His Forbidden Lady

by Nicola Davidson

  “I know.”

  …

  Traitors. They were both now traitors, officially the king’s enemies.

  Running a harsh hand over his face, Rafe sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. How ironic after his many sins—killing, maiming, burning, and spying—that the act to end his life would be love.

  Retrieving his nightshirt from the floor, he tugged it swiftly over his head and walked to the bowl of herbed water to soak a linen cloth before returning to the bed. Wordlessly, and more gently than he’d ever done anything in his life, Rafe knelt and sponged the sticky residue from Annabelle’s satiny skin. No sooner had he finished than she flung herself into his lap, her arms winding about his neck like a manacle.

  “We’ll think of something. Together. I know we can.”

  “There’s nothing. No way out,” he said, at once humbled and angry at her faith in him. God’s teeth, she’d agreed they were doomed!

  And yet here he was, his arms clamped about her, one around her waist and the other tangled in her long blond curls. Abruptly she wriggled, one knee dropping to either side of him, and her hot, wet center pressed directly against him.

  “Of course there is a way,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his while her body tormented him with a slow, unbearably sensual grind. “How else are we to wed? And there is a home to purchase. A large one, with a creamery and herb garden and long winding path to the ocean. We’ll need plenty of rooms for all the children you’ll give me, a half dozen at least…”

  Craving more powerful than a spring tide surged through him, both at the heady promise of a future in her words and the sensation of damp curls and flesh teasing his reawakening cock. And she realized it, too. The way she snuggled closer, kissed his jaw, boldly reached down to stroke a soft finger along the length of his now painfully hard erection…

  “May I?”

  He almost smiled at the impudence. Clearly, conquering this vixen would be a daily effort, but he let her handle him, slide her fingers up and down his cock and caress the swollen head with her thumb, until he could bear it no longer.

  Slipping a hand between her legs, he did some caressing of his own, fingering her, readying her, ensuring her body’s musky essence flowed freely before he gripped her hips and lifted her up and onto his cock.

  “Yes, Bella,” he gritted out when she slowly sank down, struggling for breath as his thick length again stretched her tight channel.

  His eyes almost rolled to the back of his head when she closed around his cock, gripping and bathing him in sweet heat. Surely nothing in the world could feel better than this. And she was a fast learner, too, moving, circling, riding him with a fierce concentration that would have had him laughing in tender amusement except it felt too damned good. All too soon she arched, her abandoned cry of release echoing through the chamber, and seconds later he joined her, his seed gushing inside her body.

  “I’ve always loved you,” she murmured against his neck as he settled back on the bed, balancing her on his chest. “And always will. No matter what.”

  He gritted his teeth, lest the roar clawing his throat escaped. They needed a plan immediately, one that would see them safely away from the palace. If they could make it as far as London without being caught, they were halfway to freedom.

  Tucking one hand behind his head, the other around Annabelle’s shoulders, he forced his brain into action. Forget every military campaign he’d ever fought—this was far riskier, far trickier, and entailed about the worst chance of success he’d ever come across.

  A few hours later, he carefully got out of bed and dressed, tucking every available weapon onto his person. Then he leaned over and smoothed an errant curl away from Annabelle’s forehead.

  “Bella. Wake up. We have to go,” he whispered urgently.

  She sat bolt upright and rubbed her eyes. “Back to my chamber?”

  “No. Far away from here…although I’m not certain the ends of the earth will be far enough.”

  A smile like sunrise spread across her face. “We run?”

  “We run.”

  Chapter Five

  Rafe had chosen her. To risk everything for a chance at life together.

  Quickly she tossed the blankets away and scrambled out of bed, almost tumbling headfirst onto the floor in her haste to begin their escape.

  “Put these back on,” he said, helping her into the hose, tightly binding her breasts with the length of linen, and slipping the tunic over her head. Then he paused.

  “What’s wrong, Rafe?”

  “Your hair. I don’t know how to hide it. The bulk—”

  “Cut it,” she replied, perching back on the bed.

  “Are you sure?”

  “If my plait is the difference between success and failure, I don’t want it. Besides, if I’m to be a lad, I must have short hair. Cut it.”

  He nodded slowly, removed a dagger from his hip sheath, and turned her around. One swift, gentle caress of her head was the only warning before he took a fistful of curls and sliced. A swishing sound and they rested on the bed beside her. Again and again he lifted and cut, tugging her hair around his fingers to protect her neck. Soon she marveled at the new lightness, how refreshing the night air seemed on the back of her now-exposed shoulders.

  “How does that feel?”

  Annabelle smiled. “Different. Good. A fine job, my gentleman of the privy chamber.”

  “Not really, but it will do for our purposes, Bill,” he said, stroking her cheek before adjusting a black velvet flat cap until it rested low on her brow.

  “Bill?”

  “My loyal, obedient, and mute servant. Now let’s away, before the castle rises.”

  She followed him to the door. Then she pivoted and ran back to the bed, gathered up the pile of hair, and threw it onto the still-smoldering fire.

  “No point leaving evidence of my new looks.”

  “No regrets?”

  “None. It feels so light, just like wearing boy’s clothing. I may never grow my hair or put on another farthingale or kirtle again.”

  “Don’t even think about it, this is a one-off occasion. By the by, if anyone approaches, keep your head down and stay silent. We must remain on foot until we reach the river, then we’ll board a barge to London. I have friends there who’ll help with horses and supplies. Oh, and one more thing…”

  Seconds later, his mouth was hard, desperate on hers, and she wound her arms about his neck, pulling him against her so she might imprint him on her body forever.

  Eventually, reluctantly, he stepped back. “It will be worth it. I swear.”

  Inching open the door, his head turned left and right, examining the corridor. Then he gestured for her to follow him.

  The walk into Hampton Court Palace had seemed ridiculously short, but the walk out felt like it took years. Every length of tapestried corridor they tiptoed down, every servant or heavy-headed gentleman returning late to his bed they studiously ignored, set her nerves to their screaming point. However, they didn’t come across an unavoidable conversation until near the great kitchens.

  “Morning, sir! Up early, ain’t ya?” said a cheerful female voice, but Annabelle didn’t dare look up to see who it might be.

  “Mistress,” replied Rafe in a reasonably friendly tone. “We prefer to ride afore the cock crows. A pleasant way to start the morning.”

  “Ha! I’ve always thought so. Here, take a raisin bun to warm yer bellies. Hot from the oven.”

  “Much obliged, madam.”

  “Lord love him, your boy is shy. Don’t he talk?”

  “Unfortunately an illness robbed Bill of speech. But he’s gifted with horses, that’s why I keep him. Good day to you.”

  Annabelle bit greedily into the deliciously scented treat. Another positive to being a lad. She didn’t have to delicately nibble at it, and holding the bun to her mouth was a neat disguise as they strolled through the near-deserted courtyard and under the astronomical clock.

&n
bsp; “Nearly there,” Rafe muttered softly, and she actually took her first slow, even breath of the morning. “We’ll walk for a while longer and hire a barge a little farther down the river. I’d rather not get one so close to the palace.”

  She nodded, wishing she could unleash the nervous words clogging her throat or just have him hold her. But those actions were far too dangerous, especially now when the sun was beginning its ascent, and people on horseback and heavily laden carts were appearing.

  It felt like they continued for miles along a muddied, tree-lined stretch of road before Rafe veered off onto a narrow track leading down to the river.

  “There’s a small pier down here. Barges often stop for those who don’t want to pay extra for Hampton Court.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, finally lifting her head.

  “HALT IN THE NAME OF THE KING!”

  Horror froze her to the spot even as her gaze darted left and right, looking for help, as a dozen men in crimson clothing and armed with long, deadly sharp spears appeared. But there was no escape. They were surrounded.

  “Rafe de Vere, Annabelle Benton-Hayes, you are charged with high treason,” bellowed a cold, merciless voice. “Raise your hands and surrender all weapons.”

  She ignored them, leaning forward to grip Rafe’s arm. “Remember I love you. No matter what. Forever.”

  “Bella,” he breathed, reaching for her until he was brutally wrenched away.

  “Bloody scum,” shouted one of the men, backhanding Rafe across the face. But it was the stranger who suffered for his action, as he stumbled back with a dagger between the ribs.

  The scene exploded into a terrible brawl as her lover fought with a reckless savagery only capable of a truly gifted warrior—or a man with everything to lose. But one against ten was no match, and the multiple blows and cuts were weakening him.

  Her stomach churned, gray spots encroaching on her vision at the thought he might perish here on this dusty roadside. “Rafe!”

  “Shut your mouth, little bitch traitor,” a voice hissed, but Annabelle couldn’t stop a scream erupting from her throat as two sets of relentless arms began to drag her away.

  Rafe roared, fists flying, shoulders pumping, as he seemingly redoubled his efforts to fight his way free of the king’s soldiers and get to her.

  But it was to no avail. She never even saw it coming, the fierce blow that crashed into the side of her face with the force of a battering ram.

  And the world went black.

  …

  Everything about the dungeon was designed to drive a man to madness.

  The steady drip of water down the grimy stone walls. The rustling, skittering sound of unseen rats in a pile of filthy straw. The constant bite and clink of the chains securing his arms to his torso as he perched awkwardly on a wide wooden bench.

  Saints forgive him, he’d failed completely.

  Nothing would haunt him more than the sight of Annabelle’s terrified face, the sound of her screams before she’d been torn away from his grasp, knocked unconscious, and bundled onto horseback. Then the fierce shame of being dragged barefoot, bloodied, and battered behind a cart back to Hampton Court and escorted into this hellhole.

  A traitor. A man utterly forsaken by any friends he once had. And still, the worst part, knowing nothing of Annabelle’s whereabouts. Had she been locked away also? Beaten? Executed?

  Rafe coughed to clear the bitter bile from his throat. If they would just get this over with and kill him. He was not a man made for captivity and time to contemplate his sins. Or the heaven he’d briefly held and lost.

  Abruptly the door scraped open.

  “De Vere!” sneered a male voice. “Lucky bastard, you’re on to purgatory swiftly.”

  Utter relief surged through him at the sight of the armed guards, although the red-robed clergyman was a surprise. Why would a bishop be concerned with the likes of him? But there was no time for questions as he was hauled to his feet and marched from the room, through a rabbit warren of murky corridors and narrow staircases, until they came to a stop outside a wide oaken door.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” said the bishop with a thin smile. “I will escort Master de Vere from here.”

  Without a word of protest, the guards inclined their heads and left them alone.

  “Who are you?” he said hoarsely, through bone dry lips.

  The man drew out a linen cloth and small flagon from his voluminous robe and carefully began to dab the cuts on Rafe’s face. “Bishop Williams. Like you, a loyal servant of the king. But you have angered him most grievously, Master de Vere. It is only because of his past love for you that this opportunity to explain yourself and beg for mercy is offered.”

  Rafe blinked. Mercy?

  “But—”

  “No time for buts,” the bishop replied, opening the door and leading him through. “His Majesty desires to see you now.”

  It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the brightly-lit room, but his ears well recognized the glad cry of “Rafe!”

  Annabelle hurtled toward him. Hungrily he stared at her, his neck twisting as far as the heavy chains confining his arms allowed, assessing every inch of her for damage. Other than a purple bruise to her right cheek, she appeared unharmed.

  “Don’t,” he said sharply, when it looked like she might fling her arms around him. “You’ll cut yourself.”

  “Oh my love, what did they do?” she murmured, gently cupping his throbbing, gouged cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  “Enough, Annabelle,” said an ice-cold voice. Hertford stood in the corner of the room. “Bad enough you ruin the family name with your wicked, criminal behavior, but to—”

  “Lie with a man not my husband? Oh yes, my lord, I did. Several times. Even now, Rafe’s child might be growing inside me.”

  The earl’s face turned so red it looked like his head might explode.

  “Baseborn bastard,” snarled Hertford. “The king—”

  “May speak for himself,” said Henry as he limped through a curtained entrance on the other side of the medium-sized chamber, a carved walking stick scraping ominously on the stone floor. “And God’s blood, we are most displeased.”

  Rafe struggled to one knee, Annabelle sinking into a deep curtsy beside him. “Majesty, we can only beg your forgiveness for our trespasses against you.”

  “And so you should. Treason, Rafe! Treason against me, your sovereign. Was she worth it? Would you do so again?”

  Obedient words of denial slipped to the tip of his tongue and stopped. Instead, he exhaled heavily and looked Henry Tudor directly in the eye. “Yes, Majesty. To both questions.”

  Hertford spluttered. “You insolent, lowborn cur.”

  But the king held up a hand and Hertford fell silent. “The Seymour man does not understand the power of a Seymour woman. Enslaved the first time we saw her, like an angel come down to walk amongst mere mortals. The women are worth ten of the men.”

  Hardly daring to breathe, Rafe lifted his hands in supplication as far as he was able. “Indeed. I know I am lowborn. Unfit for such a precious jewel. But I would do all I have done and more for her smile. To hear my name and words of affection from her lips.”

  “Bah. So you freely admit your many crimes against us. Violence toward our soldiers. Lewd acts with Hertford’s kin, a lady promised to us, within these castle walls.”

  “Not formally promised,” Rafe began, but Henry’s frigid glare and darkening cheeks halted that argument. Instead, he lowered his head. “Yes, Majesty.”

  “Well, then. When you so readily confess, why should we spare you the executioner’s axe? Or her, for that matter?”

  Annabelle scooted forward on her knees and tumbled face-first at the king’s feet. Quickly righting herself, she stared beseechingly up at him.

  “May I speak, Sire?”

  Henry paused, taking her chin in his hand and turning it so he could study the purple bruising on her cheek, the short, wispy curls bouncing
on her shoulders. He frowned blackly. “Granted.”

  “I…beg Your Majesty, do not part us by force or…death. I have loved this man for as long as I can remember, and even though we have only been reacquainted a short while, I have known such joy, such contentment with Rafe as I never believed possible. He is my shelter when I am weary and my warmth when I am cold.”

  “Go on.”

  “And…and…you do not love me. Won’t ever love me as he does.”

  “Really, madam?” the king snapped. “You now presume to know the secrets of our heart?”

  “I know you loved my late cousin Queen Jane, God rest her blessed soul, with your entire self. I could never be anything but milk compared to fine wine. Stale bread to fragrant pie. Please, please, bestow upon us, two loyal and loving subjects, your gracious mercy and a chance for happiness and the children you yourself already have.”

  Fierce admiration surged through Rafe’s body, so much it temporarily dulled the agony of kneeling in chains.

  But would Henry Tudor relent?

  …

  The silence stretched to infinity.

  Annabelle’s knees ached from the stone floor, her chin nearly crushed in Henry’s grip, but she didn’t dare recoil or tremble until she knew his response. Her father and late husband’s rages were instant and physical, Hertford’s were like being doused with a bucket of ice water. But His Majesty was infinitely more terrifying, because she never knew which King Henry she faced—the cool-headed, logical leader, the charmingly manipulative but aging swain, or the brutally temperamental tyrant.

  Eventually, Henry coughed irritably.

  “You truly wish to marry this rough traitor in chains behind you rather than your king?”

  “I will always hold Your Majesty fondly in my heart and prayers, but it is Rafe de Vere I love body and soul and, yes, whom I very much hope to wed. He is no traitor but he is my choice.”

  “Hmmm,” the king replied, absently stroking his short beard, his dark eyes almost black. “You think and speak without logic. ’Tis a woman’s fault. And yet I believe…I believe you share more than looks with my beloved. Jane had a pure heart. Her words were often misguided, but she always spoke with loving intent. What say you, Hertford, as head of the family?”