Two Passionate Proposals (8 page)

She should go now. There were things to do
in the kitchen, tables to be laid, food to prepare. She really should go.

But her gaze lingered, caught by the beauty
of his muscular body like a butterfly in a net.

*

Henry sighed as the heat from the water
sank into his muscles, relieving the aches he’d developed under the heavy
armour. Why had he said that about providing for Eleanor? He’d meant to
reassure her, to make her feel secure and less worried about her future, but he’d
seen the way her eyes changed and knew his words served only to remind them
both of the current situation.

He leaned his head on the back of the tub.
She’d folded a towel there thoughtfully so it would be comfortable and had also
placed a table nearby so he had somewhere to put his wine. Clearly, she’d been
well trained in the art of being a good wife.

He thought about the comment she’d made
regarding her husband. Richard had been wrong; she hadn’t loved de Woodford,
and yet obviously she’d made a life for herself here and had tended her husband’s
needs. The thought of the oafish Geoffrey touching her, using her, maybe
mistreating her, made a sudden surge of anger flood through him. They’d both
suffered in their own way when their parents forced them to part, but Eleanor
had probably endured the worst deal. Although he and Maud had not been in love,
his wife’s worst sin had been disinterest in him, and she’d never been cruel to
him, or abusive.

He closed his eyes, still feeling the
gentle brush of Eleanor’s fingers tracing the scar along his ribs. He’d seen
the look on her face when he stripped off his shirt, the widening of her eyes,
the admiration. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, had just been desperate
to get into the bath and soak away the aches of the day, but when she’d traced
his scar and looked up at him, he’d seen the desire flicker in her eyes like a
candle in a draught.

For a moment, he wished he’d said
something, maybe leaned forward and kissed her, but that would have been a
mistake. She’d recently lost her husband, and even if she hadn’t loved de
Woodford, it must be a traumatic time for her. Also, giving up the castle had
clearly not been easy. The last thing she needed was the new master of the
manor to stroll in and demand his lordly rights.

Henry knew men who would have done
it—invaded the castle, put the guards who’d resisted to the sword, plundered
the castle’s riches, and taken whichever women they chose. But he was not one
of them. Still, for a moment, he fantasised about what Eleanor would have done
if he’d ridden into the castle, lifted her off the horse, and carried her
straight up to this bedchamber. Would she have screamed, cried, fought him all
the way? Or would she have looked up at him, her dark green eyes brimming with
the passion they’d felt all those years ago? Perhaps her mouth would have
opened under his; maybe her fingers would have slid through his hair, or lifted
his shirt, stroking his skin the way she had earlier, moving down to take him in
her hand…

Henry sighed. He shouldn’t let his mind
wander down that road. His body was responding to his lustful thoughts, and he
had no outlet for his desire. Hadn’t had for some time, in fact, which only
made matters worse. How was he going to cope during the evening meal, watching
Eleanor moving about the hall, her hips swaying, her breasts spilling out of
her bodice, as she leaned over to pour him wine?

Perhaps he should have found himself a
serving wench to help him out. He huffed a sigh. He didn’t want a serving
wench. He wanted Eleanor. How many times had he visualised her over the years?
In his dreams, she appeared as the slim girl he’d known in his youth, but it
wasn’t the narrow-hipped, young lass he now pictured behind his closed eyes.
Instead, he imagined the mature woman, the one whose curves had made his mouth
go dry. He wanted to pull her into his arms and crush her to him, to cover her
mouth with his and unlace her gown. He wanted her naked beneath him; he wanted
to pleasure her with his mouth and hands before taking her passionately.

Henry sighed again, glaring down at
himself. He was hard, and it wasn’t going away, not with Eleanor around. He
cast a glance across at the door; she hadn’t closed it properly, but the
passageway outside was quiet, and he’d hear his squire’s heavy boots coming up
the steps long before he appeared.

He moved his legs, and the water swirled
silkily around him, taunting him. He could imagine that’s how it would feel if
she used her mouth to arouse him, her long, blonde hair caressing his thighs,
soft on his skin. Her tongue would be warm, her mouth hot as she took him deep
inside, sucking gently until he erupted into her.

He closed his eyes. He’d rather bury
himself inside her, but as that wasn’t going to happen, his dreams would have
to do.

*

Eleanor pressed her fingers to her lips as
Henry grasped his thick shaft and began to pleasure himself. What on earth was
she doing standing there watching something so intimate, so private? She felt
ashamed and excruciatingly embarrassed…and yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away
from him.

He was so beautiful, that was the problem.
Never would she have thought to call a man that before, and he wouldn’t thank
her for it, but he
was
beautiful, breathtakingly so. His muscular arms,
glistening from the water, seemed to glow in the light of the late afternoon
sun, and moisture shimmered in the hollow of his throat as he tipped his head
back on the tub in a movement so erotic she felt herself grow damp.

His thighs, spread wide, were tanned and
muscular, and she could see where the hair on his chest trailed down below the
water line to the curls in his groin. Feeling wicked, as if she’d peeked behind
the rood screen when the priest’s back was turned, she let her gaze drift
lower, her fingers still pressed to her lips. Holy Jesus, he was magnificent.

His fingers were sure, practised. She knew
men did this, of course, and sometimes Geoffrey had helped himself along, but
that had been vastly different to what she was observing now. Watching Geoffrey
do it had been repulsive, like seeing him on the chamberpot, and she’d looked
everywhere but at him when he’d tried to get himself aroused enough to take
her.

Now, however… She could imagine this was
how it must have felt to watch Roman gladiators fighting in the arenas,
observing such a display of raw masculinity. She felt incredibly honoured at
being able to witness Henry partaking in such a secret, personal act, as if she’d
been given a gift, a hidden gem she could take away and study when times were
dark. In the future, when married to her next husband, and she needed to escape
in her mind, she would picture this moment, would treasure it forever.

His breathing came more quickly, and she
realised he was close to climaxing. She couldn’t watch him do something so
private. She was the most immoral creature in existence. She deserved to burn
in the special hell reserved for murderers and adulterers and people who
whispered in church. And yet, despite knowing all this, she still couldn’t look
away.

Henry’s face was determined, frowning,
intense. She saw the orgasm build in him slowly, like a flower opening its
petals to the sunlight, until it spread inside him, radiating through his
muscles, making him tense, making him gasp. And when he did, he breathed a
single word. “Ella . . . .”

Holy Jesus and all his saints
. He’d been thinking of her. Imagining her while he pleasured himself.

Her chest heaving, Ella backed away from
the room and ran down the stairs on light footsteps.

*

Henry blinked. For a second, he thought he’d
seen a flash of colour behind the door. He cleared his vision. He
had
seen
a flash of colour. Someone had been watching him.

He sat up abruptly, water sloshing around
him, but as he heard footsteps in the distance, he knew whoever had been
watching had already vanished down the stairs.

Ella?

He sat there for a moment, then leaned
back, his arms resting on the sides of the tub. It had been her. He knew it
instinctively.

He ran a hand through his hair, raising an
eyebrow. That, he hadn’t expected. What on earth had she thought? Had she heard
him say her name? He rolled his eyes, looking up at the ceiling, embarrassed.
How was he going to meet her gaze now?

Then he remembered the look in her eyes as
she’d touched his scar. She desired him. And she’d just watched him, and knew
he desired her too. She hadn’t been dismayed or disgusted by what she’d seen—if
she had been, she wouldn’t have stayed; she would have either stormed in and
confronted him, or walked off much sooner than she had. But she hadn’t done
either of those things.

She’d been aroused.

He looked down at his body, which was
beginning to respond again to the thought of her observing him, and glared at
his erection. “You have got to be jesting with me.” He heaved himself out of
the water, exasperated with himself, and towelled himself dry. Gradually, his
lips curved with a smile. His sweet, innocent Ella wasn’t quite as sweet and
innocent as she’d once been. Well, his stay at Woodford Castle was going to be
more interesting than he’d thought.

*

The Great Hall soon grew busy as the
Yorkist men flooded in for the evening meal. Luckily, Eleanor kept active,
ensuring the tables remained filled with dishes.

She had little time to think about what she’d
witnessed up in the bedchamber. The army had brought food with them, which
pleased her, because the men were ravenous, and the loaves of bread, wheels of
cheese, and meat and fish dishes vanished within moments of servants placing
them on the tables.

At some point, Henry rejoined his men. She
looked up to see him tucking into half a chicken, talking to Richard, as one of
the castle’s serving girls leaned over to pour some wine. Her cheeks grew hot.
Thank goodness, he had no clue she’d watched him. If he’d been aware of her
secret observation, she would have died.

As she watched, she noticed the serving
girl
accidentally
brush her breast against his arm
.
Eleanor
smiled. She supposed that happened to him often.

Even without his armour, he was an
impressive man, broad shouldered and handsome, commanding and yet honest, and
clearly, his men admired him. Any woman would consider herself blessed to have
such a husband. Her mind lingered on the image of him with head tipped back,
now imprinted behind her eyes, like the flash of sunlight on armour. And at
that moment, he chose to look over at her. Eleanor blinked, well aware of the
train of her thoughts, flustered, and surprised when he held up a hand and
beckoned her toward him.

Raising her chin, trying to imagine she
wasn’t his prisoner and didn’t have to do as she was told, she approached the
dais.

He surveyed her, his face unreadable. “Have
you eaten yet?”

“No, I have been busy.”

“Come up here and have something. You look
flushed, and I do not want to be responsible for you fainting and knocking
yourself out on one of the benches.”

She hesitated, then sighed and ascended the
steps, wondering what he would have thought if he’d realised in what way he was
responsible for her current flustered state. At Henry’s urging, the men all
moved down a chair, leaving the one next to him vacant. She slid into it,
murmuring her thanks as he passed her a plate and offered her a bowl of fruit.

She took an apple and a knife and began to
slice it. Certain she wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, she shook her head when
he offered some fish pie and vegetables.

He relaxed in his seat, sipping his wine,
watching her. She risked a quick glance at him. He looked younger now, in his
clean blue tunic and breeches, his dark hair damp, curling around his neck. The
breadth of his shoulders and the way his sleeves stretched tight on the muscles
of his arms reminded her that this man was not the youth of her dreams. She
wasn’t going to think about what she’d just seen him doing.

She
wasn’t
.

She bit into a slice of apple. “You have
grown up.”

“So have you.”

She followed his gaze, seeing the green
gown she’d changed into for dinner stretched tight across her generous bosom.
She shot him a sarcastic look. “And yet in some ways you have changed very
little.”

He grinned, and she raised her eyebrows and
gave him a reproachful glare, one of her best disapproving stares that usually
sent the cook’s young assistants scurrying off at speed. Henry, however, did
not appear daunted, and continued to study her with interest.

Eleanor forced herself to meet his stare
openly. His eyes, previously so dark, now appeared the same bright blue as his
tunic, the colour she remembered from her youth. Without warning, her thoughts
transported her back to that moment by the lake, where he’d declared his love
for her before capturing her mouth in a kiss. His gaze rested on her lips, and
she wondered whether he was thinking the same thing. Had he missed her? Had he
thought of her at all over the years?

He met her gaze, then turned and took a
deep draught of his wine. She glanced at the apple on her plate and pushed it
away. He was not the same person. She must stop thinking about him as if he
was.