by Mary Wine
It defied reasoning.
The hand she held over her lips was shaking and every bit of her flesh argued against the harsh realities of her life. There was nothing logical about her longings; there had never been a time when she could not ignore the cravings of her flesh.
Except for now.
She wanted to lie with him again, but more than just lie, she wanted to reach out and touch him until he shivered. It was shocking, but she realized that she wanted to take him. Touch him in every way that she had ever been forced to learn about when it came to pleasing a man, except that this time, she wanted to do it for nothing but the pleasure it would give him.
She wanted to be Synclair’s lover.
Henry Tudor, King of England, Ireland, and Wales, knew how to receive those who wanted his attention, in such a manner that left no question that he ruled with absolute authority. Synclair waited on the King for half a day and knew there were men who had been listening for the chamberlain to call their names for days, sometimes weeks if the King was not in the mood to listen to their cause.
The chamberlain held a large white staff that was capped on the bottom with a brass fitting. When the man made ready to announce a name that the King would honor with an audience, he lifted the staff and struck the floor three times. The men waiting all quieted, their attention turning to the ornately carved double doors that would open to reveal the King. Henry sat on a large throne that was placed on a raised dais. There were costly Persian rugs beneath his feet and intricate tapestries hung behind his back. Every time the doors opened, trumpeters sounded off from some unseen point inside the receiving room.
“The Baron Harrow.”
The staff struck the floor and the guards opened the doors, allowing Synclair to enter the King’s presence. He barely crossed the threshold before those doors were firmly shut behind him.
“So you remember the way down from the north, Synclair. Some men up there become drunk on their power and forget there is a King in England.”
Synclair offered Henry Tudor an appropriate reverence but he didn’t draw it out, and that gained him a short bark of amusement from his monarch.
“At least you recall that behind closed doors I have no taste for pompous behavior.”
“I could never forget your preferences, sire.” Synclair straightened. “Or your tastes. You do have a way of expressing them to those who take the time to notice, and a wise man remembers details like those.”
“I see that you are still as boldly spoken as Lord Ryppon.”
Synclair offered his king no apology and stood firmly in place while Henry considered him from hard, glittering eyes. The King chuckled and pointed one thick finger at him.
“It’s one of the reasons I approved your inheritance of title and land. I need men in the north whose loyalty I don’t have to question. At least I have no trouble discovering what you are thinking.”
Henry Tudor was aging quickly. Synclair gritted his teeth while his gaze took in the changes that had befallen him. The man who had once led men across France was now too large to sit on a horse. He wasn’t wearing a doublet but a garment that had wide skirting beginning at his mid-chest. The fabric allowed for his increased girth, and it was quite a large increase, too.
“My leg continues to heal, making clothing a bother at best.”
Synclair felt a prickle of worry cross him. Henry Tudor snorted at him.
“And I have enough people looking at me in that manner, man. Don’t test my patience by becoming one of them.”
Synclair tilted his head to one side and offered his king a grin. “Well, my liege, that would leave me the option of looking like one of the men who is anticipating hearing of your demise ...”
Henry choked on his laughter. “I plan to make them wait a good long time.” The King pointed to a chair. It was considered an honor for a man to be invited to sit while in the presence of his king.
Synclair offered Henry a slight incline of his head in gratitude before taking the seat. The King flicked his fingers and a servant appeared with a silver tray that held a decanter and goblet.
“Venetian glass, it makes the wine taste divine.”
Synclair picked up the goblet. “It feels too delicate for a man’s grip.”
“They are surprisingly resilient.”
Henry lifted a matching glass to his lips, pulling a deep swallow from the dark-colored wine. A look of disgust twisted his lips for a moment.
“I spend too much time these days nursing my pains.” The King spoke quietly and there was the unmistakable hint of worry in his tone. Anyone who knew Henry Tudor wouldn’t make the mistake of calling it fear; he always had possessed more bravery than was often wise, but it was what made him the king he was.
“I bring a message from Lord Ryppon.” Synclair offered the rolled parchment to a servant.
“Ah, my friend Curan. Tell me, how is that pretty wife of his? I envy him her, that girl has fire in her.”
“Now she carries a child.”
The King nodded and sipped his wine again. A servant refilled the goblet the moment it was placed back down. The King considered him with narrowed eyes for a moment.
“So now you have your leave and your title.” Henry sat forward, his hands curling around the armrests of his chair. “What do you seek among my court?”
Synclair slowly smiled. “I find it hard to believe that Your Majesty has not heard what I have been about.”
Henry laughed. The sound was deep and full, echoing off the closed doors behind Synclair. The King slapped the armrest before he finished.
“So I have heard about your rather indelicate dealings.” The King sobered. “Francis de Canis is a dangerous man to cross.”
“So am I.”
Silence settled between them while the King drank more of his wine. His face became pensive and the ghost of something from years past crossed his eyes.
“I remember feeling so passionate.”
The King frowned, a pinched look taking control of his expression.
“Thank you for delivering the message, Baron Harrow. It is good to receive good letters from friends.”
It was a dismissal. Synclair rose and offered the king a curtsy but he did not lower his eyes. He aimed a hard look at Henry Tudor.
The King drew in a stiff breath. “I have no answer for you, Synclair. There is a balance that must be maintained in this country, and I will not upset it for one woman. You will have to find a way to pry her out of Biddeford’s control if you want her.”
“I want her.”
The King smiled, an arrogant curving of his lips that spoke of times when he had been just as determined to have the lady of his choice.
“Then I will look forward to hearing something amusing from the gossips for a change, for I have wagered my money on you over de Canis.”
Synclair moved through the men waiting to see the King with a stride that sent them out of his way. It was also possible that the look on his face cleared the path in front of him.
Whatever the cause, he took advantage of it, moving quickly away from the King’s receiving chambers. Henry’s confidence in him was little compared to the help that he might have granted. Synclair didn’t stop until he reached a door that led to the gardens. Snow covered the plants now, the stalks frozen beneath the white blanket. He continued to move quickly until he heard the ice crunching beneath his boots.
Fine. Henry’s help would have made things very simple, but Synclair confessed that there was part of him that would not have been truly satisfied with that sort of victory. What he craved was surrender from Justina. It was suddenly not so hard to understand what had driven Henry to break with the traditions of his ancestors in order to have Anne Boleyn.
He would have Justina, there was no other thought in his mind. He’d spent two long years dreaming of her. He drew in a deep breath, savoring the chill in the air while he forced his mind to move away from how much he yearned for Justina. What he needed was sound strategy
and the formulation of a plan.
His lips began to curl upward as he recalled exactly what Edward Seymour had promised him. Now there was something that he would not mind accomplishing or making sure that Justina enjoyed full well.
The conception of a child, yes, they would both enjoy that. He’d given his word on the matter. All that remained was to trap his vixen, so that he might spend time teaching her to trust him. His temper burned hotter as he considered the fact that Justina did not trust him. That fact stung his pride but it also made his heart ache. Most men didn’t value trust in their daughters or wives; they expected obedience and never took the time to notice that trust was far more satisfying.
He was going to have that from Justina but he did not expect it to come easily. His lips suddenly split into a grin.
What it was going to be was his pleasure to prove.
He stepped out into the yard, ignoring the grooms who might have fetched his horse for him. Let men like Biddeford stand and waste time while servants rushed to please them.
He had a plan to place in motion, and he could feel anticipation coursing through his muscles.
Action, that was what he craved, and he would have what he wanted by the sweat of his own brow.
He would have Justina for his wife.
Even if he had to take her.
CHAPTER SIX
Winter closed in tighter, trapping everyone still with the court inside the palace. Embroidery and shirt-making became the main amusements while the food was plainer and less plentiful. The river froze, stopping the barges from coming to the water gates with their loads of goods. But what made the palace even quieter was that the King was seen only briefly. He received only a few hours a day and on some days, not at all. His children, Edward, Mary, and Elizabeth, had been removed from Whitehall. The young Prince Edward was residing at Hertford with his tutors while the Princess Elizabeth lived at Enfield.
With the children gone, Whitehall became hushed, a deadly sort of silence that seemed magnified by the snow growing deeper around its stone walls every day. Tension drew everyone into its web as the privy council met behind closed doors. The Queen was careful to measure her words and actions to the point that Justina could almost not stomach being near her, as she felt such pity for her.
She understood the Queen’s situation, the trapped sensation of knowing that your husband might kill you if you displeased him or if you simply happened to be in his sights when something else set his temper ablaze.
But that was not what made Justina feel so desolate. It was the lack of feeling Synclair’s gaze upon her. She had told him to go. She reminded herself that it was best that the knight was missing from the palace, and yet she ached to see him. She had watched him for so long, every day at Amber Hill, and before that too when he had been at court with Lord Ryppon.
The man Biddeford had ordered her to take as her lover.
That had been a cruel twist of the knife. It was a wound that still ached. Curan Ryppon was not like her husband. He had been a considerate lover, but she had still dreaded each time she had gone to his bed. The reason was Synclair. She had passed the knight on her way to his lord’s bed because it was his duty to stand guard over his lord. She’d felt his eyes on her, felt guilt raining down on her because she had gone to Curan over him.
But she had not chosen ...
Her temper burned bright, chasing away the chill of the day. She had only ever wanted Synclair and now he was gone. She felt her fury building, burning away the wise reasons that kept her on Biddeford’s leash. Why did it have to cost her so much? Where was the reward for her devotion to family? The Church would condemn her for such thoughts but she could not prevent them from boiling up inside her. She was angry, so very furious at the lack of justice in her life.
Justina found herself looking toward the stables, wishing to be gone.
“Longing for a country home?”
Justina stiffened and turned to see Francis de Canis standing far too close to her for her taste. He pulled a pair of leather riding gauntlets from his hands and offered her a cocksure grin.
“Or have you missed me, sweet Lady Wincott? I will be happy to keep you from looking so longing since it appears that Baron Harrow has failed to keep you entertained.”
“I have no need for your attention.”
He laughed at her reply, a soft sound that reminded her of a cat when it played with a weak creature before killing it. Justina stared straight at him, refusing to cower before him. Heat flickered in his eyes and it turned her stomach. He had more in common with an animal than a man.
“Francis de Canis, you’re a welcome sight.”
The Viscount Biddeford waited for de Canis to give him deference. Justina watched the way the man tightened his lips before reverencing. That pride would cost the man his life someday. She might hope so, anyway, and never mind the fact that such a thought was unchristian. The man was a beast, one that needed to be put down before it killed again.
“I see you have found my ward.”
“Yes. We were just discussing how much we have in common.”
Justina stiffened but Biddeford chuckled.
“Indeed? I have always found that men and women have very little in common. Lady Wincott, attend me.”
Justina heard de Canis mutter something beneath his breath while she joined the viscount and followed him down the hallway.
“That sound coming from our friend is very reassuring.” Biddeford looked at her for a short moment. “The man is too proud by far; his blood is not blue, and I believe he forgets that.” A soft sound of amusement passed the viscount’s lips. “Besides, we cannot make it too simple for him to claim you. The man has yet to offer me anything of value.”
“We could not have that.” She wasn’t sure what prompted her to speak; she knew it was unwise and still her spirit refused to remain silent.
“No, we shall not.”
Biddeford stopped and stared at her. Displeasure flickered in his eyes but there was something else, too, something that he wanted.
“Synclair departed immediately after being received by the King.”
She knew that, thought about it far too often. “Doesn’t that please you?”
The viscount snickered. “My dear lady, my only argument against you being in his bed was the fact that I gained nothing from it. You are my whore, and I expect payment when you conduct business.”
Her cheeks colored at his blunt words. If his men found them harsh, they didn’t show it, but Justina doubted that they did. Being always with the man would surely dull the edge off any sensibilities. She knew that feeling herself, except for some reason she was now refusing to be trampled. Rebellion was growing inside her.
“I do not know where Baron Harrow has gone.” Her tone was too sharp, and it gained her a narrow look.
“I want to know if the King sent him on some personal matter. They rode together in France, and His Majesty might use that friendship to secret away some important business.”
“You are assuming that the Baron Harrow will return to court. He may have ridden for his lands to spend the winter.”
“The reports I have say the man emerged from an audience with the King looking determined and that he went directly to the stables, wasting no time at all. His men had to ride after him with his belongings.”
Could it be? Justina shifted her eyes to look out a window that was behind the viscount. Her heart filled with dread and the harsh truth that Synclair had indeed left now that he’d had her.
“When he returns, join him for the night and see what information you can gather.”
Justina jerked her attention back to the viscount only to discover that he wasn’t even looking at her. The man cared so little for what he ordered her to do that it was not even worthy of his full attention.
“But ... why would you think that he might return?”
The viscount scoffed at her. “Do not sound so despondent, my dear. The man will return; I have faith in t
hat.”
But the viscount wasn’t planning on sharing his reasons for believing that Synclair would return. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment.
“Going to him would only see Synclair pressing to have me remain with him.”
“Excellent.” Biddeford turned to look at her. He reached out and lifted her chin with a single finger. “Make sure he enjoys himself enough to come looking for me.”
She shook off his touch, and he frowned at her. She could see him contemplating how to deal with her defiance.
“The privy council is sitting today. I believe you should attend, my dear ward. My men will escort you.”
He said nothing else, but the look in his eyes sent a shiver down her back. Still, it was not enough to completely drown the courage that had seen her speaking her mind.
“If you like, I will go and listen to His Majesty’s privy council. An escort is not necessary.”
The viscount touched his fingertips together while his smile brightened.
“Oh, it does please me. I believe you will gain a new understanding of your place after hearing the cases being judged today.”
He snapped his fingers to send her on her way. Justina couldn’t quite bring herself to offer him a curtsy. The idea of it stuck in her throat, because he deserved no respect from her. The viscount was no better than a tavern owner along the waterfront. He peddled her flesh just as those men did their whores. Synclair’s proposal surfaced from her thoughts, pricking her with more fuel for her rising need to rebel.
But her son remained and his plight shackled her to Biddeford. So she made her way to where the council was sitting. But that did not mean that she would spy upon Synclair. She refused and maybe one noble deed was but a small silver penny compared to how many times she had sinned, but she would not pass one word on to the viscount.