by Mary Wine
Synclair did not appear put off by his lord’s gruffness. The knight boldly entered the chamber, his face a mask of fury.
“Forgive me, Lord Ryppon, but you are requested below.”
Curan stroked her belly instead, his fingers sending little ripples of delight across her bare skin. She pushed at his hand, humiliation making her squirm.
“I am occupied, Synclair. I have given you the authority to act however you see fit. Use it to deal with whatever is below.”
A soft sound came from the knight, and Bridget peeked over Curan’s shoulder at him. Something flickered in Synclair’s eyes that looked like triumph, but he canceled it quickly, his lips pressing back into a hard line. He drew in a deep breath.
“We have messengers from court arrived.”
The hand teasing her belly froze, and she felt her husband’s body tensing.
“You have been summoned to Whitehall along with Mistress Newbury.”
Her husband rolled over and tucked the sheeting across her body in one swift motion. Synclair extended a parchment that Curan sat up and snatched from his hand. The bottom was fixed with a wax seal bearing the rampant lion of the king. But what sent ice through her veins was the clear ink spelling out her maiden name. The parchment crushed inside her husband’s fist.
“Ready my men.”
Curan spoke in a deadly whisper. His eyes glittered with outrage. Synclair did not hesitate but turned almost before his lord finished giving him his instructions. Her husband cupped her chin.
“I am sorry if you love your father, Bridget, for I believe I may have to kill him.”
Curan meant his words. Bridget saw the rage burning in his eyes throughout the day. She did not get the chance to try to reason with him. His men were obedient, but it was clear that they did not care for the order to set out onto the road so soon again.
They did it nonetheless and with less argument than she might have expected. Reluctance tugged on her as well, the sight of her mare being led around to the front steps of Amber Hill making her frown. Several aches suddenly complained loudly, making her grit her teeth in order to gain the saddle. They took to the road without conversation, the expressions of the men around her grim.
Bridget felt the weight of judgment pressing down on her. She could not say that she had not been warned. Could not argue that she had not known fully what to expect if she celebrated her union with Curan.
Yet she would not have it undone.
That truth burned in her heart. She loved Curan and could not obey her father any longer. Childhood was past now, but that did not give her comfort. Along with her newfound maturity came the knowledge that she might have to protect the man she loved from ruining himself. Curan deserved that from her. Her thoughts remained dark as the road stretched out in front of them. Curan took no wagons this time, only his mounted men. They covered the distance much faster without the infantry and archers.
All that much faster to take her where she did not want to go. Curan’s face reflected a similar sentiment, but he remained firm in the saddle, intent on answering the summons from his king. Witnessing how true he was to his honor only deepened her need to protect him. Love demanded no less.
Chapter Thirteen
The road to London was easier to travel since each day was warmer now. Yet it felt twice as long because she had no desire to go there. Instead, Bridget discovered herself looking back behind them throughout the two-day journey.
The night was the worst.
Her lover was missing. Curan lay next to her, but he did not touch her as he had before. He looped a hard arm around her that was more a mark of possession than tender affection. She awoke in a surly mood from kicking about most of the night. A soft grumble from her husband confirmed that his little amount of rest in the night equaled hers.
Nonetheless it was his lack of conversation that bothered her the most. His face remained in its stern mask again. Firm purpose etched into his features.
This was one nightmare she would have liked to quickly awaken from.
Instead, the road became increasingly crowded. Carts and wagons slowed their progress. They shared their path with heavy-laden vehicles that were carrying casks and barrels and sacks of grain into London from the surrounding villages. Curan’s men rode in tight formation, their colors clearly displayed. Only border barons were allowed to approach the capital with so many mounted knights. Bridget felt the eyes of the curious on them as they headed toward Whitehall Palace.
The gate guards refused them entrance until a captain appeared. He slowly read the scroll that Curan offered him, before lifting his face to survey the mounted men. Around him, the royal guards were tense. The hair on the back of Bridget’s neck stood up, and time felt frozen.
“You may enter, Lord Ryppon.”
Curan nodded and led his men forward. Whitehall Palace was huge, covering more than two full city blocks. It was Henry Tudor’s seat of government. The yard they entered was full of nobles and plainly clothed clerks alike. Horses were led away through gates that would take the animals and the smells that accompanied them away from the main halls.
The Thames ran along the back of the palace, allowing for barges to carry ambassadors to and from the great receiving hall. A mass of people hurried about. Groups of lavishly dressed courtiers climbed the steps that led up into one of the larger buildings, while their servants followed behind them. Men wearing wool and scholars’ hats headed in another direction with their arms full of rolled parchments. Stable grooms threaded their way through the newly arrived, taking horses while attendants struggled to unstrap trunks from wagons.
Bridget had never seen so many people in one place. Dust rose from their travel-stained clothing, and she suddenly craved a bath just from smelling the mass of unwashed bodies.
Her husband did not hesitate once being admitted to the inner palace grounds. He dismounted and reached up to help her off her mare. His gaze was darting back and forth around them, never staying on any group too long. There was a tense look on his face that cautioned her to remain silent while surrounded by so many ears. He led her into one of the buildings and down what seemed like an endless series of corridors before one of his men fit a large iron key into a door and swung it open.
“Now let these men come and tell me to my face that they shall take the wife the church has blessed as mine.”
The room they entered had a long table set with wide chairs. Off to the side was a cupboard, and large windows allowed the sunlight in. Curan’s men opened the windows, allowing the early spring air into the room. A staircase in the back corner promised private sleeping chambers above them.
“You cannot say such things, my lord.”
Her husband pulled his riding gauntlets off and tossed them down onto a table before answering her. Servants were scurrying to open shutters on the floor above, and their steps echoed in the room.
“I can and have. You are my wife, Bridget.” He raised his hands. “Look about, madam, these are my private chambers, kept for my use by decree of the king. I will and shall protect our union.”
Private accommodations at court were indeed a coveted thing and a mark of how much the king thought of him, but that did not wash her fears aside. Henry Tudor had married six times; the man was known to change his mind when it came to those he favored. More than one person had lost their head for forgetting that.
“A fact that you know I treasure, but that does not change the way the country works.” She clasped her hands together tightly, forcing herself to face bitter reality. “We must prepare ourselves to be accommodating to the king’s will.”
A muscle along his jawline twitched. There was nothing else that gave away his true mood to those moving around them, but she felt it.
He blew out a hard sound. “Nor does it change the fact that I will never be content to have you shelter me. I will face down those who seek to wrong me, without hesitation. You are my wife and I shall shelter you, Bridget. No matter what it takes to imp
ress that fact on those who seek to part us.”
The man was as imposing and immovable as the moment that he had swept her away from her mother. There was part of her that could not even lament it because she loved everything about him. He was the embodiment of a noble knight—that fabled creature that so many talked about but few ever became.
Nevertheless, this love opened the door to fear. Its icy touch roamed over her, setting off all manner of horrible possibilities inside her mind. She began to notice every single sound, cringing when she heard anything that might be a knock upon the door. The chancellor’s men might be on their way with an arrest warrant in hand to take Curan to the Tower. If the man was powerful enough to seek one for the queen, what hope did they have that there would be mercy?
Curan sighed. He closed the distance between them, cupping her chin in a gentle hand. In his eyes she witnessed the turmoil that his expression and words had masked.
“Be sure that I have not come to such confidence by being foolhardy, Bridget.”
He pressed his thumb over her lips when she would have spoken. His gaze cut toward the servant lighting the candle on the table near them and then back to her eyes.
Of course …
She was foolishly naive. The servants might be paid to tell what they had heard. It had been one of the queen’s friends who had been taken to the Tower to try to gain evidence against Catherine Parr. Here, within the palace, she must recall those words her mother had tried to instill in her. But it was Marie’s words that came to mind.
“Stroke the ego of the man who thinks he owns you …”
Not Curan, but the men threatening to take her from him had large egos indeed. The king himself demanded complete obedience from his wife, and two of his past wives had lost their heads for forgetting that Henry Tudor did not share his power. The men serving in his court all followed the lead of their king. They divorced their wives and sent others into exile in the country, and there was no one to check their behavior. It was the reason her own mother had paid a courtesan to tutor her in things that no virgin should have seen. Because a woman had to know how to pretend and lull those watching her into thinking she was exactly what they wanted her to be—naught but a possession who was content in her place.
Maybe fate was trying to teach Henry Tudor a lesson by giving him two daughters and only one son. Clearly the man needed to be shown that women had more value than the ease they might offer while on their backs. She felt the eyes of the staff on her, evaluating her response to her husband’s words. Never let it be said that she was a poor student or a fool. Only a child believed that throwing a tantrum was the only way to get what you desired.
She sank into a low curtsy, ducking her chin in a perfect show of obedience to her lord and master.
“As you instruct, my lord. Forgive me for doubting your ability. Clearly I am too newly wed but will pray for the wisdom to recall that you are my provider.”
When she rose and looked back into his eyes she saw how frustrated he was with her meekness. But the grooms who were bringing in their trunks found her behavior very fitting. Approval shone from their smirks.
She detested the dishonesty but took comfort in the sight of disgust in Curan’s eyes. He had no more liking for it than she even though the servants around them found it normal and expected. Seeing the way the servants watched them made Bridget tighten her hands together as tension drew every muscle taut. There was nowhere to hide here, no privacy. Every word she spoke might be used against them, even in these private rooms.
So she must not allow her mind to wander. She looked at her husband and found his face set into the expressionless mask she had come to know so well.
She understood now. Her heart ached for him, yet admired him as well. His strength went so much deeper than she ever imagined. It was not simply the strength of his body; his mind was strong, too. Bridget hoped this combination was enough to defeat the men who were circling around the dying king.
If not, she would lose him, and she doubted she had the strength to survive such a blow.
Two more grooms entered the room with yokes across their shoulders.
“Excellent. My back is itching for a good scrubbing.” Curan pointed at a slipper tub that was stored off to one side of the room.
“My wife will show you what I like my bath to be. She’s quite good at tending to me.”
The arrogant note in his voice irritated her, in spite of how much she understood its necessity. Such a deception should not be required, and yet it was.
The grooms looked to her, and she directed her attention at the tub. Moving it in front of the fire, she watched them begin filling it. Two more young grooms entered and added their buckets of water to the tub.
“Do not be too long with the hot water.”
They ducked their chins in response, never breaking their stride. A maid brought soap and toweling to her that Bridget laid out neatly on a stool near the tub. She made the perfect picture of a wife, dutiful and meek. The grooms returned with buckets that had steam rising from them. They carefully poured them into the tub before leaving.
“Perfection.”
Curan moved across the room and sat down in a chair to present one of his feet for her to help him remove his boot.
“I have pleasant memories of your skill at bathing me.”
His eyes twinkled with amusement that she shared. It warmed her heart a bit, because not a single one of the maids moving about the chamber had any notion as to the true meaning of his words.
“I am pleased to hear you say such, my lord.”
She rolled his title just a bit and watched his lips twitch at the corners. His boot pulled free, and she set it aside to grasp the other. He angled his toe up as she stood over his leg, the toes of his foot stroking across her inner thigh. Just a playful nudge and then he pointed his foot once more so that the boot slid free when she tugged on it.
Well, one good jest deserved an answering one.
She leaned farther over than necessary to remove the boot. Her breasts plumped upward, swelling above the edge of her dress. His dark gaze centered on her cleavage instantly, and his skin flushed.
He cleared his throat and rose from the chair. She watched him lift his hands to begin disrobing, but he stopped when she reached for his buttons herself. Her hands shook slightly, but not because she noticed the maids sneaking looks at them. No, her hands trembled in response to knowing just how much she liked what was hidden beneath the wool of his clothing.
Her hands were quick and efficient, too efficient for her poise. The creamy skin of his chest was too tempting. She wanted to run her fingers through the dark mat of hair that covered the hard ridges. Instead she unhooked the waistband of his pants and drew them down his legs.
His cock was hard …
She shivered and tried to avoid looking at it while disrobing him. There was nothing meek about her feelings, but the maids were still dressing the bed in the chamber next door; she could hear them moving around the huge bed even if she could not see them.
That didn’t seem to quell the heat rising inside her, however. Passion was igniting with every garment she removed from her husband. She wanted to place a soft kiss against his collarbone and another against his neck, just as he had done to her the last moment that they lay entangled.
Bridget shook herself and turned her back on the temptation her husband’s body presented. Taking a moment to shake out his pants, she folded them neatly and heard a splash behind her. She breathed a small sigh of relief and turned back around to begin bathing him.
It was going to be pure torture to have her hands upon him.
Picking up the soap, she walked over to the tub. Curan was struggling to maintain his expectant demeanor as well. She noticed his gaze returning to her in spite of him directing it away. The flush remained on his face, and when she leaned over to begin washing his feet, his dark gaze was full of heat. She felt her face turn scarlet, but it was not in shame, instead fueled by the
growing need to have him to herself. She never looked at his feet, but washed them with her attention centered on his eyes.
“Remove your dress.”
“What?” Her voice was breathless and husky, betraying the passion licking along her insides.
One dark eyebrow lifted mockingly. “I told you to remove your dress, wife. It covers too much of you for my taste.”
Her gaze cut to the bedchamber and the maids taking far too long to dress the bed. Clearly the maids were intent on spying, but to order them to leave was to suggest that she and Curan had something to hide.
“Come now, wife. You should be used to my desire for your sweet flesh by now. I have demonstrated how much passion you evoke often enough.”
Curan raised his voice just enough to ensure that it carried into the next room, proving that he agreed with her thinking. Bridget bit into her lower lip to keep her thoughts unspoken. She moved up to his shoulders, rubbing the soap and cloth across the wide expanse of his back.
“That isn’t very kind.” She whispered her words near his ear, appearing as though she was intent on her task.
“Neither is the idea some members of this court have of trying to take you from me. If Wriothesley wants to hear what we are doing, I plan to make sure the tale is not a dull one.”
He turned his head so that their faces were a breath apart. His voice was low and edged with need. A shudder shook her, touching off a throbbing in her clitoris.
“I will also make sure those same villains hear how much you are truly my wife now.”
He reached up and grasped her, his hand cupping the back of her head and holding it still for a hard kiss. His kiss was demanding, but she met it because it was impossible to resist something she craved so much. Heat swirled through her belly, quickly and white-hot as his mouth demanded a deep taste from hers.
He chuckled a moment later, pulling his head away from hers just enough so that their eyes met.
“Out!”
His roar gained instant response; the maids scurried out of the bedchamber clearly having been listening. They inclined their heads on their way toward the door.