slender fingers pried under her headdress at the nape of her neck. He held her to him, to all of him, making certain she could feel the strong erection created by kissing and holding her. His lips were soft and pliable, knowing and gentle, and played temptingly with hers. She had always known that someone had showed him how to use his sensuality, just as Richard had taught her, but she had no more idea now of the woman’s identity than she had been when Henry first kissed her. For all those years he had been in exile in Brittany and latterly in France, there had to have been many lovers. But he had learned about exquisite lovemaking from someone in particular; she sensed it as surely as if he had told her.

  He moved behind her to take off her headdress and his graceful fingers pushed richly through its warmth, twisting just a little, to find resistance. Only a little, just for the erotic pleasure it imparted.

  She closed her eyes as he kissed her shoulder. Tiny shivers passed over and through her as he unfastened her gown and drew it down from her shoulders, until it slipped around her feet in soft, beautiful folds of plum brocade. Now his hands moved over her naked body, cupping her breasts to toy with her nipples until they stood hard and proud, and then he slid his fingers down into the dark hairs at her groin.

  ‘Oh, Cicely, you fill my soul,’ he breathed, kissing the crook of her neck. ‘I have a mind to enjoy what your husband enjoyed, a fuck over a table.’

  ‘I will do whatever you wish, Your Majesty,’ she murmured, leaning her head back as his lips played over her skin. Jesu, he was good . . .

  He released her and swept documents, ink and wax from the table that had once been laden with the same things for that other king. ‘Your bed awaits, my lady,’ he said, lifting her until she sat on it and then he parted her thighs, slipping his fingers delicately towards the apex, where he took time to fondle and please her. Those fingers knew all they needed to know to give her waves of satisfaction. She could not help herself, she was prey to her own self, and he indulged that self as it so needed.

  She drew him a little closer, and began to slowly untie the laces that secured his loins. He was rigid, gleamingly, urgently so, and now hers were the knowing fingers, touching, manipulating, stroking and pleasuring so much. She enclosed him, smoothed a soft finger around his tip, and did all the things that could not fail to bring him to a barely containable pitch of excitement. He was so pleasing to watch during these moments. To see Henry Tudor relinquishing himself to his sensuality was to see him come to life. He no longer hid within his cold outer shell, but was there before her, the real man, warm, emotional, filled with desire and need.

  His breath caught as she rolled her palm luxuriously over the gleaming head of his erection. ‘Oh, what you do to me, lady . . .’ he breathed, pulling her closer to enter her at last. She wrapped her legs around his hips, making it easy for him to push into her, and when he was to the hilt, unable to go further, he paused, deliberately flexing himself inside her until she gasped with the delight of it. She hated herself, hated herself, but this was so voluptuously satisfying and exciting all she could do was surrender to it.

  Oh, the kisses and caresses that followed. They were joined, on fire with desire and need, and they both wanted it to go on and on. He did not move within her, except for those quivers that seemed to find a ripple that spread sweetly through her entire body. But he at last began to withdraw and then enter again—oh, so slowly and richly—and she moved against him, increasing his pleasure as well as her own. It was exquisitely rewarding, and she could not have counted the increasingly satisfying climaxes that made her secret muscles undulate.

  His eyes were closed, his hair fell forward, swaying with his motion, and catching against the rich black cloth on his shoulders. So much reward, so much delight. This was Henry Tudor the lover, and there were surely not many women who had ever encountered him. Except that one other.

  He met her eyes; she knew he was close to coming. ‘Sweetheart?’ he whispered, because he always waited for her, always made certain they were together in those final ecstatic moments.

  She smiled. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  He came so violently that he shuddered against her, his eyes closed with the ferocity of it. It was such a shattering peak, unrestrained and sublimely prolonged. His whole body was engulfed by intense pleasure, and as it began to fade at last, he gathered her into his arms to be sure she remained impaled upon him. He sank his hand through her hair, and pressed her mouth to his to kiss her with a passion that almost fused their lips together.

  But at last, and with great gentleness, he drew from her, breathing a little shakily as he sought composure. She slid from the table to slip her arms around his waist, rest her head against him and inhale his warmth and the cloves. When Henry Tudor made such love to her as this, she became a traitor to everything she held dear.

  How long they stood like that she could not have said, except that she exulted in every sweet second of it. He stroked her hair lovingly, but eventually had to speak. ‘Cariad, if there were to be anything amiss, you would tell me?’ The words were muffled because his lips were to her forehead.

  ‘There is nothing wrong, Henry.’

  ‘Oh, yes, there is. I know you, sweetheart. Something has happened that you will not tell me, and I would always wish to help you. Please tell me you know that.’

  There was kindness and concern in every word, and her guilt pricked unpleasantly. So she took refuge in using her gift. ‘I am thinking of taking the veil, Henry,’ she said seriously.

  He hesitated, and then laughed spontaneously. ‘The veil? You? Your vows would be broken so frequently that I hardly dare imagine the sanity of your confessor. There would not be enough Hail Marys to cope.’

  ‘Then maybe I should confess to you, Henry, for you to exact punishment.’

  ‘Then my confessor would collapse of the shock. You might survive longer in a monastery than a nunnery.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, Henry, can you imagine it? All those poor brothers, rushing to defend their virginity.’

  ‘I doubt if many of them remember where they left it,’ he answered, then he touched her cheek regretfully. ‘I do so love being with you like this, Cicely, but there are so many obstacles, not least our opposing Houses.’

  She caught his hand. ‘Yes, we are from opposites sides, and yet are the same. Henry, if you were faced with saving your son or your mother, which would you choose?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘I do not know. Must I sacrifice either?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I do not know the answer.’

  ‘I will tell you. At first you would keep trying to protect them both, knowing that in the end, there has to be a decision. So how can you expect me to desert York for you? Or turn from Jon? Or pretend Richard did not exist? Or his son? Or my cousin? I am like you, I do not want to give up anyone.’

  He searched her face. ‘And at second?’

  ‘You would sacrifice your son, because you can have more sons. Arthur is still a baby and has not yet begun to touch your heart with his personality. But you only have one mother, and she cannot be replaced.’

  ‘That is what you believe? Maybe you are right. I will not know until the very moment of decision. Then again, I would sacrifice them both for you.’

  Chapter Five

  Cicely’s lips parted with shock. ‘You cannot possibly mean that, for I can easily be replaced!’

  ‘I tease, of course.’ Henry smiled a little, but in a way that made her suspect it was not teasing after all. ‘But it would cause a few ripples, mm? A king who would give up his
heir for the forbidden woman he loves beyond common sense?’

  ‘You do not love me beyond common sense, Henry. You do not love anything beyond common sense.’

  ‘Ah, there you have me.’

  She looked at him. ‘If only everyone could see you as you are now.’

  ‘Alone with my naked sister-in-law, my cock hanging out to dry? I do not think you do wish it, sweeting. I certainly do not.’ He straightened his clothes to tie himself into respectability again, but then he had to subdue another cough. This time it was not as easily done. He stepped aside, turning away as the coughing persisted.

  She hurried to bring some wine. ‘Drink it, please!’ she urged, trying to press the gilt cup into his hand.

  But before he could take it, the coughing overwhelmed him in earnest. His whole body went into spasms, and small beads of perspiration dampened his forehead. He struggled to catch his breath, and had to lean his hands on the table, head bowed as he continued to cough.

  Alarmed, Cicely put the wine aside. He was clearly unwell and she did not know what to do. ‘Should I bring someone, Henry? One of your physicians?’

  ‘Just help me to a seat,’ he managed to say, still racked with coughs as he stretched a hand to her. Supporting his arm, she ushered him to the most comfortable chair, and when he managed to sit he was ashen, and seemed suddenly older than his twenty-nine years.

  ‘Should I bring someone?’ she asked again, smoothing his hair back from his face.

  ‘No! No . . . It will pass,’ he managed to reply, but it was a good minute before the spasm relented enough for him to speak again. ‘Do not bring anyone, sweetheart,’ he said, his voice hoarse and unsteady.

  ‘Henry, I cannot stand by and do nothing!’

  ‘Do as I say, Cicely.’ It was the King of England who looked at her now.

  She lowered her eyes. ‘But, Henry, I spent many hours close to Richard’s queen. I know that cough.’

  ‘It is merely something that afflicts me in the colder months, but not every year.’ He managed to clear his throat and take a deep breath. ‘I will be myself again in a few minutes now. I do not want you to speak of this to anyone, Cicely.’

  She knelt beside the chair. ‘My silence could endanger your life.’

  ‘As if a Yorkist would be bothered about that small thing.’ He smiled.

  ‘Well, this Yorkist is bothered about it.’ She gave him an impish look. ‘You see, I may get the blame, and that would not do at all.’

  He smiled. ‘It certainly would not.’ His fingers closed over hers on the arm of the chair. ‘But I need your word on this, Cicely. If you please.’

  ‘You have my word,’ she said at last, ‘but know that it is given with great reluctance.’

  ‘If there is reluctance, then I want you to swear upon Richard’s honour.’

  ‘On Richard’s honour?’ She sat back on her heels. ‘Why? Is my word not good enough?’

  ‘Your word is reluctant, sweetheart, but I know that if Richard’s honour is drawn into it, you will have no difficulty abiding by your promise.’

  ‘I swear, upon Richard’s honour, not to say a word of this to anyone.’

  Henry relaxed, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  ‘But I can write of it,’ she said, needing to tease him into smiling again.

  Which he did. ‘No, sweetheart, you cannot. Nor can you paint it, stitch it or carve it on a tree in symbols.’ He reached for her hand again. ‘My indifferent health makes me vulnerable, and there are those in your House who would give much to know it.’

  There was faint colour in his cheeks again, but not a great deal, and he seemed very tired. She looked at the sharply defined line where his jaw reached up towards his ear. It made him seem so fragile. Was it consumption?

  He saw the look on her face. ‘It is not what you think, sweetheart, and to prove it I will soon get you on the bed and do you justice.’ He studied her. ‘There is something bothering you. Well? What is it?’

  She remembered what Jack had said about getting Henry to do what she wanted. ‘I . . . well, I wanted to beg two favours, but if I ask now you will think I take advantage of you.’

  He was amused. ‘I would not hesitate to take advantage of you, sweetheart, so ask me.’

  ‘First, I wish to see John of Gloucester.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Why do you wish to see him? To remind yourself of what a tyrant I am?’

  ‘Why would I need reminding?’

  He paused, amused. ‘Damn you, lady. I suppose I must take that answer as I see fit.’

  She drew his hand to her cheek. It was the one upon which he wore Richard’s ruby. ‘Do you not see? I need to be sure, in my own heart, that John no longer knows me.’

  He rested his fingers over hers. ‘Cicely, you break my heart sometimes. I strenuously advise you to forget the whole notion. Richard’s son will not know you.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Nevertheless . . .’

  ‘If you are so determined to have your way and ignore all advice, then I will give ground, Cicely. You may see him, but only if I accompany you.’

  ‘You? But—’

  ‘When we are at his door, I will give you one last chance to change your mind, which I think you will. Yes, sweetheart, you will. In the meantime I will see that arrangements are made. It will have to be very private, I trust you understand that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is the other thing you wish to ask of me?’

  ‘I wish you to send for my husband.’

  He groaned. ‘Cicely, he is best left to come around in his own time. I should certainly stay well out of it, having been the cause of his distress.’

  ‘Then please let me go to him.’ She knew Henry would not wish that.

  He knew she knew. ‘You are artful, my lady.’

  ‘I want my own way,’ she answered disarmingly.

  ‘The abject and erotic reward you promised earlier is now mandatory, you know that?’

  ‘I will obey your every whim.’

  ‘My whims are legion, and only stop short at the physically impossible. Very well, I will send for your husband. But . . . there is a condition. I will send for him to be here for the Christmas season, but until then, you will return to court.’

  ‘Oh, please, no—’

  ‘Yes, Cicely. You will leave Pasmer’s Place and take up rooms at Greenwich Palace. That is the condition. Refuse, as you did earlier today, and my numbskull of an uncle can stay in Lincolnshire until he rots.’

  Greenwich Palace was on the Thames, downstream of London. Nominally it still belonged to the Queen Dowager, having been a gift from Cicely’s father, but now it might as well belong to Henry, who used it as if it were. Rooms were prepared for Lady Welles, well away from the royal apartments and therefore not likely to cause comment.

  As soon as Cicely’s return became known, Bess, newly arrived from Winchester, sent for her, believing Cicely was deliberately defying her letter. ‘You have the nerve to flout my command?’ she cried the moment they were alone together. She was twenty years old, with wonderful blue eyes and a faint blush of rose upon her cheeks, and was quite the loveliest of Edward IV’s five surviving daughters. She wore sapphire blue, with a pearl-stitched gable headdress, beneath which her shining red-gold hair was completely concealed. Her forehead was shaved, a fashion that many men loathed, including Henry. And Richard.

  She was clearly fully recovered from childbirth, for her figure was restored to its former slender-waisted elegance. Her beauty almost glowed, although the pinched line that began to set in around her mouth had never been there while Richard lived.

  Cicely knelt, and knew her sister would leave her doing so. ‘I have no choice but to return, Your Grace.’

  ‘No choice?’ Bess paused, her blue eyes sharpening. Then dull colour suffused her otherwise pale cheeks. ‘The king? Henry has brought you here?’ she breathed.

  Cicely kept her eyes fixed upon the f
loor.

  ‘So, you still have your claws into a king, sister mine?’

  There was no answer to give. At least, not one that would not sound the height of insolence.

  ‘I want you to return to Pasmer’s Place,’ Bess said bluntly, pointlessly.

  ‘I cannot.’ Cicely looked imploringly at her. ‘Please, I do not do this to hurt or spite you.’

  ‘You do everything to hurt and spite me, Lady Welles. I intend to take this up with the king. I will not be insulted by your presence.’

  Cicely wished her well, for Henry would not give an inch. He wanted his sister-in-law close to him, and nothing his wife said would make any difference. ‘I will try to stay well away from you, Bess. Oh, do not reprimand me for using that name. We are sisters and should be close.’

  ‘Close? When you do all in your power to destroy my happiness?’

  ‘Not willingly.’

  ‘So, you are more than kissed by my husband, you are serviced! What a very disagreeable experience, to be sure.’

  Cicely longed to tell her that Henry Tudor was not a disagreeable experience. ‘The king takes his pleasure of me, that is all. It means nothing, because you are his queen.’

  ‘It means everything to me. He is my husband, my king! Oh, why are you not dead? I wish for your demise so much, even more than I wish for Mother’s. I hate you both, but for such different reasons. She is abhorrently cold and calculating, whereas you . . . you are abhorrently warm and calculating. You seduce Henry with your tempting caresses and sweet whispers.’

  Cicely studied the floor again. Henry Tudor needed no seducing.

  ‘I will speak to Henry,’ Bess vowed. ‘I will tell him I am with child again, and your continued presence will be dangerous to my condition.’

  Utterly shocked, Cicely stared at her. ‘You would lie to him about that?’

  ‘Why not? Love, war, it is all the same.’

  ‘Do not be a fool, Bess. Take the word of one who knows. Henry Tudor may be everything you loathe, and he may be cold and daunting on the outside, but he can be a warm and sensuous man, a good lover and an amusing, engaging companion. He will never send me away, no matter how you plead with him.’