His Forbidden Lady

by Nicola Davidson

  Now she had sins of her own to confess, but were there even words to describe the wicked rub of her breasts against his chest? Of his full codpiece pressing directly between her legs? How swiftly he’d turned a calm, respectable widow into a mindless wanton. How easily he’d woken her body from sleep so all the frustration, anger, and desire could be hidden no longer. And how tempting it was to imagine how life might have been…

  Sweet heaven. She truly had gone mad. So much depended on the weeks ahead, on this prearranged audience with His Majesty. If she failed to win the King’s love, her family would never forgive her and even harsher punishment than usual would follow. Perhaps she’d be married off to another cruel ancient or locked away forever in a nondescript nunnery. Or worse.

  Annabelle shuddered so violently, her sweet-tempered mare Sugar faltered, expressing displeasure with a loud snort.

  “Is something amiss, Lady Benton-Hayes? We’re but a few miles from Hampton Court Palace now.”

  Rafe’s words were mild as he brought his mount to a halt and turned to face her, yet his dark-eyed gaze remained hard and cold.

  “Do not look at me thus,” she said, shoulders stiffening. “You have no cause.”

  Surprise briefly crossed his face and she wanted to groan. How could she have said those words out loud?

  “You mistake me, lady. Mine is but the silent respect for the woman who’ll make His Majesty another admirable Seymour wife. God willing with a more robust constitution.”

  “My constitution is all that is robust, thank you.”

  “Then why have you no children trailing behind? Surely your grand lord was still worthy and able.”

  Her stomach churned at the memory of marital relations with Walter Benton-Hayes. His stale sweat-scented forays into her bedchamber. The barked orders, always orders, to stroke here or tongue there because if he failed to rise, she would be beaten and denied breakfast. The painful invasions of her body. But worst of all, the dark, clawing loneliness when he left her without so much as a kiss or kind word.

  Annabelle looked away. “Of course he was able. Most often and well.”

  “Liar.” Rafe laughed, the sound without a trace of humor. “I’m glad the title was worth the cold bed and empty cradle.”

  Furiously, she clicked her tongue, urging Sugar forward until she and Rafe were no more than a foot apart. “You speak to me of worth as if I wished to marry an old man?”

  “This time you’ll be queen at least.”

  “I have no desire to be queen.”

  “Come now,” he continued in that same awful tone, one black eyebrow arching. “It’s a simple duty really. Do not miscarry, give him daughters, practice witchcraft, obey the vicar of Rome above him, love one faction over another, speak out of turn, or take another to your bed and all will be well.”

  Heat colored her skin at the bluntness. Thank heavens the cart with her belongings had fallen some miles behind them so only he witnessed her discomfiture. “I did not ask for this. I’m a wellborn woman. I had no choice then, just as I have none when the king summons.”

  “Why not fight it? You have the spirit.”

  “Fight My Lord Hertford? Ignore the King’s invitation?”

  His jaw tightened and he inclined his head, just barely. “Problematic. But not insurmountable.”

  Annabelle laughed, the sheer absurdity of the words temporarily banishing her dread. “Only from the lips of a much-favored man could such nonsense be spoken.”

  “You truly don’t wish to be Queen of England? But the position offers a great deal of influence. Jewels. Gowns. The love of many.”

  Learned caution halted the words ready to spill from her lips. In the old Rafe she would have confided all. But this man was high in the service of Edward Seymour, the long acknowledged master of ruthless intrigue and deception.

  “I might reply,” she said softly, “if I knew where such words might travel now.”

  Just for an instant, he went rigid. “Where they always did. But perhaps you wish an exchange? Very well. I am tired of court. Of Hertford. Of war. Of the king. I wish never to see battle again unless someone threatens me or mine. I will be purchasing a manor and land by the sea, and then—”

  Annabelle’s heart clenched when his lips clamped shut. Hurt. Her lack of trust had actually hurt Hertford’s Butcher himself. “No, I have no wish to be queen. I fear it is a…high position to tumble from. And rooms of jewels and gowns would be no comfort in a cold marriage. I’d rather the true love of one than the false love of many.”

  “So you say.”

  Her anger rose. “Still you doubt? Very well. Here is my exchange. I fought marriage to Walter. Refused again and again until Papa locked me in my chamber without food. After a few days I found a way to escape and tried to find you. But he found me instead and beat me so badly I couldn’t move for weeks. I thought to be brave and hold out but, in the end, I failed. I thought I knew pain and loneliness when you went away, but discovered a new kind in a bad marriage bed.”

  Rafe’s hands tightened on his reins, but he said nothing for the longest time. Finally he shifted in his saddle. “We best continue on. I have a task to complete. You have a king to meet.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “What do you want me to say?” he bit out, his black gaze nearly cleaving her in two. “That it should have been me in your bed? I should have stolen a highborn lady connected to the most powerful lord in the kingdom, to live in bleak poverty, forever in exile, forever in danger?”

  Despair settled on her shoulders, heavier than a load of cathedral stone. Numbly, Annabelle gathered Sugar’s reins and gently encouraged her onward.

  “Oh, Rafe,” she said. “I would have run with you anywhere. Gladly.”

  Chapter Two

  I would have run with you anywhere. Gladly.

  Even now, riding through the gates and into the dimly lit courtyard in front of the sprawling, pink-bricked splendor that was Hampton Court Palace, the words hung heavily in the air between them.

  So this was vengeance, heaven-style. Remind him exactly what he’d lost, return her to him briefly, older, wiser, sadder, and far more beautiful, but knowing there were no second chances and she would soon be snatched away by another man. A man infinitely richer, more powerful and ruthless than Lord Benton-Hayes. A man who ordered imprisonment, torture, or death at any real or imagined slight.

  He was a fool. A damned weak fool to wonder what might have been if he hadn’t gone to war. It mattered not that in the space of a few hours all the years apart vanished and they’d been as they used to, bantering and confessing with the honesty so foreign to those of Henry’s court. It mattered less that the attraction between them was strong as ever. The craving to kiss her, as he once had the right to, was now more than that. He longed to touch her, feel her naked under him again and again…and all the while certain it might never be enough.

  Furious at himself, Rafe halted his horse with an unnecessarily harsh tug on the reins and turned to Annabelle, who was shifting uncomfortably in her sidesaddle.

  “Welcome to Hampton Court. I’ll send a boy for some of Hertford’s servants. They will arrange food and washing water. Unfortunately, you’ll have to make do with your clothing, as I’m unsure when the cart will arrive. Hopefully they are no more than an hour or two behind us.”

  “Indeed. Thank you,” she replied quietly, and he felt a sharp twinge at the dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes, the coating of travel dust on her cheeks and cloak. A twinge he quickly suppressed. He’d done his duty and done it successfully. Annabelle would no doubt be fine after a rest and a hearty meal, and the sooner he left such absolute temptation, the better.

  “Master de Vere. Lady Benton-Hayes,” a page in Hertford’s colors called as he hurried toward them. “We thank God for your safe arrival.”

  Inexplicably, the overly effusive welcome tightened his gut, a sure sign of impending trouble.

  “The journey from Ess
ex is not so arduous,” he replied as he dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting stable boy. “Do you have a message for me or the lady?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Well? What is it?”

  “King Henry wishes to see her.”

  “We know that, boy, that is why she is come to attend the festivities. If that is all you have to say, you might have saved yourself the bustle, although I know we’d both appreciate such speed in fetching food and water.”

  The lad paled and began hopping from one foot to the other. “You don’t understand, sir. His Majesty requires her presence much sooner.”

  God’s teeth.

  “First thing in the morning?” Rafe said irritably as he walked around Annabelle’s horse to help her down, his limit of male hand-wringing reached. “I’m sure that will still be agreeable. A bath, change of clothes, some food, and she’ll be more than ready to greet His—”

  “Please, sir. The king desires to greet the Lady Annabelle in his staterooms immediately.”

  …

  Tired. Hungry. Unnerved by her forthrightness with Rafe de Vere, coated in dirt and half of England’s resident bug population, and His Majesty wanted to see her now.

  Utterly immobile with horror, Annabelle barely noticed Rafe lift her down from Sugar until her feet touched the ground and her legs promptly gave way. His steady hold on her waist kept her upright, but it wasn’t nearly enough. She stared up at him, both hands gripping the front of his doublet so hard her knuckles whitened.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can,” he replied brusquely, then turned and ordered soft cloths and water from the waiting page. The boy sprinted away in his haste to obey.

  “No. It’s too soon. I…” Abruptly she buried her face against his chest as tears began to trickle down.

  Rafe froze. “Annabelle?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He growled something profane under his breath, but a moment later one strong, slightly callused thumb wiped and caressed her damp cheeks.

  Annabelle’s breath caught at the old intimacy of the gesture. He shocked her further when he bent his head and muttered roughly into her ear, “Don’t cry, Bella.”

  Bella. Only Rafe had ever called her such. And the way he said it: sensual, with an undertone of utter possessiveness that scorched a path directly to her heart. Emboldened by the cover of Sugar’s bulk and night itself, she rubbed her cheek against his, reveling in the soft scratchiness of his closely cropped beard against her skin.

  “Rafe,” she whispered. “Rafe.”

  Silence answered and her heart sank at the fool she’d made of herself. Until he tugged her behind a stack of empty ale barrels and that same gentle thumb skimmed a path of fire across her collarbone while his lips closed around her earlobe.

  Tilting her head, Annabelle wordlessly offered him more, and seconds later she felt the tiniest sting as he alternated nipping her neck with a soothing flick of his tongue.

  Oh sweet heaven.

  A choked whimper escaped her. She yearned to move against him again, feel his lips against hers, have him touch her in all the ways she’d heard talk of but never known. Ah, how she yearned…

  In one harsh movement, he pulled away from her and yanked her back into the open courtyard as Hertford’s page bounded toward them with the promised cloths and water. Equal parts regret and relief kept her head down as she attempted to freshen her appearance. Even at night, behind cover, this was no place to behave lewdly. She had no friends here, and not even Rafe’s protection would save her from spiteful gossip or tricks by those who only wished the Seymour family’s downfall.

  “Are you ready?” Rafe asked, his tone reverted to cool and impersonal.

  “No,” she said. “I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedgerow backward.”

  “Henry has ordered you into his presence, thus, he cannot hold it against you.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. Even those in the wilds of Essex knew of His Majesty’s mercurial temper. “Cannot?”

  “Should not,” he relented, offering his hand. “Come.”

  For such a large and lavish castle, the walk to King Henry’s rooms seemed to take no more than a few minutes. Perhaps on the morrow she would have time and opportunity to admire the exquisite tapestries lining the walls and marvel at the enormous astronomical clock which told the time, day, and tides back in the inner courtyard. But for now, the view was a set of wide oak doors, an armed guard at either side.

  To maintain her serenity, Annabelle didn’t look at Rafe, but her hand tightened around his, even more so when weapons thumped twice and a voice bellowed, “Master Rafe de Vere and the Lady Annabelle Benton-Hayes.”

  The contrast from the gloomy, slightly chilly corridor to this stuffy, well-lit chamber made her eyes water and blink, and it took a forceful pressure on her hand to remind her to sink into a deep, head-bowed curtsy as two men emerged from the shadowed end of the room.

  Lord Hertford. And the King of England.

  Rafe immediately released her hand. Bereft at the loss of his comforting strength, she swallowed hard and peeped at the king through her lashes. The effects of his long ago jousting injury were well evident. Despite his wide shoulders and remarkable height, Henry Tudor’s gait was slow with a pronounced limp. Not even the richest of silks and velvets or the largest of jewels could disguise the rounded belly and heavy jowls of a man who enjoyed his food and drink and now rarely exercised.

  Yet there was still a magnificence about him, an invisible cloak of utter confidence that only holding absolute power gave. And in his wide, welcoming smile, a glimpse of the charming, adventurous Prince Harry of years long past.

  “Rafe!” the king boomed. “The best and most loyal soldier in our realm, if one who neglects us sorely in his appearances at court. Presumably since you are shortly retired, we will see far more of you?”

  “Majesty. You honor me with such praise. If I have neglected you here it is only to further your interests in other lands.”

  “Yes, yes. Found a wife yet? Long past time you settled on one woman and provided sons for the future protection of this realm. Every man needs sons. Our beloved Edward is a constant source of joy, especially in these dark days.”

  “It is my desire to one day know such happiness.”

  “Indeed,” said Henry, abruptly shifting and holding out fat, bejeweled fingers toward her instead. “And now to our other guest. Are we to know the pleasure of your face, lady, or will you continue to admire our shoes?”

  “Your Majesty.” She briefly touched her lips to his pigeon egg–sized ruby ring to gain a moment for composure before finally daring to look him in the face. “I am honored to—”

  “God’s blood!”

  She shrank back, terrified at the roared curse and sudden pallor of the king’s ruddy cheeks. Then his sharp, dark eyes glazed over and she was lifted and enveloped in a bear hug so tight she could scarcely breathe.

  “Jane,” he choked out near her ear. “Oh, my sweet beloved. You’ve come back to me.”

  “Majesty,” Hertford’s treacle-smooth voice intervened from over Henry’s shoulder. “No, not—”

  “You forget yourself, Hertford. She may be your sister, but Jane is my queen and we are sharing a private moment. Away with you, damned knave, or I’ll have your head!”

  Paralyzed in the king’s overpowering embrace, her feet dangling uselessly several inches from the floor, Annabelle silently thanked heaven for Edward Seymour’s icy, unshakable control. He didn’t flee, didn’t flinch, merely tilted his head and smiled thinly.

  “Alas, my revered sister passed after the birth of Prince Edward. You remember. This is my cousin’s daughter, the Lady Annabelle Benton-Hayes.”

  Henry slowly pulled back from her. “Jane?”

  There was such confusion in his voice, such agonized longing in his eyes, her heart ached for him. No matter his many grievous sins, the king had clearly loved his dead Seymour wife, and to torment him wi
th her likeness was a cruelty.

  “Beg pardon, Majesty,” she said very, very softly, gently squeezing his hand. “But as my lord said, I am Annabelle.”

  The monarch blinked, abruptly in the present again. “Ah, yes. Mayberry’s girl, widow of Walter Benton-Hayes. Well, you are most welcome at court, Lady Annabelle. Do you enjoy gardens?”

  “I do. Very much.”

  “Then I hope you’ll accompany me on a stroll in the morning. Lovely gardens here. Not as fetching as you, but pleasant all the same. Rafe will bring you to me, won’t you, Rafe?”

  Her escort hesitated, then bowed stiffly. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

  “Then it is settled,” Henry announced, pressing a wet-lipped kiss to her knuckles. “My lady.”

  “Your Majesty,” she replied, sinking into another deep curtsy, understanding the dismissal for what it was. She, Hertford, and Rafe backed out of the chamber.

  They had barely retreated one corridor when Hertford hauled her into an alcove.

  “That was well done, Annabelle. Most well done. Such a gentle tone and how clever to squeeze his hand. I’d wager the king is already half in love with you.”

  “My lord…” she protested, shooting a dismayed glance at Rafe. But Hertford was too pleased in events just gone to notice.

  “And another personal audience on the morrow. I never expected such a swift gain. You’re a credit to the Seymours. It will be a happy day when you are crowned queen and even happier when you birth England a second prince.”

  “First things first,” said Rafe stonily.

  “Indeed, indeed. Do wish I could be here for the garden stroll, but I have a Privy Council meeting. You must stay, Rafe, I’m entrusting Annabelle’s care into your hands. I know you’ll do everything possible to encourage Henry’s ardor for her and ensure a summer wedding. This would secure you an even heavier purse, naturally.”

  Rafe bowed, the bleak emptiness of his obsidian gaze chilling her to the bone. “As my lord commands.”