The room was almost as large as hers, with a stone window embrasure smothered in heavy curtains and a roaring fire even on this mild May evening, but where her room was brightened by flowers and colored hangings, Henry’s was as sparse and masculine as he was himself. The wide, unruffled expanse of the bed stood before her. There was no sign of Henry.
Margery’s racing heart steadied slightly. She heard another crash from the dressing room. Shadows moved. She crept forward to the doorway.
Henry was throwing random items in the direction of a portmanteau that stood by the dresser: boots, a shaving brush and stand, a shirt. There was repressed violence in every movement he made. Fear curled in Margery’s stomach. Her nerve deserted her. This had been a mistake. She turned to creep out of the room as quietly as she had come but she was in such a hurry that she tripped over a chair.
Henry pounced on her as quickly as a hawk. His hand bit into her arm and he spun her around so that she was facing him.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
The expression in his eyes was harder than she had ever seen.
“You’re leaving,” Margery said. The desolation ripped through her, taking her by surprise. “Why?” she said. “Why are you going?”
A veil of darkness had fallen across his eyes. “It is for the best. I should never have come back.”
“No,” Margery said. “Please.” She stopped and took a deep breath. If she was not careful she would make this worse not better.
“I came to apologize,” she said. Her voice wobbled. She wanted to sound strong but she was not sure she was going to achieve it. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I know you care deeply about Templemore—”
Henry turned away. “I don’t want to talk about it. You had better go.”
“No,” Margery said. Her stubbornness was returning. “I am not going. You always turn people away, Henry. Well, I’m not going. I came to say I am sorry.”
The silence was absolute. Margery was trembling but she was not sure why. She could see tension tight as a drum in every line of Henry’s body. His jaw was tense.
“Very well,” Henry said after a moment. His tone was indifferent. “Thank you, Lady Marguerite. I accept your apology.”
Margery felt dismay crash through her. So that was that. She had not reached him. His tone and the formal use of her name told her so. His formidable defenses were back in place. She had not even made the slightest impression on them.
She went up to him and put her hands against his chest. He went very still. She could feel his heart thudding beneath her palm.
“Don’t push me away,” she said.
She thought that he was going to dismiss her again, but something flickered in his eyes. The tension between them simmered, feral and hot.
“You had better leave,” Henry said again, but this time there was a warning in his voice. His tone was rough. He took Margery’s wrists, forcing her hands back down to her sides. His gaze was on her face, intent, focused. “Go,” he said quietly.
Margery did not move.
Henry took the final step that brought their bodies into contact and then he kissed her. It felt different, as though he was perilously close to the edge of control, desperate for her, with a complicated hunger that he could neither understand nor control. Margery felt it, too. She had known only that she could not withdraw, that she could not walk away and leave him because under that self-containment and control she sensed the absolute solitariness and loneliness in his soul.
“Margery,” he said. He sounded dazed now. She knew he was searching for the words to make her go, but she knew equally intensely that she would never leave him now. This was her decision to take and for the first time she felt as though she was close to him, within touching distance of his heart, able finally to break down all the barriers he had erected against her and against the world. The love swept through her so violently that it made her shake.
She put one hand on the nape of his neck and brought his head down to hers, biting his lower lip, tentatively sliding her tongue into his mouth. She heard him give a shaken laugh against her mouth and then, suddenly, there was no more laughter, only heat and fierceness and longing that sent them spinning into another dimension entirely. It lit a wicked excitement within Margery to be able to do this to a man whose life was ruled by such powerful restraint. She alone could strike this response in him. She alone could meet his need.
Henry grabbed the cap from her curls and threw it aside. He ran his hands into her hair, holding her head still, her mouth tilted up to his, and his kiss was as greedy and demanding as a starving man. His tongue plundered her mouth. The kiss that Margery had offered up so hesitantly he took and turned into something ferocious in its need. She knew that his self-control was gone now and she was filled with wanton delight. There was no virginal hesitation in her, only a dazzling sense of urgency and sweet, seductive desire.
“You taste of sugar and cinnamon.” Henry licked the corner of her mouth and Margery’s knees weakened as she grabbed his forearms for support.
Henry tugged on the ribbons of her apron and threw it aside. He spun her around, his hands on her waist. His mouth was in the curve of her neck now, hot against her skin like a brand. She felt his fingers on the buttons of her golden evening gown. The dress ripped as his impatience got the better of him. Margery felt a rush of dismay.
“It’s my favorite—”
He laughed. His lips moved against the tender line of her throat. “My apologies. Buy another. You’re the richest heiress in the country.”
The jibe stung, and in response Margery grabbed him and kissed him angrily, feverishly. It was always like this between them, the current of desire laced with antagonism. But this time he was the master. He drew back and turned her around again. A tug of his hands, two, and she was stripped of the golden gown. Her heart missed a beat at the ruthlessness of it. She felt hot. There was a tingling between her thighs. He was still behind her. His hands cupped her breasts now. Dizzy pleasure flowered through her, dispelling all other thought.
He bit down softly on her neck, and her nipples hardened against his fingers as the exquisite shivers racked her. He was playing her body so sweetly now. It rose to the demand of his hands, his lips and his tongue as over and over he stroked and caressed; the underside of her breasts, the curve of her stomach, the flare of her hips. She was adrift, lost in pleasure, and when he laid her down on the bed she was glad of the support it gave her.
Henry kissed her again and it seemed as though her whole body was rising to his touch, begging for release, consumed. He raised himself. His mouth was at her breast and she arched, turning her head restlessly against the covers, seeking surcease. The assault on her senses was relentless. She felt his hands on her thighs, gently drawing them wider apart. There was a pillow beneath her hips now, raising her up. Her mind acknowledged the intimacy of her position, recognizing that he had exposed her completely to his gaze and to his touch. It was wildly exciting. She could not believe what was happening to her and yet there was no space left in her mind for shame or apprehension. She wanted nothing more than him.
Her thoughts fractured as she felt Henry part her, then touch the core of her. His lips grazed her softly. His tongue entered her in a hard thrust. Margery cried out in shock and climaxed at once, shaking, helpless, scorched by irresistible desire. Her body clenched violently, spinning her into a vortex of vivid pleasure.
She was gasping and still trembling with shock and reaction as Henry gathered her into his arms. He had shed his clothes now and the heat and hardness of him against her had her body tightening with demand. She reached out to him blindly, wanting to give as much as she had taken, and heard him laugh, a low, strained sound.
“Presently, sweetheart.”
He laid her back on the bed and kissed her, and she tasted herself on his tongue and almost fainted at the intimacy of it. Their kisses were deep, feverishly greedy. Margery could feel the pleasure she had taken twist and tight
en into a renewed need. The rekindling of such desire startled her. Her body felt so unfamiliar, sleek and sensual, possessed of such a driving hunger. She could feel the hunger in Henry, too. It was present in each stroke, each touch and each kiss.
His lips caressed the curve of her shoulder and dropped to her breast. At the same time, she felt his fingers within her, penetrating her, feeling her warmth and her wetness. She parted her thighs wide, shameless now in her need for him. His lips touched her exposed belly and then he slid his hands under her hips and lifted her up. She felt delirious with pleasure, her legs falling farther apart as he slid inside her.
There was pain, a short, sharp stab of it that cut through the pleasure and made her gasp. She felt Henry hesitate and withdraw a little, and she thought he might stop and suddenly she was desperate to prevent it. She scored her fingers down his back and heard him groan. He thrust into her again and the pain flowered and she felt sore and tight, too small to take him. Then, as she faltered on the edge of discomfort and misery, her body seemed to give and to stretch and the pain started to fade.
Henry lay quite still inside her and she adjusted to the sensation of being so completely filled. It was strange, but it awed her, as well. And just as she was starting to wonder what should happen next, Henry’s lips were at her breast again and the hot, wicked sensations started to flow back.
He sucked at her nipple, tugged, licked in tiny circles that made her quiver, and all the time he lay hot and hard, buried inside her until Margery’s body stretched and shimmered and tautened again. She felt the muscles of her stomach jump and jerk, and at last Henry moved within her in response. This time it was sleek and smooth with an undercurrent of friction that had her gasping in startled pleasure.
She ran her hands into Henry’s hair and pulled his mouth to hers again, opening for him. She found herself clutching greedily at each stroke of his body, chasing that elusive bliss she had felt before. She wanted more from him, deeper and harder. She was learning all the time and she was greedy for more. She had more to give, more to take. She dug her fingers into his buttocks to pull him closer inside her.
“Don’t be gentle,” she whispered. “I want it. Please.”
She felt his self-control shatter.
He shifted, lifting her up so that her hips were almost entirely clear of the bed. She was so small that he could hold her up easily and she realized faintly that she was lying across the bed, her head falling back over the edge, her hair tumbling down to brush the floor. Her mind spun. She was entirely in Henry’s hands now, her position helpless and open to him as he knelt between her thighs and plundered her body with his at each stroke.
The softness of the bedclothes rubbed against her shoulders. Her breasts jolted with each sure thrust. Her back arched. She was ravished, taken and achingly aware that she had pushed him to this extreme of possession. She had driven from his mind all thoughts of gentleness and control. She had demanded this invasion that took her body and soul.
It was astonishing, brazenly exciting; she could not comprehend how she felt, could do nothing but surrender to sensation. As Henry came to climax in hard, shuddering thrusts she felt her body grasp his tightly and she split apart into an orgasm so fierce that she cried out over and over again.
She felt Henry withdraw from her and gently lift her so that she was lying with her head on the pillow. She lay quite still as her breathing steadied. Light danced against her closed eyelids. Her mind still spun in hazy circles as her body absorbed the last sleek, sensual ripples of pleasure.
She felt stunned and exhilarated. She waited to feel shock or shame for her unvirginal eagerness, but those emotions never came. There was nothing but happiness, like a shower of light, and a deep sense of peace and rightness. She loved Henry. She had wanted to break through his cold facade and reach him, and now she had done so in the most fundamental and shattering way possible.
Everything would be different now.
She heard him move across to the washstand and splash water into a dish. Then he was beside her again, and she could feel him gently cleaning the stickiness from her thighs.
It was such an unexpected and tender thing for him to do that her throat closed with emotion. He put aside the cloth and covered her with the bedclothes. Margery rolled over onto her side, reaching for him. She wanted warmth and intimacy, wanted to cuddle him. But then he moved away from her, fumbling for his clothes. His back was to her as he slid on his breeches. The candlelight played in slabs of golden light across the muscles of his shoulders and back and gave his tousled black hair a sheen of blue. Margery felt a pang of tenderness so potent it shook her to the core. She sat up, the sheet slipping to her waist.
“Henry—”
He turned and the words died on her lips as she saw his face.
He looked as cold and remote as he had always done. More so, for there was a terrifying distance in his eyes that chilled her to her bones. She had thought that she had touched him. She had thought that everything would be different because she loved him and she had shown him her love without pretense or evasion. She had opened herself up to him wholly, hiding nothing in the honesty of their lovemaking. Her mistake had been to think that Henry felt the same in return.
He had not. She could see it in his eyes. He did not love her.
Oh, he had wanted her. She knew that. He had wanted her with an urgency that had overridden caution, care and gentleness. He had needed her. She knew that, too. She had felt it and she had fed that desperate hunger in him and had thought it would bind them closer. She had been shamelessly wanton, but her real mistake was that she had been hopelessly naive in confusing her love with Henry’s physical pleasure and thinking they were the same thing.
Horror clogged Margery’s throat. She felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. The tenderness inside her withered and fell apart, leaving nothing but emptiness. She was not sure how long she stared at him but then she grabbed her clothes, holding them protectively in front of her as she slid from the bed and backed away from him. She saw the expression in Henry’s eyes change as he realized that she was going to run away. He moved fast but this time she was quicker. As far as she was concerned all the servants in the entire house could have been lined up outside Henry’s bedroom door and she would have streaked past them all, so urgent was her need to escape.
“Margery, wait!” Henry’s tone was sharp but she ignored him. She whisked around the door, flinging her clothes on helter-skelter as she ran. She thought she heard Henry behind her and panic caught at her chest; she almost stumbled but she was not going to stop.
All she knew was that she could not talk to Henry now. She felt unprotected, with her emotions hideously exposed. Her physical nakedness was nothing in comparison. She had no defenses and she needed time to compose herself and find some way of hiding her vulnerability from Henry.
She ran to her chamber, slammed the door and turned the key in the lock. She waited, her breath loud in her own ears, straining for the sound of footsteps and the knock at the door. Nothing happened. Henry did not come. And although she had not wanted him to do so, disappointment struck Margery so sharply that she caught her breath on a sob.
The room was warm and bright, lit by a stand of candles and the comforting glow of the fire. Margery stripped off her clothes again, her hands shaking so much this time that she could barely remove them, haphazard as they were. There was a huge wave of grief building within her. She could feel the misery and the shame grow and grow inside until it was too big for her body and it threatened to consume her.
She had begun to think that she was not like her mama, that flighty, foolish, spoiled girl, but now she knew that in one matter they were both the same. They both loved men who did not love them back. In her mother’s case, it had destroyed her. Margery would never allow the same.
She scrambled into her nightgown and burrowed beneath the bedcovers, seeking the anonymity of the dark. She felt suddenly exhausted as though all the energy and life
had drained from her in the space of a moment. Her body ached in unfamiliar places. It felt a little sore but not in an uncomfortable way.
In fact, she felt knowing and pleasantly used. Her body, so much less complicated than her emotions, wanted Henry again. Until she had met him she had never suspected that her neat, practical mind could cloak such outrageously passionate desires. And just at the moment she hated that it did, that her body could betray her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Three of Swords: Heartache
HENRY STOOD BY THE WINDOW, staring out into the inky blackness of the night. The rain had gone and a slice of the view was now lit by a full moon riding high in the starry sky.
He tried to think. He found it a great deal more difficult than he had expected.
He did not recognize any of the emotions inside him, for he had shared far more than he had intended. He had shared himself, so much so that he was left feeling acutely vulnerable, shocked by his lack of restraint.
Margery…
He had followed her to her room and heard the key turn in the lock. He knew she was safe. But it was a little late for locking doors. She should have been safe with him. He should have protected her. Instead he had seduced her, thoroughly, ruthlessly, as though in the act of possession he could bind her to him forever. Why he had wanted that he did not know. It ran contrary to everything he believed in. All he knew was that from the moment he had thought Margery gone, he had been possessed with a fear that eclipsed everything else. When he had found her safe and well he had been as angry as he had been relieved, and that fierce mix of emotions had burned out all other feeling.
Emotion. He did not like it and he was not going to succumb to it or even analyze its causes. Instead, he would focus on facts and on actions.
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