His Forbidden Lady

by Nicola Davidson

  …

  To punch the king would mean instant death, yet Rafe couldn’t cease his white-knuckled fist flexing. It wasn’t just the way Henry kept touching Annabelle while they walked along the garden paths in the midmorning sunshine, stroking her arm, smoothing her hair under the guise of adjusting her cloak and hood veil. Or even his soft conversation and amused laughter. It was the air of utter ownership the monarch had adopted, to the point of dismissing all except him and Annabelle’s waiting woman, and even they had been banished to a trailing distance of no less than twenty feet. By her sour-apple expression and constant grumbling, Gerda wasn’t happy, either.

  “’Tis a bad business,” the servant muttered for the seventeenth time.

  “You don’t wish your lady to be queen?”

  “I don’t wish her a life of second best, at the mercy of ’im or Hertford or another Benton-Hayes for that matter. My chick is a good girl, she deserves to be loved. And not a fickle love, neither. Steadfast and true.”

  Rafe felt his lips twitch even as he admired the fierce loyalty. “Are men capable of such a thing?”

  “My John was, until the day the plague took him back in ’31. Course, I would have introduced an iron skillet to his head if he ever strayed, and he knew it. But a good man, a decent one…well he might’ve looked, but there was only one sheath he slid his sword into.”

  “Not all blades are created equal, mistress.”

  “Aye,” she cackled, her grin pure wickedness. “Disuse makes ’em rusty, overuse blunt and soft. A daily clean be best.”

  This time he did laugh, so loudly that Henry and Annabelle actually stopped and turned.

  “Something amuses you, Rafe?” said Henry, more than a little petulantly.

  “Actually, Majesty, I—”

  “Pardon, Majesty,” interrupted a page, panting after a clearly hasty walk, “but His Grace of Suffolk bid me to come and remind you of the meeting at eleven of the clock.”

  “Did he?” replied the king softly, and seconds later the boy dangled by the throat from a meaty fist. “Perhaps Suffolk forgot we are occupied right now?”

  “P-perhaps. But A-Ambassador de Marillac has c-come.”

  Henry scowled. “What do I care about the movements of that bastard?”

  “You sent for him…” the boy choked out, his face now plum-hued.

  “Bah,” said Henry, heaving the page onto the ground before smiling at a blank-faced Annabelle as though they had just completed a pavane. “Always trouble, the French. I must bid you good day, my lady. Rafe will see you back to your chamber.”

  She sank into a deep curtsy. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

  Long after Henry limped around a stone wall and disappeared, the injured page staggering behind him, Annabelle continued to stare as though transfixed.

  Another wave of black fury surged through him. “Well, lady? Are you ready to leave or has love sickness robbed you of mobility?”

  “Love sickness?” she replied, blinking doe eyes. Then she actually glowered at him. “He nearly strangled that poor boy! And called me Jane six times.”

  “Fear not, that poor boy won’t be too far away. I’m sure an hour or two with your soothing hands would ease any pain he felt.”

  “Rafe? What on earth is the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he said, taking her arm and wondering when the hell Gerda had crept away. By God, this was dangerous, leaving the two of them alone. “Let’s go.”

  Annabelle jerked from his grasp. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Not until you tell me what troubles you.”

  “What troubles me is the duties I have, duties you are preventing me from completing with your childish tantrum. ’Tis lucky you enjoyed the king’s touch far more, I’m not sure he would appreciate it if you tore away from him.”

  “Enjoyed?” she replied. “Women do not enjoy. They tolerate.”

  Rafe glared at her, hating this utterly ridiculous loss of control. What did it matter now if Annabelle let the king touch her, kiss her, even lift her skirts for him? She wasn’t a virgin. That prize had already been claimed by Lord Benton-Hayes.

  Again he took her arm, this time practically dragging her along beside him until they reached the more secluded safety of a garden archway.

  “Then you have much to learn. Soon he’ll want to do much more than pat your arm or adjust your cloak. And his vanity will insist you like it too. He’s not yet an elderly man to be foxed in the dark with false gasps and pre-applied lotions.”

  “I’ll think about that another time.”

  “Think about it now. Will you pull away if he does this, Bella?” he growled, bending down and capturing her lips with his. A terrible mistake. One taste of their full, honeyed sweetness and he had to have another. And another, until one hand clamped behind her head, positioning it so he could more easily plunder her mouth with his tongue.

  Annabelle moaned deeply, the needy sound inflaming him further. Instead of stopping, more words tumbled from his lips between kisses.

  “Oh yes, the king will want your mouth. And your neck. The tops of your breasts. Maybe even this…”

  Slowly, deliberately, Rafe pushed thumb and forefinger under the square bodice of her pale blue gown, delving down until he could stroke and pluck a tender nipple. He wanted to shock her. Frighten her. Ensure she swayed at the edge of the same abyss he did, or at least stopped looking at him with those huge, yearning eyes like he was something far more than a brutal, seasoned killer. If she pushed him from her, feared him, hated him, then he could leave with a clear conscience.

  But she didn’t twist away or slap him soundly. Nor did she run to end this temporary madness. She moaned again, her back arching. “Rafe.”

  Darkness overcame him and he took Annabelle’s mouth again. Ravishing it, bruising it with untamed force while he fondled and pinched both taut peaks, his hips jerking forward so his rapidly hardening cock could grind against her soft belly.

  Take her now, his mind screamed. Lift those skirts and bury yourself deep inside that sweet, hot tightness until her cries of pleasure can be heard in every corner of Hampton Court…

  Palace.

  He jerked back as though he’d been branded. Annabelle belonged to the king. His Majesty would be the one to marry her, take her, fill her womb to overflowing with seed, not a mere soldier.

  “Rafe?” she whispered through damp, swollen lips, and his sweeping stare took in a gaze cloudy with desire and confusion, her shaking hands, the jutting nipples he’d brought to full arousal. “Don’t stop, please. I need you. So very, very much.”

  God’s teeth.

  This woman would be his downfall.

  Chapter Three

  “Look around you, my lady. Your future loyal subjects. Or instigators of your ruin, depending on the time of day.”

  Annabelle shivered, although it was hard to know if the involuntary movement was a result of Rafe’s caustic words or simply his nearness. Even now, a full day later, she could still taste his fierce kisses, feel her nipples throb from the relentlessly luscious torment of his fingers. He’d never kissed her like that before, as though he were desperate, starving, like he might devour her whole, and she’d been reduced to something equally raw. Selfishly, foolishly thinking only of need.

  Her traitorous body didn’t care that they stood in the well-lit but stuffy Great Hall of Hampton Court Palace, with long wooden tables of food and wine on either side and musicians playing cheerful tunes. Nor that a hundred of Henry’s favorites—lords, ladies, clergy, ambassadors, and courtiers—were all watching her, now they’d recovered from the shock of her likeness to a dead queen, some discreetly, some blatantly, while waiting for the King to grace them with his presence.

  Softly, she asked, “How many will hate me no matter what?”

  Rafe shrugged and took a long swallow of wine from his pewter goblet. “Norfolk and his eldest son, the Earl of Surrey. Although after Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard, I can’t imagin
e the duke wanting to further risk his neck by putting forward another from his family. Suffolk, but I’d say that has more to do with what he thinks of Hertford—”

  “Does anyone think highly of Hertford?”

  “Edward Seymour is brother to a dead saint. Uncle of a prince. An ice-blooded diplomat. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of him, he’s nigh on untouchable.”

  “Well. That’s not a terribly long list of enemies for me.”

  “I’m barely started,” he said, lips twitching slightly. “Every man with a marriageable daughter or sister will also hate you. Every unmarried woman. The Spanish and the Lady Mary because you aren’t Catholic. The French because you aren’t French. The purists because you aren’t a virgin.”

  Heat scorched her cheeks. “I was a married woman who did my duty.”

  Rafe scowled, but any further comment he might have made was cut off by a short trumpet burst.

  “The king!” a male voice bellowed and, seconds later, Henry came into the great hall, a lazy stroll disguising his limp while a solid gold crown, ermine-trimmed purple doublet, and black hose ensured he would stand out amongst any crowd. Slowly he made his way around the hall, laughing with and shoulder-clapping a chosen few, staring impassively at, or ignoring, others. Allowing no one to forget he could elevate or destroy at will.

  And he was coming directly this way.

  Annabelle immediately straightened her shoulders and carefully smoothed the ivory and silver gown Hertford had insisted upon. Apparently a combination Henry once liked Jane to wear, pretty but thoroughly impractical for eating or even moving.

  “Rafe. Lady Annabelle. There you are,” the king announced over-loudly, and her heart sank as every pair of eyes narrowed and chilled. All except one. Henry’s gaze was soft and disconcertingly glazed as he took in her dress, rather modest hood, and short veil.

  “Majesty,” she replied, curtsying deeply.

  “How delightful you look, my dear. Doesn’t she look delightful, Rafe? Many women in this room could learn a lesson in elegance from a true lady. Did you embroider that kirtle yourself?”

  “Ah, no. No, Your Majesty. Regretfully I have little talent with a needle.”

  “Surely not.”

  Rafe chuckled. “Alas, Sire, Lady Annabelle speaks the truth. Whenever she attempts needlework, her fingers resemble pincushions within minutes.”

  Henry went rigid and tilted his head. “Is that so? We didn’t realize you were so well acquainted with the lady.”

  The moment of silence stretched to eternity, and she wanted to crush Rafe’s foot for saying something so utterly foolish to a man who had just executed his wife for sins committed before marriage as well as after. A muffled grunt behind her indicated her wayward heel had found its mark.

  Quickly pasting a bright smile on her face, she leaned forward and boldly brushed the king’s gold-and-purple velvet sleeve. “Hardly, Majesty. Master de Vere remembers a time long, long ago when I was a child in the same village as he. Perhaps you might see for yourself my unharmed fingers?”

  The king eventually returned the smile, uncomfortably resembling a hungry lion. He lifted her hands, making a show of inspecting them closely. “Hmmm. Unless our eyes deceive us, Lady Annabelle is unmaimed. What say you now, Rafe?”

  “That I am wrong, Sire. What was…is not what is.”

  His distant tone, the dull finality of the words, shattered her heart entirely, but Henry nodded, mollified.

  “At last some sense from the soldier. Now, lady, you’ll indulge a small token of our great esteem?”

  Apprehensively, Annabelle glanced down as the king removed a small, cloth-wrapped object from his pocket and held it out to her. She didn’t have to look up to know everyone in the room observed them like hawks above a pasture. It was amazing how silent one hundred people previously eating, drinking, and dancing could suddenly be; untying a satin ribbon had never sounded like clashing swords before.

  “Oh,” she murmured, as an expensively elaborate and truly ugly gold brooch inlaid with mother of pearl fell into her hands. “It’s…er…”

  “Magnificent,” said Rafe.

  “Allow me, Jan…abelle” said Henry silkily, forcing her to stand perfectly still while he attached the brooch to her bodice. The backs of his fat, bejeweled fingers caressed the tops of her breasts, and the savvy amongst the crowd gasped in delight and applauded enthusiastically.

  No one could mistake the gesture for what it was. She’d just been deliberately and quite publicly claimed by the King of England.

  …

  He’d always known Henry could be the worst of bastards toward rivals, yet never before had the king’s ire been directed at him.

  But the king knew. It was there in the taunting words, the casual gift far beyond even a well-paid soldier’s pockets, the overt touching. Although to be fair, his unguarded tone and ill-timed, ill-conceived comment couldn’t have made his feelings toward the king’s second Seymour prize any more obvious.

  Perhaps now would be the perfect time to inform His Majesty that Annabelle’s mouth tasted of spiced honey. How responsive her nipples were to gentle and not-so-gentle handling.

  After all, it wasn’t like he needed both eyes, his innards inside his body, and a head attached to his shoulders.

  “Rafe,” Henry said, his thick lips twitching. “We don’t believe you have properly admired Lady Annabelle’s gift. Perhaps one day soon you’ll have a woman to bestow such treasures upon?”

  He didn’t glance at Annabelle—a small victory—but merely gazed levelly at the king and said very quietly, “As a humble solider, jewels so fine are well outside my reach.”

  Surprisingly, the cruel glint faded from Henry’s dark eyes. Instead he looked irritated, weary, and every inch his fifty years. “Stay for the festivities. Plenty of good, wealthy women about. If you see one who pleases you, we will host the betrothal celebrations ourselves. In recognition of your loyal service.”

  “Your Majesty is most generous and kind.”

  Henry’s laugh was a short, sharp bark. “Rarely. But gracious in victory indeed. Now, we need music. Music! Everyone will dance, including the two of you. A dance in remembrance of times long past. Go!”

  Rafe held out an impersonal arm. Instead, Annabelle curled warm, soft fingers around his hand as they walked toward a cleared space near a cluster of musicians.

  “Why won’t you look at me?” she asked softly, curtsying to his curt bow.

  “Because the block has seen enough activity recently.”

  “So that is it, then? We both just surrender to his will?”

  “Exactly,” he growled into her ear as he promenaded her in a wide circle, gripping her waist harshly. “Because you are you, I am me, and he always wins.”

  “Then you lied to me on the journey here. Problematic but not insurmountable, you said.”

  He stared at her as she twirled around another man and then glided back to his side. Hoping to affect an icy sneer and knowing his expression probably more resembled a starving man in front of a full banquet table.

  “What would you have me do?” he whispered when they were close again. “Prove myself on the rack?”

  Annabelle’s fixed smile wobbled dangerously as he lifted her, one step, two steps, then smoothly returned her to the floor. “Tell me you don’t care a fig for me. That the moments in the courtyard, under the archway, didn’t mean a thing.”

  “I don’t care for you. Neither occasion wasn’t anything I haven’t done with scores of women. In fact, tonight, while you are dozing in your chamber and dreaming of a Westminster coronation while clutching your newest piece of jewelry, I will be occupied elsewhere. Perhaps trying out my future wife—”

  “No, Rafe.”

  “A lady of experience, naturally. Clever mouth. Nimble fingers. Long, ebony hair and bright blue eyes. Do you see anyone who fits that description, Lady Benton-Hayes? With your position and influence, I’m sure you could assist me in finding the very bes
t of wives. Only a few days left, though, so the quest must begin tonight.”

  Annabelle flinched, and self-loathing churned his gut as the music reached a sweeping crescendo finish of harpsichord and lute. Then she leaned well forward, far more than was proper.

  “You think I’ll be in my chamber? There is such an important task to undertake. The sooner the better, I imagine—”

  “I’ll kill him,” he snarled, the words torn unbidden from the dark place inside him where castles burned and dead men’s faces still swam.

  Hell and damnation. He’d officially lost all reason and needed to leave this place immediately. Find a tavern and drink and drink until he passed out or all memories of Lady Annabelle Benton-Hayes were purged from his brain.

  Permanently.

  …

  “Please don’t do this, my chick. Hertford will find out an’ he’ll kill you.”

  Annabelle kept her gaze locked on the tallow candles bathing her chamber in soft light. Witnessing Gerda scowling or crossing herself would only reduce her already floundering courage and it was imperative she act.

  Especially after Rafe’s words in the Great Hall. He clearly desired her. Far better, he still cared for her, and that was worth risking all for.

  “Do you have the garments?” she asked impatiently.

  Gerda sniffed. “Aye. Said I was buying for my nephew back home. But it won’t do no good, mistress. Ain’t no one alive who’d believe you to be a lad.”

  “It’s the middle of the night. If I keep to the shadows and alcoves, my cloak hood up…bind my breasts…”

  Her harrumph was worthy of a town crier, but Gerda marched forward and dumped a pile of men’s clothing on the narrow bed. Linen shirt. Hose. Simple woolen tunic and a thick black cloak.

  “Come ’ere then, I’ll plait your hair and wrap your chest.”

  “You are the best of women.”

  “A missin’ woman if your father hears of it,” said Gerda as she expertly, if rather forcefully, wove Annabelle’s hair into a thick plait and coiled it at her neck with pins. “Fancy a daughter who prefers soldier to king.”

  “Who would you choose?”