She wasn’t.
She bit into a slice of apple. “You have grown up.”
“So have you.”
She followed his gaze, seeing the green gown she’d changed into for dinner stretched tight across her generous bosom. She shot him a sarcastic look. “And yet in some ways you have changed very little.”
He grinned, and she raised her eyebrows and gave him a reproachful glare, one of her best disapproving stares that usually sent the cook’s young assistants scurrying off at speed. Henry, however, did not appear daunted, and continued to study her with interest.
Eleanor forced herself to meet his stare openly. His eyes, previously so dark, now appeared the same bright blue as his tunic, the colour she remembered from her youth. Without warning, her thoughts transported her back to that moment by the lake, where he’d declared his love for her before capturing her mouth in a kiss. His gaze rested on her lips, and she wondered whether he was thinking the same thing. Had he missed her? Had he thought of her at all over the years?
He met her gaze, then turned and took a deep draught of his wine. She glanced at the apple on her plate and pushed it away. He was not the same person. She must stop thinking about him as if he was.
Outside, the daylight was fading, and the doors were closed to stop the mosquitoes from coming inside. Servants lit the rushlights, and the hall took on a festive atmosphere. Heady with relief over the fact that Henry had not cast them out—or worse, ordered their deaths—the residents did not seem particularly concerned that Woodford was now a Yorkist fortification. She supposed that which side the castle belonged to made no difference to their daily lives, and if their current circumstances meant they no longer had to fight, why shouldn’t they celebrate?
She indicated the happy troops below them. “Your men seem very cheerful.”
Henry nodded. “And why not? They will not have to sleep in a tent tonight.”
She smiled. “And I suppose they are pleased the siege is over?”
“The war is over, Ella. Edward is king, and the Lancastrian army has been soundly beaten.”
She frowned. “I am surprised at you. Supporting a rebel against the ordained king. Henry of Lancaster was honest and pious—did he deserve to be deposed?”
His face darkened. “England needs a firm hand on the reins. Her land is divided among powerful, arrogant men. Those men need to respect their leader, to believe he will lead them into battle and emerge victorious. Henry is weak, his wife grasping. He was not a good king. Good men died in his name, and it was a great waste.”
Was he referring to her husband? Surely not. However else she might have described Geoffrey, she would not have called him a “good man.”
“Then I suppose it has ended well for everyone.” She looked across the Hall where all the men, along with the women they could lay their hands on, were drinking and dancing in merriment. “Everyone except me,” she added softly. She looked up at Henry, now pouring himself another glass of wine. “What will you do with me?”
“Truth be told, I have not decided yet. I will be leaving tomorrow for London to see the king; I shall talk with him about your plight.”
She nodded, sipping her wine.
He turned to study her. “You have no children?”
Her face heated up again. “No. I am barren, I am afraid.”
His forehead creased a little. “Did your husband sire any children by other women?”
“Yes, he had a son by a local woman in the village.” It had been a major embarrassment for her when she’d found out, and although she’d never reacted when Geoffrey boasted of it in front of her, she’d never forgiven him, either.
For a while, she leaned back and watched the festivities. Henry talked to Richard and a couple of his men, and she listened to them discussing military matters. Her mind phased in and out of the conversation as the hour grew late, and gradually, everyone in the hall grew drunk. She tried sipping her wine, wanting to keep her wits about her, but she knew she was drinking too much. Some off-key singing broke out and, at one point, so did a fight amongst the men. Henry only laughed. They all seemed very at home in her castle; more so than she felt at that moment, it seemed.
What did his home look like? Who kept it for him? Was he married? Of course, he must be, at his age. Should she ask him? He was playing with the stem of his goblet, watching her, and she couldn’t resist.
“Are you married?”
He lowered his gaze. “I was. She died last year.”
“Oh, I am sorry, Henry, I did not know.”
He smiled. “I know.”
“Do you have any children?”
“Alas, she died giving birth to our first child. The baby died too. As yet, I have no children, no heir.”
She wondered if he missed her. “Was she beautiful, your wife?”
He hesitated. That told her more than any words could have. She brought her hand up to hide her smile, but he spotted the gesture, and his own lips curved in response.
“Did you love her?” Eleanor asked, unable to stop herself.
He shrugged. “She was a difficult woman. I was fond of her, at times. But I do not think she loved me. She never pushed me away, but she was never enthusiastic, she was only obliging, if you know what I mean.”
Eleanor wasn’t sure she did. She covered her confusion by pouring herself another goblet of wine. The first time she’d made love with her husband, Geoffrey had explained what was expected of her. “Lie patiently and do as you are told.” And she’d done so, assuming that was the way of things. Henry implied, however, there were other options. She felt breathless. What had he meant?
With him talking to Richard again, she let her gaze wander across the hall. The servants had brought up pallets and spread them behind the benches, and everywhere she looked, people were retiring for the evening. Lots of giggling floated up from underneath covers, and she suspected nearly every pallet was shared. The servants had also extinguished most of the rushlights, and the main light came from the fire in the hearth, illuminating everyone in a golden glow.
To one side, she saw Henry’s young squire pull a blanket over himself and one of her kitchen girls. They kissed for a while, and then she saw him move on top of the girl, manoeuvring himself between her legs. The girl giggled, then sighed, and the young man began to move slowly as the girl’s legs wrapped around him.
Eleanor felt a heavy weight on her heart. She’d been aware of lovemaking in the Hall before, but she’d always turned a blind eye. Now, however, she watched them, more than a little sad. She’d never known a man before marrying Geoffrey, and he’d not been the world’s greatest lover. She’d never felt as the young kitchen girl obviously felt. Eleanor watched the girl sigh with pleasure and move with the young man, obviously enjoying his touch. The girl’s face appeared blissful, ecstatic at the lad’s skilful touch. How could such a youthful boy pleasure a girl so, and yet Eleanor had been stuck with a lumbering, sweating oaf?
Why was it bothering her so much? Why did she feel so bereft, as she thought of Henry pleasuring himself?
She felt as if she were only just now discovering a world of secret pleasure that life had previously denied her. A world of love and passion and emotion. A world she was cut off from, like a castle surrounded by a deep moat.
“Goodnight, sweet Ella.” The voice came from behind her, and she turned to find Richard, his eyes warm from the wine, holding the hand of a giggling serving wench. “I am heading up the stairs to Bedfordshire.” He took Eleanor’s hand from her lap and kissed her fingers. “It’s good to see you again,” he said quietly. With a nod to his brother, he and the girl disappeared behind the dais.
She soon heard their footsteps going up to the bedchambers, and looked back along the table. The men had all disappeared; only she and Henry remained in the semi-darkness, lit by the flickering glow from the hearth. He sat, watching her. How long had he been staring? His deep blue eyes were intense, slightly amused, he finished off his goblet of wine,
but he didn’t rise.
She licked her lips. “So you are leaving tomorrow for London.”
“Yes.”
And then she might never see him again. The new king would find an old man to marry her off to, someone who already had an heir, who wouldn’t care she couldn’t bear children, and her life would be over.
She cleared her throat. “So we have one night together.”
He studied her thoughtfully, with interest. “I suppose so.”
She felt such a mixture of emotions. Her past blended with the present, and she couldn’t seem to sort out her feelings. It might have something to do with the wine, she thought. She could remember the honest, child-like love she’d felt for Henry, but the more she thought about him in the bathtub, and the longer he kept watching her with those taunting eyes, the more her youthful adoration for the boy became intermingled with a very adult desire for the man. She’d hated making love with Geoffrey; he’d made her skin crawl when he touched her, but Henry…the very thought of him kissing her, touching her…
She sipped her wine. “Have there been many women, since Maud?”
He looked amused. “One or two. None since Towton, though. It has been a while.” He grinned. “You?”
She laughed. “Nobody since Geoffrey.” She had not even thought about it—until she met Henry.
He leaned forward and twirled his goblet in his fingers. “My father locked me away for a fortnight when you left.”
“What?”
“I went mad when he told me they were sending you away. I would have got on my horse there and then and followed you, and he knew it, so he had me beaten, and then he locked me in my room and refused to let me out.” He placed the goblet on the table. “I would have come after you, but he told me your father had arranged your marriage with a French count, and you had agreed willingly.”
Eleanor stared at him, appalled. “Lies,” she whispered. “All lies. They did try to arrange a marriage to a Frenchman, but he died before anything could come of it. My marriage to Geoffrey was organised later. I had no say in any of it.”
Henry smiled sadly. “I did think as much. I hoped as much. But I had no proof. My father told me he would disinherit me if I hunted for you. I did not know where you were, what had happened to you. He took me up to Yorkshire and left me with an uncle to learn the ways of warfare. In the end, I gave in and accepted you were lost to me.”
He took her right hand in his left. “I wish I had not. I am ashamed, Ella, that I did not try and find you, and left you to be married to that selfish oaf.”
“It is not your fault.” She blinked back tears. “I never blamed you. We are but playthings for our parents, I know that now. We should have known better, but we were so naïve back then.” She smiled. “Regrets are useless. Time has moved on; we should live for the present, not regret our past.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. She moistened her lips instinctively. Dark as midnight, his eyes returned to hers. He wanted her. The thought made her head spin. She should not have drunk so much on an empty stomach.
He sat back in his chair, picking up the goblet of wine in his right hand, and slid the fingers of his other hand under the braid she’d plaited earlier in the day. He caught the end between thumb and forefinger, then wound the blonde rope around his hand. Slowly, he wound tighter, watching her all the while, as the distance between them grew less and less.
Eventually, his actions forced her to shift in her seat, to lean toward him, until they were but a foot apart. Eleanor saw the fast pulse in his throat, the rise and fall of his chest, although outwardly, he seemed calm and unhurried.
Now he had her close, he released her braid. When she didn’t move away, his lips curved in a smile. He raised his hand and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “You are still the most beautiful woman I have ever met.” His voice was low, husky.
Eleanor melted inside. She’d never wanted anything as much as she wanted him to kiss her. “I suppose I am your captive now,” she said, burning where his hand brush her skin.
“That is correct.”
“And you are free to do with me as you will.”
“Whatever I wish.” He stroked her neck. His eyes suddenly lit with amusement. “Did you like what you saw in the bedchamber?”
She stared at him, eyes widening. He knows. He knows I watched him.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, mortified.
He gave a small laugh. “It matters not.” His eyes were intense as he asked her again. “Did you like what you saw?”
He didn’t look angry or annoyed. Apparently, the thought of her watching aroused him. This was a world she hadn’t ventured into before, a dangerous, exciting world; this was Here be Dragons. “Yes,” she breathed.
He studied her, and she let her mind consider that he must have bedded many women, and would be skilled in the art of lovemaking. Watching her with a hint of the mischievousness she remembered from the youth she’d loved, he raised an eyebrow. “Will I be gifted a similar demonstration?”
She kept her gaze fixed on his. Something passed between them, invisible but incredibly strong, like the thread spun from a silkworm. Her heart pounded. He teased her as if she were still fourteen. But she was a grown woman, and although she might not be experienced in the bedchamber, she wasn’t an innocent.
She wanted him to feel as unsettled as she was. Remembering how the serving maid brushed his arm with her breast, Eleanor felt a surge of wickedness, knowing she possessed the power of Eve. Leaning forward in her seat, her elbows on her thighs, she pushed her breasts together, offering him a clear view down her cleavage. His gaze dipped there and lingered, and she felt the heat of it as surely as if he’d touched her with his fingers. She ran her hand across the swell of her breasts. “You want to watch me?”
His gaze returned to hers; she’d hooked him. For a moment, only they existed, as if nobody else were in the hall, in the world even, just the two of them, and the past and the future were nothing; only the here and now mattered, and the strength of her desire for him.
She glanced around. Nobody was watching them. With the servants all otherwise engaged, the tables wouldn’t be cleared until morning. She looked back at Henry. Turning in her chair slightly toward him, she placed her hands on her thighs and slowly began to hitch up her skirts. His gaze sank to watch, and his lips parted as he gave a shaky sigh. She smiled. Her hand found the end of her gown, and then she ran her fingers leisurely up, bringing the skirts with them, exposing her pale thighs. She couldn’t believe she was doing this; she must have drunk more wine than she’d realised. When had she turned so wanton, so shameless? No doubt something inside her had changed when she watched him touch himself and realised sex could be something more than mechanics…something wonderful and erotic.
Henry leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes steady on her, his hands folded in his lap, and stretched out his long legs between hers. Slowly, he pushed his feet apart, spreading her legs. Eleanor let him, turning right around to face him. He caught his breath, and she felt a wave of exultance at the power she had to affect him. She brushed her pubic hair with her fingers, then slid them between her legs.
Henry let his breath out in a heavy sigh. She smiled and slipped a finger inside, catching some of the wetness, before returning to stroke herself. Her cheeks were hot, but the thought of him watching her pleasure herself was incredibly arousing.
She moved forward to the edge of her seat so she could lean back, supporting herself with one hand on the seat of the chair. With his legs still between hers, every now and then he pushed them a little wider. She continued to caress her swollen lips and sensitive core, her breathing growing deeper, irregular. Slowly, she brought herself nearer to her climax, the way she’d learned to over the years when Geoffrey had vacated her bed after sex, leaving her unfulfilled and aching for satisfaction.
Could she really do this while Henry watched? But it was the fact that he was watching that made her so aroused. And besides
, she’d watched him without his permission. It was only fair she repaid the debt.
He continued to stare, his eyes filled with hot desire. If anyone else had looked upon her with such intensity, she would have died with embarrassment, but she’d loved this man since she was fourteen, and had continued to love him, even though they’d been apart for so long. She’d dreamed of him many times, pictured him every day. He wasn’t a stranger, not really.
Her orgasm building, she tipped her head back, glad of the darkness, knowing only he could see her actions. Her fingers were slippery, her sex swollen and sensitive. She felt the familiar focusing of her attention between her legs, her arousal intensified by Henry’s dark gaze, and then her muscles started to tighten exquisitely. Soft sighs escaped her lips, and she pressed her fingers into her hot flesh, her shamelessness shocking her, the thought of him watching making her cheeks burn.
He moved forward and kissed her, hungry and passionate, his tongue delving into the warmth of her mouth. She gasped, her muscles still pulsing, but then he was lifting her onto his lap astride him, pulling her close so she felt the hard length of him pressing against her. His arms were tight around her, and for some reason, tears stung her eyes, though she refused to let them fall.
He took the ribbon from the end of her hair and began to loosen her braid, not stopping until her long tresses lay around her shoulders in a cloak of gold. He caught his hands in it, as if he liked the silkiness on his skin, and studied her. His eyes, minutes ago warm with affection, now grew serious. “Ella . . . .”
“No,” she said before she could think better of it. “I am tired of being responsible and dutiful, and I will be so for the rest of my life, I promise. Tomorrow, you can go and see the king, and wherever he wants me to go, I shall go, I will not argue. But now, I want one night where I can forget about what I should be doing, and think only of what I want to do.”
Two Passionate Proposals Page 7
