Her hand was resting upon their daughter’s shoulder and he covered it with his own, both a caress and a claim. Lowering his voice to foil the eavesdropping wet-nurses, he murmured, “Where? Your chamber or mine?”
She regarded him unsmilingly, the candlelight giving her eyes a golden tint. “Mine,” she said. “Let it be mine.”
When Henry was admitted to his wife’s bedchamber, she was seated on a coffer by the hearth, having her hair brushed out. The young woman wielding the brush was one of Eleanor’s attendants from Aquitaine, a blithe spirit who had a penchant for practical jokes, flirtations, and games of chance. Taking the brush from her hand, Henry said with a smile, “It is early yet, Renee. Why don’t you go down to the great hall and break a few hearts?”
Renee’s dark eyes sought out Eleanor’s in the polished reflection of her hand mirror. When Eleanor nodded, almost imperceptibly, Renee dropped a graceful curtsy and did as Henry bade, without even a trace of her usual elan. Henry would have liked to believe her uncharacteristic reserve was due to travel fatigue, but he knew better. The members of Eleanor’s household were utterly and fiercely loyal to her. Glancing at Felice, his wife’s favorite greyhound, he almost made a dubious jest about the dog lunging for his private parts, caught himself just in time.
Eleanor’s hair flowed through his fingers like a sunless river, as dark and sensuous against his skin as a summer midnight. After he’d seen her head bared for the first time, he no longer understood why men were so taken with hair that was curly and golden. Her perfume was beguiling, an evocative, subtle fragrance that seduced with its very unfamiliarity.
“You changed your perfume?” He leaned closer, breathing in the aroma. “Abbot Bernard, God rot his sanctimonious soul, could have preached a fire and brimstone sermon after just one whiff. I think he truly believed that women were all damned as daughters of Eve, and as for you, love… well, he never doubted that you were the Devil’s handmaiden, put upon this earth for the sole purpose of tempting men into mortal sin.”
Her lip twitched at the mention of that old enemy from her past life as Queen of France. “Is that what you think I’m doing, Harry.. tempting you into sin?”
He smiled into her hair. “Well, a man can always hope…” He’d liked to joke that she could kindle a flame hotter than Greek fire, predicting the day would come when there’d be nothing left of him but a pile of ashes in their marriage bed. Unfortunately, she was still able to work the same magic. His intention had been to get the worst over with as soon as possible, do whatever he must to mend the marriage, and hope she did not mean to prolong their estrangement through the Christmas festivities. But his body was balking at that battle strategy.
He had never been a man to let lust command his brain. This surge of sudden desire was distracting enough, though, for him to reconsider his tactics. She’d never been shy about speaking her mind in the past. Would she have permitted him to brush her hair like this if she was not amenable to reconciliation tonight? Sooner rather than later? Mayhap she wanted an ugly, embittering quarrel no more than he did.
Setting the brush down, he reached over and took the mirror from her hand, tossing it carelessly into the floor rushes. “You cannot possibly know,” he said huskily, “how desirable you look. I came in here with my head crammed full of contrary, confusing thoughts, and all I can think now is how much I want you.”
She did not resist as he drew her to her feet, but rested a hand against his chest before he could take her into his arms. Her eyes were inscrutable, intent upon his face. “You sound,” she said, “as if you truly mean that.”
“You need proof?” He gave a hoarse laugh, for his mouth had gone dry. “I ache with it, Eleanor, that’s how much I want you…” And this time when he reached for her, she did not pull away.
Her golden gown was a casualty of his urgency, its lacings snapped by his impatient fingers. He had a blurred memory of rending silk on their wedding night, too, and half-expected her to tease him about that. But she said nothing, wrapping her arms around his neck as he backed her toward the bed. He recalled suddenly that he’d not bolted the door after Renee’s departure, but by then, they were sinking down into the softness of the feather mattress and he was not about to stop, not even if the chamber caught fire.
Afterward, there was a reassuring familiarity about it alclass="underline" the covers thrown off, their bodies glistening with sweat and tangled in the sheets, the floor littered with their discarded clothing. So often had they resolved quarrels in bed like this, more than he could even begin to count. He lay still for a time, waiting for his heart and pulse to slow their erratic racing. Mayhap that old fool Bernard was right after all and sex could indeed kill a man… if done right. Turning his head toward his wife, he traced the line of her cheek with a finger, not yet having enough energy to move. “Good God, woman.. ”
Her hair was half-covering her face, tousled and wild and damp with perspiration. “That is what you said on our wedding night.”
She sounded out of breath, and he rolled over, kissing the soft skin of her throat. “Did I?” he said, and when he smiled, she saw that he’d echoed the same words by chance, not because he’d remembered.
Henry wasn’t sure when he’d finally realized that she was not going to confront him about Rosamund Clifford. When he’d considered all her possible responses, that was the only one he’d not envisioned. At worst, he’d seen her flinging down her ultimatum like a gauntlet, demanding Rosamund’s immediate and permanent banishment from his life. It was all too easy to imagine her berating him for bringing Rosamund to Woodstock, raging at him for being so careless of her pride, blistering the air with her considerable command of profanity, much of which she’d learned from him. He could even envision her so angry that she’d be tempted to heave candlesticks or books at his head; she’d confided that she’d once thrown an inkwell at Louis. Or she could have gone to the other extreme: aloof, maddeningly remote, for she could outdo his mother the empress when it came to being imperial. It had never occurred to him, though, that she might choose to deal with the problem of Rosamund Clifford so simply and effectively-by not even acknowledging there was a problem.
Henry retrieved a pillow from the floor, propped it behind his head, and slid an arm around Eleanor’s shoulders, drawing her in against him. There were many reasons to be grateful that God had given him this woman, apart from the obvious ones-that she was a great heiress and a great beauty, too. She had courage and common sense, a quick wit and a passionate nature. Like him, she dreamed of empires, craved crowns for their children. But of all her virtues, the one that shone the brightest for him on this December night at Argentan was her sophistication. She was wise enough to understand that men were born to sin, and worldly enough not to let it trouble her unduly. He should have realized that Eleanor, the most celebrated queen in all of Christendom, would not be threatened by a mere slip of a girl like Rosamund Clifford.
His lashes kept flickering downward, heeding the message his body was sending his brain, that sleep would not be long denied. Stifling a yawn, he brushed a trail of soft kisses across her throat. “I have a confession, love,” he said drowsily. “The only way I’ll stay awake much longer is if you stick pins in me. But ere I doze off, I wanted to tell you that I’ve missed you this past year, am very glad that you’re back where you belong…”
“Are you?”
He had never found it easy to talk of love, for if it was present, what was the need to mention it and if it was not, why lie? It had always seemed like a needless extravagance to lavish upon a wife, telling her what she already knew. But he sensed that this was one of those times when a woman would expect no less, and so he repeated his assurances that she’d been greatly missed, adding a slightly self-conscious “I do love you, after all” as he leaned over to kiss her for the last time that night. He supposed it would not harm him to be a little less grudging with the words, and made a hazy resolution to be more forthcoming with them in the future, his last conscious thought before he drifted off to sleep.