“Pah,” the waiting woman snapped, taking a length of linen and tearing a wide strip. “Noble or farmer,’tis a bad business marryin’ a girl to a poorly old man. Walter didn’t give you sons and Henry Tudor won’t, either. The way he limps, I’d wager his stick stopped stirring a while back. Wouldn’t stop them blaming you, though. As for Master de Vere…”
“You think his, ah, stick might still work?”
“If I were half my age, I’d try it and let you know. Bet he could make a woman sing like a nightingale.”
“Gerda!” she spluttered, choking on an indrawn breath as her linen binding was secured.
“Don’t start that uppity tone with me, miss. If he hasn’t kissed you senseless already, I’ll eat my gable hood.”
Certain her whole face was ruby red, Annabelle studiously ignored the words and pulled on the hose, shirt, and tunic. Gracious. How light and airy these clothes were.
“Such freedom,” she sighed. “Oh, to be a boy.”
“If you were a boy, I doubt Master de Vere would want anything to do with you. But have a care, my chick. Do not stop for anything and, by all that is holy, do not talk to anyone.”
“I won’t,” Annabelle promised, stepping forward to give Gerda a quick, hard hug. “And thank you.”
Stepping into the blessedly empty corridor, she squared her shoulders and attempted her best male strides. Staying in character at all times would be critical. At Hampton Court, anyone might appear around a corner.
As long as it wasn’t Jane. Although the ghost of her long-dead kinswoman would be a lot less dangerous than some of the people in residence.
“You! Halt!”
Fear robbed her of breath, but somehow Annabelle managed to hurl herself into a shadowed alcove and crouch behind a wooden table. Seconds later, two pairs of booted feet paused within touching distance.
“Bloody arse,” slurred a male voice. “I’ll find that swiving swine and run him right through. Coulda sworn he ran this way.”
“He did,” agreed a second. “After dipping his wick in your rightful ink and not even having the grace to spill outside. But he won’t get far. We’ll find him and kill him. Let’s onward.”
Even after the sound of their footsteps on the stone floor faded, she still took her time leaving her hiding place. That had been far too close.
Courage, girl.
Keeping her back to the wall, she hurried along the corridor, thanking every saint imaginable that her chamber wasn’t half a castle away from Rafe’s. Yet it still seemed like hours, and her temples were dripping with perspiration when she finally, finally, reached Rafe’s allocated rooms. Much smaller than Hertford’s, but still amongst the good and great as befitting his favored position.
With a trembling hand, she reached for the door. Slowly, carefully, she pushed it open just wide enough to pass through and darted inside. A roaring fire gave the room a soft glow, and she blinked as her eyes adjusted.
How typically Rafe. Military clean, not so much as a boot out of place or live-in servant to interrupt his peace, but still the odd, luxurious touch for his own comfort. A fur on the floor, a basin of herbed water and soap, thick blankets for warmth.
He wasn’t wrapped in them.
Despair slumped her shoulders. Rafe could be anywhere. In an audience with Hertford or some other important noble. Playing cards. Drinking in a tavern. Perhaps even naked in some beautiful woman’s chamber as he’d said.
The tiniest whimper escaped and she turned back for the door.
Deep in misery, Annabelle didn’t even see the movement, but before she had time to blink, she’d been roughly tossed onto the bed, one arm twisted behind her back, while a cold steel blade pushed against the side of her throat.
“You just made the biggest mistake of your life trying to rob me, boy. Now give me one good reason why I should not slit you ear to ear and toss your body from the ramparts.”
“No, Rafe,” she choked out. “Please don’t kill me!”
Chapter Four
What the bloody hell?
Flinging his knife away, Rafe spun her around so his eyes could accept what his ears already told him.
Annabelle, pretending to be a lad. Well, she might have the clothing of a boy, but in the light of day no one would believe it, not for a moment. Her thick curls were a telltale bulk under the hood of her cloak, and that hose outlined her shapely, womanly legs in a way which was positively indecent. As for her fine wool tunic, it might be loose on her, but even someone with failing vision would notice her inadequately bound breasts.
He folded his arms lest he shake her till her teeth rattled. “Have you run half-mad? Wandering around a castle by yourself in the middle of the night? Attempting to creep into a soldier’s room? If I’d been drunk or half-asleep, I could have killed you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as you’re going to be. I should beat you to within an inch of your life for such foolishness.”
“Beat me?” With a resigned sigh, she shifted and resettled herself on the narrow bed so her perfect, rounded backside pointed straight toward him. “If you must. But please, not with a belt or cane. This hose is rather thin.”
God’s teeth.
Inhaling deeply at the reminder that many had raised a hand to her, not to mention how sexually suggestive the pose, Rafe moved back. Anything to try and restore some calmness to the situation. To resist pushing her up onto her hands and knees, tearing off the hose, and burying his rock-hard cock inside her was taking every bit of resolve he had. Resolve that was slipping away by the second.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Rolling over, she sat up and hugged her knees. “I’ve thought about my situation, and I believe I know what to do.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said, clearly gaining sufficient confidence at his now mild tone to reach out and rest a soft hand on his naked arm. “I must run away, but I need your help. I don’t care where. All I know is I can’t marry the King no matter what Hertford or Father or anyone else demands. Help me escape my fate. Please.”
His jaw dropped. Had he said half-mad? She’d crossed that bridge and now skipped through the meadow of all-reason-lost. The only problem was that she might well drag him with her. The world that had named him Butcher knew simple touches and pleading gazes held no sway over him. He received his instructions and followed them to the letter.
But the world was not Annabelle.
Willful darkness rose inside him. Again. Far stronger than before, to the point of pondering and discarding various future options based on risk and reward, just as he did on the battlefield. Except the odds in this situation were as low as possible. Stealing Annabelle from Benton-Hayes would have been difficult but at least would have held a chance of success. No one crossed Henry or Hertford and lived. One only had to see the tombs of once-mighty Boleyns, Howards, Cromwells, and Poles as proof. To do what she asked now would certainly add him to the list of those cropped at the neck.
Rafe grimaced, steeling himself against the gentle warmth of her hand seeping through his skin, the hope on her expressive face.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Bella.” He wanted to put a fist through the thick stone wall when her shoulders immediately slumped. “’Tis not even worth considering. They have so many spies, we’d be found and arrested before we even made it to the city walls.”
“Perhaps—”
“Listen. Even if we made it to the coast, what would we do? Travel to Calais? Every mercenary in a fifty-mile radius would hunt us once they heard the price for my head and your swift return. I’ve never heard such a damn fool idea.”
She flinched as though he’d backhanded her. “I understand.”
“No. No, you don’t. Traveling to London on the king’s business is relatively easy and safe. But by ourselves in wild country? On foreign soil? What if I were killed and you taken by people who didn’t know who you were? They’d take turns raping you, then slit your throat.”
“Don’t, R…Rafe,” she whispered, tears trickling down pale cheeks. “Please…”
“Damnation!” he exploded, turning away, unable to bear the utter defeat in her huge brown eyes. “I will not risk your life. Not for all the gold in the world. Ever.”
Annabelle stayed silent for the longest time, and a tiny flicker of relief lit inside him. Did she finally comprehend the mortal danger she invited with that idiotic plan?
Then her arms slid around his shoulders, darting down under the neckline of his night shirt to stroke his chest, her cheek resting against his back.
He sucked in a harsh breath. “Bella…”
“You’re right. It is a foolish, dangerous idea. But if I am to marry the King or another of my father’s choosing…share his bed each night until I am heavy with child…”
A feral hiss escaped him at the thought, but she continued, relentless now.
“…indeed, if I am to bear his sons and daughters, then I must accept that destiny. But before I do, you must grant me one boon.”
“Which is?”
“I need to know what making love feels like. To be held and touched and kissed by a man who is my choice. So…”
“So?” he choked out as her hands abruptly dropped down and rested lightly, tantalizingly, on his bare thighs.
“So in the future when I’m abed with my second husband, I can close my eyes…and pretend he’s you.”
Black fury spun him around and his mouth crashed onto hers. It was a fierce kiss, so harsh it made her whimper, but she didn’t cringe or tear away, merely opened her mouth for his plunging tongue.
“I’m mad,” Rafe eventually snarled as he devoured her slender neck. “This is treason. What if you were to conce…”
He faltered, but the image had already permanently engraved itself in his brain. Annabelle resting on a chaise in front of a roaring fire, both hands gently cupping the distended swell where their child grew. Nodding thoughtfully and asking questions while he read aloud the news from London.
“There are ways…” She gasped as he shook his head and yanked off her simple tunic, his lips finding the sensitive tops of her ample breasts not covered by the inadequate layer of linen binding. “Aren’t there? To prevent conception? I’ve heard men take such measures.”
“Where exactly did you hear that?”
A tiny smile quirked Annabelle’s pink, decidedly non-male lips. “A corridor. Is it true?”
“Might be. Yes. But—”
“Then have me, Rafe. Now.”
…
He’d stopped touching her, and the slight chill on her bare skin made her want to shiver, but she dare not move. Not when Rafe was clearly at war with himself. The words he’d said were true, to have carnal knowledge of a prospective bride of the king’s would be treason, but he still wanted her. A gulpingly large bulge tenting the fine linen of his nightshirt was ample proof of that.
“No,” he said abruptly. “I won’t have you.”
“Rafe…” she began, about ready to pummel him, but the words trailed off at the expression on his face. Not rejection. Warmth. Caring. And suddenly, a devilish wickedness.
“I’m just a poor soldier, Bella. Used to following orders. As I said, I won’t have you. But tonight if you wish to have me—tell me what you want, what you need—I’ll give it to you. Your choice.”
A thousand emotions swirled. But all she could name was temptation. Excitement. Then fear.
“I don’t know how. I mean I know how to…but you’re already…” she finished lamely, gesturing between his legs, her cheeks hot.
“Then I’ll start you off. Say ‘Rafe, remove this entirely inadequate length of linen from my deliciously perfect breasts immediately’.”
Laughter bubbled. “I cannot say that.”
“I think you can.”
Tilting her head, Annabelle stared at him. Did she dare take up this scandalous offer? Indulge herself after so many years of rigid obedience?
Before her mind had time to argue, she stood in front of him and raised her arms. “Unbind me.”
An approving grin lit up his face, then quickly disappeared as he bowed oh-so-deferentially, unfastened the length of linen around her breasts, and nudged her into a slow spin, to entirely reveal their heavy, pink-nippled fullness. Shy at his avid stare, more naked in front of a man than she’d ever been, she almost crossed her arms in front of herself.
He inclined his head. “Now what, my lady?”
“Touch me,” she said.
“Where?”
“My breasts. And k-kiss them.”
He growled low in his throat, gently pushing her hands behind her back until she arched slightly, and her breasts lifted. Then he leaned forward to circle one hardening peak with his tongue, and the deliciously pleasurable sensation made her moan out loud.
When he’d fondled and pinched her nipples under the archway it had felt wonderfully good, but nothing compared to the wet heat of his mouth. Again and again he tormented her, alternating a scraping of his teeth with a strong suckle, until both nipples were so engorged and sensitive she could scarcely bear even the lightest of pressure.
Finally he lifted his head, one eyebrow raised, although his hands continued to cup and shape her breasts, his thumbs lightly brushing her nipples in a way that made her shiver. Not to mention the impact on other parts of her body. Between her legs she pulsed and burned, the hose damp with her own moisture. Unbearably excited, she tugged down the woolen hose, her gaze never leaving his, then kicked the garment away.
Bending, she took his face in both hands and flicked his lips with her tongue until he opened his mouth and she could tangle her tongue with his. Again and again she kissed him, tracing his hard jaw, his earlobe.
“Touch me,” she whispered again, letting one hand fall to his shoulder.
“Where?”
Instead of answering, she grasped his right hand, trailing his fingers from her breast to her ribs, circling her navel until they came to rest at the top of the wet tangle of curls. Pretending to consider, teasing them both with the long pause, she eventually nudged them lower.
Rafe sucked in a harsh breath, strain lining his face. Then his thumb skated across a bundle of nerves beneath the curls so acutely sensitive that she gasped.
“What?”
“Your pleasure bud,” he said, stroking and pressing until she wanted to scream. “When touched, or kissed…”
“Kissed? There?”
Rafe’s laugh was pure sin. This time he didn’t wait to be asked, merely lowered his head, and seconds later her legs buckled. Oh, sweet heaven.
Her grip tightened on his shoulder, anything to anchor her in the storm besetting her body. He used his thumbs to part her curls and pink flesh, so there was no escaping his marauding tongue and lips as he alternated long laps of her pleasure bud with firm sucking. Frantically she tilted her hips, shifted closer, anything to ensure he continued this sweetest of tortures.
Soon, one hand dropped and nudged her thighs farther apart, allowing two thick fingers access to her soaked and wide open sheath. His initial entry made her shudder, but the resulting rhythmic friction was so intoxicating that her tight channel clamped around him, willing, pleading for something she had never experienced but could practically taste.
“Please,” she said, not even caring that she begged. “Please.”
It happened without warning, an aching, tightening explosion of white-hot ecstasy that started between her legs and surged outward, and she bit her lip fiercely to prevent a scream that would have woken every single person in the castle.
Boneless, unable to speak, Annabelle collapsed onto his lap and buried her face in his shoulder. After a long moment, she trailed her lips against his ear. “More, please.”
“My lady is most demanding.”
“My soldier has much time to make up for,” she replied, rolling to one side until she lay back on the bed, tugging him down on top of her. Squirming in renewed pleasur
e when the thick, hard length of him settled directly against her sensitized flesh. “Now, take off your shirt. And…”
“And?”
“Fill me.”
He nodded quickly and she almost giggled at the comically acute relief on his face. But, instead, she parted her thighs so he could slowly push the head of his thick erection into her body. It had been so long since Walter, she immediately felt stretched, discomfort soon giving way to pain as he inched farther and farther inside her channel.
A panting cry escaped her and Rafe paused, leaning forward to lace the fingers of one hand with his. A moment later, he buried himself all the way inside her.
“Too much,” she gasped, writhing in an attempt to flee the overwhelming fullness.
“It will ease soon. I promise.”
Surprisingly, it did. When he flexed and withdrew, the pain eased to an achy restlessness, the new movement becoming a gentle game of advance and retreat her body craved to join. Experimentally she lifted her hips, circling them to draw him farther inside.
“Is that all right?” she asked too sweetly, when his breath hissed between his teeth.
Their gazes met, and her belly fluttered at the powerful lust blazing in his eyes. “Again, Bella. Again and again. God, but you’re so tight, so hot. It’s—”
Eagerly she repeated the action, inciting him to thrust harder, deeper, until the only chamber sounds were frantic groans of pleasure and the slide and rub of their slick bodies. Soon, far sooner than before, the delicious undulations took over and she arched with the bliss, her internal muscles rippling around him.
Just in time, he withdrew from her sheath and long spurts of creamy liquid erupted from his manhood, splashing on her breasts and trickling down to pool in the dip of her belly. He fell onto the bed beside her, breathing heavily as he turned onto his side, took one hand, and kissed her knuckles.
“God help us, Bella. We’re doomed.”
Annabelle’s lips tightened at his words, one lethargic hand lifting to stroke his fur-dusted chest. Surely such perfect pleasure and the intertwining of two souls should spark a miracle, yet even now, guilt, uncertainty, and fear were settling like bricks atop her chest.
His Forbidden Lady Page 4