Frances shouldn’t be surprised. Even though their marriage had been arranged by their parents, she had never considered that he was in the same awkward position as she. The surprise must have shown on her face, for Henry raised a questioning eyebrow.
“I assumed you must be an expert in this field,” her words were playful, “for you have created a wondrous setting for romance.” Frances lightly skimmed the short cut grass with her hand as she gestured to their surrounds. “We are away from the palace—away from the city. It feels as if we are the only two in the world.” Frances kept surprising herself at her honest whimsy. She turned her face up to catch the sunlight and allowed herself to continue her train of thought. “Winter waits just over the hill and is almost upon us. It is our duty this day to capture as much of the sun as we can.”
The St. Martin’s summer, the uncharacteristic warmth in the autumn, could have served as a metaphor for this captured moment of happiness—the threat of winter reminding her how fleeting time was.
“Can you feel it? The change in the wind? The change in the light? We do not have many more of these days left, and the sun is taking a final delight in gifting us with its rays. I almost feel as if I need to take stock of the sunshine before it runs out and winter cages us in the dark and damp . . . ” Frances’s voice trailed off under Henry’s intense gaze. Unexpectedly self-conscious, she quickly averted her eyes and became actively interested in the lace at her cuff. How foolish of her, speaking to him like a friend.
“You have a gift with words, like a poet.” The admiration in his eyes forced a blush. Frances looked back down at her now destroyed lace. “You paint a picture with them, so beautiful and so sad. Is that how you feel at the Holme? Caged?”
She looked up to meet his gaze, the dark depths of his eyes warm and welcoming. “I did not say that.”
“No, you did not.” Henry reached over and gently laid his hand on top of Frances’s, stilling her compulsive adjustment of her wrist ruff with his warm touch. “As much as I love this time with you here and now, I have not forgotten our family and home. I have not forgotten your love and devotion to our babes. When you first arrived in London, I did not consider how difficult this must have been.”
She smiled at his generous honey coating of her demand for separation.
“I knew little of the woman you were, but I did know the mother and in that you were devoted.” Henry paused, awkward for once. “What drove you away? What need was so pressing that you would rip yourself away from the one thing that brought you joy?”
“The children are my happiness.” Frances needed him to understand. “But I had to leave. I did not feel like I had a choice. Should I escape and reevaluate myself or stay home, isolating myself with grief? The new baby only reminded me of how I failed the ones who died. Elizabeth echoed my sadness, withdrawing even as I withdrew. Thank God for my mother. I did not know it, but I abandoned my children when I fell into the melancholy. So very alone—surrounded by my children and servants, but still alone. After giving birth to Grace and Maria, I was wasting away and welcomed the dreamless sleep that it promised, the darkness where I did not feel like a failure. Or unwanted.”
Henry rose to his knees before her, gripping both her hands in his. “I had no idea.”
“No, of course you did not.” The soft outpouring of her soul, so necessary and so long left undone, left her empty with only anger to fill the void. Henry sitting there filled with horror and pity as if he had been powerless to help—it was laughable.
“You came home to oversee the estate books, ship off our son to fostering, attempt to sire a spare heir, and head back to God knows where to do God knows what.” Frances’s words gained power. She resented his apparent nonchalant attitude toward the family, but never realized how hurt she had been by his desertion—that he did not care enough about her to stay. “I was important enough to carry your babes but not for you to take a moment and actually see who I was. And then, when I failed in my role, you treated it like an everyday occurrence. Did I not know that babies die all the time and that I should thank God for my own health? How silly of me to be attached to the life growing in my womb—to mourn death. My daughters. Your daughters. And you did not care enough to tarry awhile at your own home with your own family. Did you feel no loss?”
• • •
Henry was dumbfounded. He had just discovered that he had missed years of precious time with his wife, but his family? Gently reared children were raised by nursemaids rather than their parents . . . He turned out fine without paternal involvement, hadn’t he? He could understand that she would be upset over the loss, but infant mortality was so rampant that many families did not name their child until they were sure the child would survive. Was he supposed to grieve over a life he had never known? Looking at his wife, he knew the answer: How could he not grieve over a baby, his babies, who had been denied the chance at life? How could he not be there for his wife, the woman that bore his children and who was crippled by grief? How could he expect her to simply bear it because that was the socially acceptable behavior?
The answer was clear—he hadn’t cared. Caring was not part of duty. He behaved honorably by the standards he had been raised to uphold, even if he had not behaved well. He had treated Frances and his family as he thought he ought. They had been an impersonal duty, an obligation . . . and not even very high on his list of priorities. And Frances knew it.
There was nothing he could say or do to make those years of neglect go away. All he could say was, “I am so sorry.”
Frances blinked, her jaw dropping as all anger faded from her ice-blue eyes. She asked simply, “Where were you all those years? What mattered more than your family?
Henry paused a moment, removing his hand from hers to retrieve his goblet and take a long swallow. “I will tell you . . . I owe you that much.” Henry put down his goblet and retrieved his wife’s hand. “But you must promise to keep my confidence.” He had much to tell of his work with Walsingham and Cecil, Norfolk’s execution, and his own allegiance to the Crown.
Frances, intrigued, nodded and promised, “I will not tell anyone.”
Henry smiled lightly and pulled his wife toward him. “Come then and lie with me in the waning sunlight, and I will tell you of my adventures, and you will tell me of yours.”
Frances shifted and lay her head on his shoulder and warmth surrounded him at her trust. Then he started his tale of conspiracy and treason.
• • •
The afternoon sunlight drained into twilight as Frances and Henry let their horses find their footing along the rutted country roads leading to the palace at Hampton Court. Around them the fields were at varying levels of disarray, some farmers having cut the high golden grass earlier than others in order to set aside feed provisions for the winter. Autumn was almost gone, taking the last vestiges of summer with it. Despite the beauty of the day, there was darkness looming on the far distant horizon—the first winter storm on the way.
The amiable silence between them surprised Frances. To think they’d shared a bed for several nights, not even so much as accidentally bumping into each other—but today she was able to lay with him in the sun, baring her soul and finding she wanted to trust him. Could friendship blossom so quickly? Could she really put aside years of resentment and start anew?
“We should be back to the palace before full dark.” Henry interrupted Frances’s wandering thoughts. “I think we will be too late to change for supper.”
“I am not hungry and do not relish the idea of playing the courtier tonight. I am content to make straightaway for bed.” Frances, catching the innuendo too late, blushed furiously as Henry raised his brows in mock suggestion.
The steady clip clop of the horse’s hooves along the intermittently cobbled roadway was the only sound to break their companionable silence. Could the perfect day end with the perfect night? And what would that be, could she design it?
He’d been every bit the gentleman, true to his wo
rd that he would not press his attentions—which was nice if not a little disappointing. He made her feel safe. Outside the glittering court she was free to talk without weighing her words, and he seemed to listen. It was almost as if he cared. Don’t be silly, Frances.
Frances felt the heat of Henry’s regard and turned to meet his gaze with a shy smile. On the back of his stallion, outlined by the amber rays of the setting sun, he cut a fine figure. His tailored doublet outlined his torso, ending at his waist and the band of his voluminous slops. Men’s fashions did too much to hide their physique. His belly was flat, but did it taper down to slim hips? The way he sat a horse with ease spoke of hours in the saddle—which implied his buttocks would be hard with muscle. She gasped at her thoughts, and Frances turned away, embarrassed her husband might notice her frank appraisal of his person. Focusing her gaze on the road ahead, she calmed her breathing, remembering to be a lady once more. Letting her breath out on a sigh, she relaxed just as, with an unearthly shriek, her horse spasmed beneath her and bolted across the muddy field as if its life depended on it.
“Frances!” The pounding hooves muted Henry’s panicked shout.
Trusting her instinct, Frances leaned low and gripped her horse around the neck. Her life did, in fact, depend upon staying seated.
Cursing the side saddle, Frances held on, tugging on the reins to slow the panicked mare. What happened? She watched the uneven ground race by and prayed that her mare would find solid footing. If the horse went down at this speed, Frances was practical enough to understand that the risk was great indeed.
Rumbling thunder announced the approaching hooves. Frances felt a dark shadow engulf her as Henry raced alongside her frenzied mare. His stallion was bigger and faster, but her mare was in a panic and unpredictable. There was no way Henry could stop her horse . . . Before Frances could finish the thought, an arm as solid as iron hooked around her middle and hefted her from her saddle.
Henry clutched her against his chest as he slowed his stallion’s pace.
Calm, she must be calm. She stiffened against the shivers that threatened, grateful for Henry’s strength, the arms around her. What had caused her mare to bolt like that? It seemed like a placid beast—unremarkable, yes, but definitely well trained.
If only she could stop this shivering—when had the day grown so cold?
“May-maybe she s-saw a snake?” Frances closed her eyes as her husband nestled his cheek into her curls. She must have lost her cap. What a shame—it was new. She nestled closer, needing the warmth of his body. “What else w-would have c-caused her such ter-terror?” Her teeth chattered hard against her attempt at words. Henry’s arm tightened around her, and she welcomed his added warmth and comfort. “It’s a shame, she will surely be disposed of for this, and it was probably only instinct—she was so g-g-gentle before . . . ”
Henry clucked his stallion into a slow canter in the direction of Frances’s errant horse. “Her behavior was certainly strange . . . but I would be surprised for her to have seen any snakes in this field since it has been so recently worked . . . ” Henry spoke with the hushed tones she would use to ease a child’s night terror. Placating. Avoiding the truth.
His sudden tension made her turn to follow his gaze. There, on the stream bank some way ahead, laid the unmoving body of the horse. Henry dismounted, cautioning Frances to stay beside his stallion. She nodded, watching him step through the muck. The poor mare was close enough for her to see there was no longer any rise and fall to indicate breathing, but her stomach knotted when she saw what he had in his hand, what he’d pulled free of her mount’s neck. An arrow.
This was no accident. Frances crossed herself. All the little malicious incidents compounded, and it was harassment no longer.
• • •
Frances huddled, wrapped in a quilt, on the rug before the hearth with her two ladies on either side. If not for the blame and anger on her ladies’ faces, the scene would have been charming. Henry couldn’t fault them at all—he blamed himself.
The small woman, Mistress Jane, all but hissed as he approached. “Why did you go out with no groom? No guards? After all the strange “gifts” and what happened to me . . . ” Her voice trailed off.
The taller of the two, Mistress Mary, stood. “We are too close to London to pretend we’re in the country. You should have stayed on the palace grounds.” She leveled her gaze at him, her hazel eyes hard within the shadow of her lashes. “You should have known better.”
“Aye, I should have,” he answered their accusations simply and lowered himself to the rug behind Frances, drawing her to him. “Mistress Mary, Mistress Jane, pray leave us now. I thank you for your faithful service to my wife.” He didn’t need to see their expressions to know they didn’t trust him. “Make haste to the kitchens and order a bath for your lady and have a platter of fruits and cheese sent up as soon as can be. And mulled wine, please.”
The heavy thud of the oak door closing drew a sigh of relief, and Henry pulled Frances closer to him, cradling her against his chest. “I almost lost you today. I have just found you, and I almost lost you. I swear by all I hold dear that I will move heaven and earth to protect you from all harm and keep you by my side.”
Nothing else mattered. She had to be safe, and she had to be with him. It had nothing to do with pride or lust. Today’s attack prodded something visceral, something at the very core of his being. He tightened his arms around her. “You are mine.”
If it was love she needed to agree to be his completely, then that’s what he would give her, no matter the cost.
Frances nestled closer, his name soft on her whispered breath. Henry held her, unwilling to undo whatever magic encompassed them both in that moment of perfection. He had no idea how long they sat there before a discreet knock on the antechamber door signaled the delivery of her bath.
• • •
Frances closed her eyes on a sigh as she sank into the rose-scented heat of the tub.
“I have never envied water so much in my life.”
She twisted with a splash and looked over the rim of the copper tub. Henry leaned one broad shoulder against the door frame, the firelight from the room beyond outlining the shadow of his arm through the fine linen of his shirt.
“You agreed to give me privacy,” she whispered, her mouth dry. The idea of him striding forward and taking her in his arms took her breath away. Hypocrite. She shook her head and sank lower in the water.
“I came to offer my services since you dismissed your ladies. Only at your invitation, of course.”
He did not move from the door, unresponsive to her wordless pleas. Of course to do so would be directly against the agreement she’d demanded . . . except that what she really wanted was to throw caution to the wind, to forget the reasons for her distance. She ached for his touch, and yet. And yet.
She sighed again and lowered her forehead to the brim of the tub, disgusted with herself.
“I await your instruction.”
Henry’s voice held just enough of a question, a hint of worry, to reassure her. He was as helpless in this as she.
“Well,” she began, peering over the lip of the tub, “my ladies might help with my back and my hair.”
He took a step closer and stopped. “Is it your wish that I help you? I do not want to be accused of reneging on our deal. You must be specific.”
She lowered herself more, hiding behind the tub. How much of her could he see from his vantage? And if he were to come closer, did she want him to see her? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her even more disheveled the night on the barge. A tingle ran through her chest, her breasts aching and heavy despite the water.
She swallowed against her cowardice and nodded. “Yes. You may wash my hair if you wish.”
Three steps and he was at her side, crouched low so his eyes met hers over the copper brim.
“Just so you know,” the smile in his eyes belied the seriousness of his tone, “you may be hiding your bosom, but I have a
n excellent view of your behind.”
She squealed and straightened up, sloshing water everywhere.
He rose and crossed to the hearth with a low chuckle that stirred a warmth in her chest. She drew a calming breath. At four and twenty she was not a child and, married ten years already, certainly not a maiden, technically speaking. There was no reason to fear this; he had given her the reins after all. And, no matter what else could be said about her husband, he was honorable. She trusted that like nothing else.
Harnessing her courage, she forced herself to recline in her bath and let the hot water seep into her aching muscles and soothe her senses. Taking in the vision of her husband in his white linen shirt as he sat in front of the fire she let go of the tension and fear of the day, safe with Henry. He held her gaze, his deep brown eyes almost black in the shadows cast by the fire.
“Do you feel how the water is caressing you all over your body at once? I picture my hands and lips doing the same.”
“Hush,” she whispered.
“Imagine that I am the one cupping the weight of your breasts, skimming your nipples with my thumb, easing the growing ache.”
“Henry . . . ” She barely could speak against the tightness in her chest.
“I am wooing you, Frances.”
“Nay, you are seducing me.”
“What, pray, is the difference?” He rose, a pewter pitcher in each hand, and stepped closer. His jaw tensed, playful smile gone, as his gaze scorched a trail of heat down her body as if he was claiming her with his eyes alone.
She must be wanton indeed, for she could not even pretend at modesty. Her fingers itched to trace the same path, down her cheeks, her neck, over her breasts . . .
“What are you doing to me?” she asked, overwhelmed at the sensations.
“Well, I thought to wash your hair.”
“Oh,” she blinked and sat up straight, “of course.” Thank goodness for the weak firelight or he would see her blush for certain. If he only knew what she’d been thinking . . .
Courtly Pleasures Page 17
