Courtly Pleasures

by Erin Kane Spock

  She tilted her head back as he slowly drizzled the water through the masses of curls still knotted at atop her head, loosening them until they cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Not once touching her.

  “Until you give me leave, I will continue to imagine that the water is, instead, my fingers, softly caressing your hair and tickling your scalp only to stroke down your neck and find your skin heated from my touch . . . ”

  A soft moan escaped Frances’s lips before she could catch herself. She closed her eyes, embarrassed at her lack of control.

  “I must have your permission to touch you, which is necessary if you want me to soap your hair. Rest easy, I am not asking for more liberties.”

  “Oh, yes,” she answered, curious as to what liberties he might request and a little disappointed. Yes, her body was turning her into the biggest hypocrite.

  Henry’s bare arm reached over her shoulder and into the basin. Without touching her, he retrieved the lavender soap cake and snaked his other arm over her opposite shoulder to work it into lather before he moved his hands up to her head.

  His fingers traced circles of soft pressure against her scalp, massaging the soap through her wet curls. His hands moved in steady motion at her temples and behind her ears, working down toward the base of her skull.

  Bliss. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back into the cradle of his hands.

  With no more resistance than a puppet, she moved with him as he angled her forward, and she sighed again as he soaped the length of her hair. His thumbs left heat in their wake as they made painstakingly slow circles along the ridges at the base of her skull. The warmth of his touch snaked throughout her whole body, and she had to fight her instincts to turn into his touch, to wrap herself around him.

  “If it is not too familiar, I would soap your back as well.”

  An incoherent mumble partnered her nod of assent. She was past words, too enthralled with his soothing touch.

  His hands moved down her neck and to her shoulders, his thumbs continuing their small circles. The soap made her skin slippery so that his hot touch glided over her sore muscles as the scent of the lavender surrounded Frances in a haze of late-summer flowers. His hands moved along the top of her shoulders and down the base of her spine, kneading her muscles along the way.

  During their liaisons his touch had aroused, but now every motion spoke of nurture. He sought her comfort, her pleasure, but none of his own. For the past ten years she had been the caregiver, but now Henry saw to her care—if it didn’t feel so wonderful, she’d be sure there was something wrong with this role reversal. The sheer decadence of it made her smile.

  His broad hands moved from her spine outward along her ribs, not quite touching her breasts but creating a swell of bathwater that caressed her nipples as the water buoyed them. A surge of heat settled between her thighs, and Frances sighed, a soft whimper fluttering on her breath.

  What had she just been thinking about this not being arousing?

  Henry continued his ministrations to her back as Frances reveled in his touch. The water itself seemed alive, vibrant with sensation, caressing her all over her body—just as Henry had said. Taking a bath seemed almost too intimate an experience. The cooling water tingled against the heat of her skin, ruffling through the hair at her pelvis and caressing her intimately . . . Frances closed her eyes and tightened her innermost muscles, seeking a release that wouldn’t come, not without her directly asking for his touch.

  “Rinse.”

  Henry’s practical word broke through Frances concentration, and she bit her lip, embarrassed again at her traitorous body. Henry fetched a third ewer from the hearth and poured the hot water throughout her soapy hair and over her back, the trickling warmth tickling her senses.

  “Stand.” His word was a simple command, but his tone was husky. Did he know what she had been thinking?

  Frances stood, knee deep in her bath and no longer caring about the vulnerability of nakedness, while Henry poured the remaining two ewers of heated water over her chilled skin. The water started at her shoulders flowing down her breasts in sensuous rivulets and over her belly, then though her curls, gliding over her most sensitive spots. Frances gasped at the onslaught, and her thighs parted instinctively, the water’s subtle caress not nearly enough.

  Frances opened her eyes to the dimly lit room when the water flow stopped. Turning her head, she saw Henry standing immobile, an empty pitcher in his hand, and his gaze locked on her. She turned to face him, her skin still rosy from the warmth of the water and the growing warmth in her belly, and opened her mouth to break the silence but found she had no words.

  He stepped closer—so close that a bead of water suspended at the tips of her breasts latched onto to the fine linen covering Henry’s chest. His breath mingled with hers as they locked eyes.

  “You are so beautiful.” The words were hardly poetry, but his deep whispered rasp was strained with passion—passion she had aroused. “Even these,” his hand hovered less than an inch above the fine white marks that formed a sunburst around her navel, “these are beautiful. They are evidence of your children. Our children. They add something indescribably moving to your body. Something that makes my heart hurt.”

  Frances, embarrassed, looked down at her dripping body and tried to turn away.

  “Wait.” The single word froze her mid turn as his hand moved up to cup her cheek—and stopped, hovering, a hairsbreadth away, keeping his promise.

  Frances angled her face to make contact with his waiting palm. His sigh reverberated through her as she felt the release of tension, of uncertainty. She felt it as surely as if it were her own—they were one in this feeling, this moment. She closed her eyes as he cupped the line of her jaw in the heat of his hand before settling under her chin and tipping her face up to his.

  There was only a moment of hesitation. Her mind, her heart screamed “kiss me!” and she willed him to make the move, to kiss her—but, by her own rules, he could not. Taking the lead, Frances leaned toward him, allowing their lips to meet in the sweetest lingering kiss she could have ever imagined.

  Their previous kisses as husband and wife had been untried and clumsy; their kisses as illicit lovers, passionate and intense. This kiss was barely a touch, but it was as if their lips fit perfectly. Soft, delicate, but hardly innocent. It was the kiss from a fairy tale between a warrior and his beloved. Frances did not want it to ever end.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rule Nine: Only the insistence of love can motive one to love.

  Henry woke up, surprised that the sun had risen. He’d thought he would never fall asleep. How could he last night? Frances, his surprisingly determined and independent wife, wanted to kiss him. Had kissed him. It was entirely her decision, and she chose to share the most achingly sweet kiss with him. In that kiss she expressed just how innocent she was—how unpracticed in the art of seduction. There was no artifice in that kiss, no attempt at sensuality. Kisses were shared at court constantly and never with any meaning. Frances’s kiss told him everything he needed to know. It was pure and passionate without any pretense of being anything more. It was one of the most sensual encounters of his life. And it meant he was making headway to winning his wife’s heart.

  True to his word, Henry had not laid a hand on her. He was awed by her trust as she nestled into his side, safe in his warmth. He lay wide awake for most of the night, painfully aware of her heat, her scent. Morning came with her still comfortably tucked into the crook of his arm, wiggling slightly as sleep fell away. It was where she belonged, and he was afraid to move.

  “You are awake?” Frances’s voice was a soft whisper against his neck as she shifted slightly and unhooked her leg from his.

  “Yes. How did you know?” Henry kept his voice low, afraid to interrupt the peace of the room or force her further away.

  “Your breathing changed.”

  With a smooth roll, she moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Henry held back a curse at
the sudden loss of intimacy and warmth, and stopped himself from pulling her back into his arms. Frustrated, he rose and left the room to take care of his morning needs.

  When he returned, he found Frances holding on to the bedpost as Mary wordlessly laced her into her corset.

  “Her Majesty has called for a hunt this morning,” she called to him over her shoulder as if being dressed before him was a usual occurrence. “The gamekeeper in the eastern park has said there are two stags ripe for the hunt and Queen Elizabeth and Her party are to depart immediately. We have been invited, but it seems more of a demand.” Frances nodded to the open missive lying on the coverlet.

  Henry, silent with fury, grabbed the missive. Written in the Queen’s steward’s own hand was the instruction to join the Queen Herself on a hunt.

  “This is madness. I’m certain Her Majesty knows of the threat from yesterday. There is no reason to put you in any more danger.” He crumbled up the parchment and threw it in the fire. “Mistress Mary, leave us.”

  The young woman dropped Frances’s tapes and gave him a reverance before hurrying out of the room.

  Frances turned, holding her corset up over her chest. “You cannot think to deny the Queen.”

  He never had. Never thought he could. But here he was. “No, we are staying here. I have alerted the guard about the particulars of the attack, and until there are answers I will have you safe.”

  “And Queen Elizabeth will show the world she is not going to live in fear. There was an attack at Her court, yes. But will that stop Her? No. She will laugh in the face of any threat before showing weakness.”

  “You believe she is forcing you out into the open on purpose?” No sooner had the words left his mouth then he knew them as true. Of course the Queen would take risks with someone else’s life if only to make a statement.

  “There is a second missive.” Frances reached into the pockets already fastened over her petticoats. “This came from my mother.”

  “Quite a bit happened in the short time I was gone, it seems,” Henry muttered as he read the short note confirming Frances’s interpretation of the Queen’s behavior. All the court knew of the attack and could not be seen as craven. Frances and Henry would join the Queen for the morning’s hunt, and they would make every pretense at enjoying themselves.

  He cursed under his breath. His duty was to the Crown, and yet . . .

  “No.”

  Frances looked up and blinked. “No? Naysaying the Queen is not done.”

  “Well, there is a first time for everything. You have taken ill and should not be out. I have broken my leg and cannot stand. We have both eaten bad rye and are under confinement. I do not care. No, we do not go.”

  His own words astounded him. Had he gone mad? Perhaps.

  Frances snapped closed her gaping mouth and pursed her lips. “Henry, since you sent Mary out, you must help me ready.”

  She turned her back to him.

  “We are not leaving the room, Frances.”

  “And we must. The Queen has said it will be so, and neither of us are fools enough to follow through on any of your silly excuses. It is no good. We are going hunting.”

  “Frances, I cannot let anything happen to you.”

  “What will happen? We will be with the elite of court. The Queen Herself and her best guardsmen will be there. Who would dare attack either of us? Yes, it makes me uneasy, but there is nothing for it. You know I am right.”

  He stood stiff, anger thrumming through him with no outlet. It was his duty to protect his wife and his duty to serve Queen Elizabeth. But he’d made a vow to only one woman, Frances, and he’d be damned if he let any harm come to her.

  “Henry,” she lifted the mass of tangles over her shoulder to bare her neck, her back, “we will be safe. Together, in the bosom of the court, what could happen?”

  He moved over to her, and unable to care about their agreement, placed a kiss at the base of her neck. She gasped and turned to him. Would she scold him for touching her? I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb . . . Reaching up, he speared his fingers through her curls and pulled her to him in a searing kiss.

  Breathless, he pulled away, staring down at her sleepy eyes, swollen lips.

  “Promise me you will be cautious. Stay always aware of your surrounds. Do not go off alone. And . . . ” He released her and crossed the room. Opening the trunk beneath the window, he found what he wanted. “Keep this with you.” He handed her the bodice dagger, something that most ladies may use as a beautiful, jeweled accessory, but one he knew had a keen blade. She tucked it down the stiff center channel of her corset and he placed his hands on her face, gently cradling her cheeks as she blinked. “Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

  She nodded. “I promise.”

  Relaxing his hold, he released her and stepped back, his breathing still jagged.

  “My lady wife, I will call for your ladies and go ready myself.” He gave a courtly reverance. “I shall see you anon.”

  • • •

  Queen Elizabeth looked magnificent as always. Today she sat mounted on Her chestnut, Her oxblood leather doublet matching the mare’s saddle and trappings. The excitement of the hunt, both in the anticipation and the kill, always added a sparkle to the Queen’s eye and a rosy glow to Her cheek. Frances had never seen Her look more lovely.

  Frances, to do herself justice, felt confident in her new green velvet habit. The olive tone offered a sharp contrast to the red gold highlights in her hair and made the dark blond appear even more fashionably red. She sat, proud in her appearance and station within the Queen’s party, upon her new bay mare, an unexpected gift from Henry. Persephone was stately and as responsive to her new mistress as could be expected for an untried horse and, Frances noted, a far cry above the unfortunate gray she borrowed from the palace stables the day before. The horse was an extravagant gift, but Henry had told her that was not a concern—after all, he had a wife to woo. Frances couldn’t imagine when he’d found the time to find her in the hours between the invitation to the hunt and now, but she was the perfect horse. It was unfortunate her name was so pretentious. With a laugh she wondered if his own horse was named Hades. Probably. Men did like to feel manly, after all.

  There was something exciting about the hunt, about the anticipation. She never enjoyed the kill, but the chase had always been exhilarating and it felt rewarding to serve the felled beast at the feast that followed. How long had it been? God’s blood, this was her first hunt since her marriage. There was no reason for it—they had ample lands and enough titled neighbors for her to have orchestrated something over the years. In fact, she had never instigated any social activities at the Holme besides the Christmas feasting for the tenants and local villagers. With a firm nod and a cluck to the horse to move along, Frances determined that things would be different when she returned to Holme LeSieur. Planning offered the perfect foil to keep her fear over the events of yesterday in check.

  • • •

  Henry rode ahead to join the ranks of the procession, forced to comply with the positions based on precedence of rank. They should not be here. Ahead and laughing with abandon, Queen Elizabeth rode surrounded by handsome men. He’d never resented his role in court before, but then he’d never felt he was used as a tool to maintain appearances. Yes, he’d served the Crown over the Church and never once had cause to regret, but ahead rode his sovereign, a feckless woman who would risk his wife’s life on a whim. Anger curdled inside him, and he forced a polite smile, girding himself for a day of hell.

  He could not wait to leave court, to return to the Holme, and learn what it meant to be a husband and father.

  He looked back on Frances, riding to the rear as the wife of an untitled gentlemen would, and cursed. Yes, they were surrounded by guards, but not one was in proximity of his wife, caring little about the wellbeing of Her courtiers.

  Frances rode well, her seat straight and easy. Ten years of marriage and, before yesterday, they had never ridden tog
ether that he remembered. What a waste. Seeing her now as a woman and a courtier, not a burden or a responsibility, changed his perspective, and he could not help but be afraid. There was so much more at stake—perhaps that’s what the unknown attacker counted on. He had been working to secure her heart but may have lost his own in the process.

  Henry wasn’t sure how much headway he had made over the past few days, but he couldn’t think about the sweetness of her lips without grinning like an idiot. It was as if he was a smitten schoolboy and not a man of twenty-five. He, who had served his country loyally and without question, who put the interest of his estate above his own—he was not some randy adolescent.

  God’s wounds, maybe he was a child still to fly between rage and fear and lust and glee. His emotions were out of control, unpredictable, but one thing was certain—he had to keep his wife safe in order to win her heart.

  Lord Leicester took his place beside the Queen, Her riding habit matching his oxblood slashed leather doublet perfectly. The gamekeeper signaled the party that a stag was sighted, and the dogs picked up the scent. With a quick jab of the spurs, Leicester began the hunt, and the entire party joined the chase. Henry looked back to see Frances safely at the rear of the procession beside Baroness Ludlow with one single Yeoman of the Guard bringing up the rear, his red skirted doublet a sharp contrast against the still verdant foliage of the mid-November forest.

  • • •

  Frances was not surprised to be bringing up the rear: she was, after all, the lowest ranking in matters of precedence. She should be honored to be in attendance at all—still, she felt vulnerable. The single guardsman was surely not enough to assuage Henry’s worry, if his repeated worried glances back were any indication. She tried to dismiss the growing feeling of unease as her new mare kept pace with the party. She was surrounded by the Queen’s private guard—there was nothing to worry about. The events of yesterday should not color today’s enjoyment. In such a proximity to the Queen, her concerns were silly. She was safe here.