He looked around the room, his face expressionless, and she realised her error. “Oh. Of course. You should have the master chamber.” She cursed herself for her idiotic mistake. “My apologies, my lord.” Being deferential to him irked her greatly. Yet the precariousness of her situation—and that of the other inhabitants of the castle—necessitated her good behaviour. She didn’t want to provoke him into throwing her out or, worse, throwing her to his men.
He glared at her. “Stop being so damned subservient, Ella. It does not suit you. I will not change my mind and stick everyone’s heads on stakes because you gave me the wrong room.”
“Fine.” She was about to snap back at him, then realised he’d called her by her childhood nickname and her anger vanished as quickly as it had arisen. She saw through his irritation; he was tired and probably desperate for his bath. She poured a goblet of wine and held it out to him as he approached. “The bath is ready if you would like one.”
He stopped before her and looked at the wine. She realised he was wondering if she might have poisoned it. “Oh God’s teeth. Do you think me as vindictive as that?” She took a mouthful of the wine and swallowed it, then stuck her tongue out at him. “You looked hot and grumpy. I thought you might like a drink.”
He eyed her testily. “I am hot and grumpy because I am wearing all this cursed armour on such a hot day.” He faced her with hands on hips. “Do you promise you are not going to try and stick a knife in my back at the first opportunity if I take it off?”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “If I come at you with a knife, Hal de Tracey, you will be awake and facing me, and with a weapon in your hand, believe me.”
For the first time since they’d met, the corners of his mouth tugged with a smile. “Nobody has called me that for ten years.”
She lowered her eyes with fake humility. “I apologise, my lord.” She sank into a deep curtsey.
“Oh, get up.” He fumbled with irritation at the straps buckling the breastplate onto his leather doublet. “And for the sake of all that is holy, get me out of this metal oven.”
“Um, should we not wait for your squire to come and help?”
“I could not find him, and no, I cannot wait.” He glared. His manner made it clear he was used to being obeyed.
Eleanor took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he turned and drank his wine in one gulp, then refilled his goblet. She’d been married for seven years. She was not a blushing virgin; of course she could cope with this.
As he faced her, she examined what armour he wore. It had been a struggle to fasten plate pieces over Geoffrey’s stout frame. Helping Henry, however, proved another matter. She was well aware that muscle and not fat lay beneath the metal plates. Earlier, he’d removed the bits he could manage himself, including his gauntlets and the pieces covering his forearms and legs. Now, she undid the straps buckling the breastplate and the backplate together at the side, and then held the cuirass up so he could slide from under it, trying not to catch his hair on the mail attached to the bottom. She then untied the pauldrons on his shoulders, and the pieces covering his upper arms and elbows.
“And this.” Henry grunted when he was finally free, beginning to unlace the thick-padded doublet giving his body some protection from the armour. Eleanor caught the bottom and helped him lift it over his head.
Free at last, Henry put his arms above his head and stretched his torso with a sigh before leaning over the barrel to test the water. Eleanor swallowed, seeing how the linen under-tunic clung to his body. He was all muscle; the youth had turned into such a breathtaking man. He smelled of fresh sweat and leather, a mature, manly smell that made her head spin.
She watched, suddenly frozen, as he grasped the base of his tunic and peeled it up, lifting it over his head and dropping it to the floor beside him with a sigh. His naked torso rippled with muscles beneath skin tanned by the sun. Her gaze rested on the edge of a wound under his arm, and as he turned, she realised the scar went right around his ribcage. Instinctively, she reached out and touched it, frowning and saying, “That looks painful.”
“It was.” He studied her. “It is better now. It has had three months to heal.”
She looked up at him, realising the relevance of the timeframe. “Towton?”
He nodded. “Your husband did this.”
“Geoffrey?” She looked at him in surprise. “I did not realise he knew which end of the sword to hold.” The words were out before she could stop them.
Henry burst out laughing, and although she glared at him, eventually she could not stop a rueful smile sneaking onto her face. “I am sorry he wounded you,” she said quietly.
“And I am sorry, for you anyway, that I killed him.”
Eleanor looked up into his calm and honest, deep blue eyes, and she realised he’d meant what he said. “Do not be. It is no great loss for me.” She looked around her and sighed. “Although I will miss Woodford Castle.”
“Do not worry about your future, Ella. I will make sure you are provided for. I will not let you be destitute.”
His words reminded her that her future lay in his hands, and she was, ultimately, his enemy. “Thank you.” She withdrew to the doorway. “I will leave you now so you can have your bath.”
Before he could protest, she slipped out the door, pulling it half shut behind her.
Outside, she leaned against the wall, cursing under her breath. Tears threatened to overwhelm her. What a cruel twist of fate this was, as if Father Time taunted her with what could have been, before he spirited her off to the next dull, tortuous phase of her life.
From in the chamber, she heard a similar expletive to the one she’d just uttered, which surprised her. Perhaps Henry was as affected as she was by this chance meeting. Was he angry, or upset that this ghost from his past had reappeared? After a moment’s hesitation, she turned and looked through the crack in the door between the hinges.
She caught her breath. His breeches lay in a heap on the floor, and he stood there in all his glory, six-foot-three of resplendent male. Her mouth went dry, and her cheeks burned. Geoffrey had always undressed beneath the bedclothes. She’d seen him unclothed, of course; it was difficult to remain completely covered all the time, but as she stared at a naked Henry, she realised the reason Geoffrey may have wanted to remain covered. Henry was a lot more…generous than her husband had been, she thought, with some amusement and more than a little awe.
She couldn’t believe she was prying like this, but she couldn’t seem to drag her gaze away. He stretched, then sipped his glass of wine before finally stepping into the tub. He lowered himself carefully into the hot water and leaned back with a sigh.
She should go now. There were things to do in the kitchen, tables to be laid, food to prepare. She really should go.
But her gaze lingered, caught by the beauty of his muscular body like a butterfly in a net.
*
Henry sighed as the heat from the water sank into his muscles, relieving the aches he’d developed under the heavy armour. Why had he said that about providing for Eleanor? He’d meant to reassure her, to make her feel secure and less worried about her future, but he’d seen the way her eyes changed and knew his words served only to remind them both of the current situation.
He leaned his head on the back of the tub. She’d folded a towel there thoughtfully so it would be comfortable and had also placed a table nearby so he had somewhere to put his wine. Clearly, she’d been well trained in the art of being a good wife.
He thought about the comment she’d made regarding her husband. Richard had been wrong; she hadn’t loved de Woodford, and yet obviously she’d made a life for herself here and had tended her husband’s needs. The thought of the oafish Geoffrey touching her, using her, maybe mistreating her, made a sudden surge of anger flood through him. They’d both suffered in their own way when their parents forced them to part, but Eleanor had probably endured the worst deal. Although he and Maud had not been in love, his wife’s worst sin had
been disinterest in him, and she’d never been cruel to him, or abusive.
He closed his eyes, still feeling the gentle brush of Eleanor’s fingers tracing the scar along his ribs. He’d seen the look on her face when he stripped off his shirt, the widening of her eyes, the admiration. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, had just been desperate to get into the bath and soak away the aches of the day, but when she’d traced his scar and looked up at him, he’d seen the desire flicker in her eyes like a candle in a draught.
For a moment, he wished he’d said something, maybe leaned forward and kissed her, but that would have been a mistake. She’d recently lost her husband, and even if she hadn’t loved de Woodford, it must be a traumatic time for her. Also, giving up the castle had clearly not been easy. The last thing she needed was the new master of the manor to stroll in and demand his lordly rights.
Henry knew men who would have done it—invaded the castle, put the guards who’d resisted to the sword, plundered the castle’s riches, and taken whichever women they chose. But he was not one of them. Still, for a moment, he fantasised about what Eleanor would have done if he’d ridden into the castle, lifted her off the horse, and carried her straight up to this bedchamber. Would she have screamed, cried, fought him all the way? Or would she have looked up at him, her dark green eyes brimming with the passion they’d felt all those years ago? Perhaps her mouth would have opened under his; maybe her fingers would have slid through his hair, or lifted his shirt, stroking his skin the way she had earlier, moving down to take him in her hand…
Henry sighed. He shouldn’t let his mind wander down that road. His body was responding to his lustful thoughts, and he had no outlet for his desire. Hadn’t had for some time, in fact, which only made matters worse. How was he going to cope during the evening meal, watching Eleanor moving about the hall, her hips swaying, her breasts spilling out of her bodice, as she leaned over to pour him wine?
Perhaps he should have found himself a serving wench to help him out. He huffed a sigh. He didn’t want a serving wench. He wanted Eleanor. How many times had he visualised her over the years? In his dreams, she appeared as the slim girl he’d known in his youth, but it wasn’t the narrow-hipped, young lass he now pictured behind his closed eyes. Instead, he imagined the mature woman, the one whose curves had made his mouth go dry. He wanted to pull her into his arms and crush her to him, to cover her mouth with his and unlace her gown. He wanted her naked beneath him; he wanted to pleasure her with his mouth and hands before taking her passionately.
Henry sighed again, glaring down at himself. He was hard, and it wasn’t going away, not with Eleanor around. He cast a glance across at the door; she hadn’t closed it properly, but the passageway outside was quiet, and he’d hear his squire’s heavy boots coming up the steps long before he appeared.
He moved his legs, and the water swirled silkily around him, taunting him. He could imagine that’s how it would feel if she used her mouth to arouse him, her long, blonde hair caressing his thighs, soft on his skin. Her tongue would be warm, her mouth hot as she took him deep inside, sucking gently until he erupted into her.
He closed his eyes. He’d rather bury himself inside her, but as that wasn’t going to happen, his dreams would have to do.
*
Eleanor pressed her fingers to her lips as Henry grasped his thick shaft and began to pleasure himself. What on earth was she doing standing there watching something so intimate, so private? She felt ashamed and excruciatingly embarrassed…and yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.
He was so beautiful, that was the problem. Never would she have thought to call a man that before, and he wouldn’t thank her for it, but he was beautiful, breathtakingly so. His muscular arms, glistening from the water, seemed to glow in the light of the late afternoon sun, and moisture shimmered in the hollow of his throat as he tipped his head back on the tub in a movement so erotic she felt herself grow damp.
His thighs, spread wide, were tanned and muscular, and she could see where the hair on his chest trailed down below the water line to the curls in his groin. Feeling wicked, as if she’d peeked behind the rood screen when the priest’s back was turned, she let her gaze drift lower, her fingers still pressed to her lips. Holy Jesus, he was magnificent.
His fingers were sure, practised. She knew men did this, of course, and sometimes Geoffrey had helped himself along, but that had been vastly different to what she was observing now. Watching Geoffrey do it had been repulsive, like seeing him on the chamberpot, and she’d looked everywhere but at him when he’d tried to get himself aroused enough to take her.
Now, however… She could imagine this was how it must have felt to watch Roman gladiators fighting in the arenas, observing such a display of raw masculinity. She felt incredibly honoured at being able to witness Henry partaking in such a secret, personal act, as if she’d been given a gift, a hidden gem she could take away and study when times were dark. In the future, when married to her next husband, and she needed to escape in her mind, she would picture this moment, would treasure it forever.
His breathing came more quickly, and she realised he was close to climaxing. She couldn’t watch him do something so private. She was the most immoral creature in existence. She deserved to burn in the special hell reserved for murderers and adulterers and people who whispered in church. And yet, despite knowing all this, she still couldn’t look away.
Henry’s face was determined, frowning, intense. She saw the orgasm build in him slowly, like a flower opening its petals to the sunlight, until it spread inside him, radiating through his muscles, making him tense, making him gasp. And when he did, he breathed a single word. “Ella . . . .”
Holy Jesus and all his saints. He’d been thinking of her. Imagining her while he pleasured himself.
Her chest heaving, Ella backed away from the room and ran down the stairs on light footsteps.
*
Henry blinked. For a second, he thought he’d seen a flash of colour behind the door. He cleared his vision. He had seen a flash of colour. Someone had been watching him.
He sat up abruptly, water sloshing around him, but as he heard footsteps in the distance, he knew whoever had been watching had already vanished down the stairs.
Ella?
He sat there for a moment, then leaned back, his arms resting on the sides of the tub. It had been her. He knew it instinctively.
He ran a hand through his hair, raising an eyebrow. That, he hadn’t expected. What on earth had she thought? Had she heard him say her name? He rolled his eyes, looking up at the ceiling, embarrassed. How was he going to meet her gaze now?
Then he remembered the look in her eyes as she’d touched his scar. She desired him. And she’d just watched him, and knew he desired her too. She hadn’t been dismayed or disgusted by what she’d seen—if she had been, she wouldn’t have stayed; she would have either stormed in and confronted him, or walked off much sooner than she had. But she hadn’t done either of those things.
She’d been aroused.
He looked down at his body, which was beginning to respond again to the thought of her observing him, and glared at his erection. “You have got to be jesting with me.” He heaved himself out of the water, exasperated with himself, and towelled himself dry. Gradually, his lips curved with a smile. His sweet, innocent Ella wasn’t quite as sweet and innocent as she’d once been. Well, his stay at Woodford Castle was going to be more interesting than he’d thought.
*
The Great Hall soon grew busy as the Yorkist men flooded in for the evening meal. Luckily, Eleanor kept active, ensuring the tables remained filled with dishes.
She had little time to think about what she’d witnessed up in the bedchamber. The army had brought food with them, which pleased her, because the men were ravenous, and the loaves of bread, wheels of cheese, and meat and fish dishes vanished within moments of servants placing them on the tables.
At some point, Henry rejoined his men. She loo
ked up to see him tucking into half a chicken, talking to Richard, as one of the castle’s serving girls leaned over to pour some wine. Her cheeks grew hot. Thank goodness, he had no clue she’d watched him. If he’d been aware of her secret observation, she would have died.
As she watched, she noticed the serving girl accidentally brush her breast against his arm. Eleanor smiled. She supposed that happened to him often.
Even without his armour, he was an impressive man, broad shouldered and handsome, commanding and yet honest, and clearly, his men admired him. Any woman would consider herself blessed to have such a husband. Her mind lingered on the image of him with head tipped back, now imprinted behind her eyes, like the flash of sunlight on armour. And at that moment, he chose to look over at her. Eleanor blinked, well aware of the train of her thoughts, flustered, and surprised when he held up a hand and beckoned her toward him.
Raising her chin, trying to imagine she wasn’t his prisoner and didn’t have to do as she was told, she approached the dais.
He surveyed her, his face unreadable. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No, I have been busy.”
“Come up here and have something. You look flushed, and I do not want to be responsible for you fainting and knocking yourself out on one of the benches.”
She hesitated, then sighed and ascended the steps, wondering what he would have thought if he’d realised in what way he was responsible for her current flustered state. At Henry’s urging, the men all moved down a chair, leaving the one next to him vacant. She slid into it, murmuring her thanks as he passed her a plate and offered her a bowl of fruit.
She took an apple and a knife and began to slice it. Certain she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, she shook her head when he offered some fish pie and vegetables.
He relaxed in his seat, sipping his wine, watching her. She risked a quick glance at him. He looked younger now, in his clean blue tunic and breeches, his dark hair damp, curling around his neck. The breadth of his shoulders and the way his sleeves stretched tight on the muscles of his arms reminded her that this man was not the youth of her dreams. She wasn’t going to think about what she’d just seen him doing.
Two Passionate Proposals Page 6
