Unexpected Pleasures (11 page)

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Authors: Mary Wine

BOOK: Unexpected Pleasures
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Synclair stopped outside the Earl of Hertford's chambers and drew in a deep breath. It was not the first time he had kept his true feelings hidden, but it felt as though it had been the hardest. His temper was still hot in spite of the fact that he'd gained what he wanted from the earl. Even that promise to witness his wedding didn't cool the anger that had flashed through him while listening to the man talk about Justina as though she were a commodity to be weighed and judged. He forced another deep breath into his chest and focused his mind on the outcome of the meeting. He had the man's word and that was all he needed from the Earl of Hertford. With luck and good planning, he would be away from court with his lady and not have to suffer the arrogance of the man again.
That was what mattered and still, the urge to smash his fist into Seymour's face persisted.
 
“You took a piece of meat from me last night.”
Francis de Canis stuck true to his nature, speaking out from around the corner when Synclair made his way out of the Earl of Hertfort's private chambers. De Canis was leaning against the wall but Synclair didn't make the mistake of thinking the man was at ease. There was a subtle tension in his body that betrayed just how quickly he might strike.
“If a man isn't quick enough, he tends to go hungry.” Synclair walked out far enough to be able to face the man completely. His temper relished the idea of a fight and he didn't give a damn if de Canis saw it in his eyes.
“Missing one meal only tends to make it taste better when I finally sink my teeth into what I truly desire.” De Canis finished his thought with a smirk.
“She is sweet but you'll never know from personal experience, de Canis.”
De Canis stood up, closing the gap between them. “So says you, Harrow, but you don't have as many friends as I do in this court.”
Synclair stepped up until they were nose to nose. Every muscle strained, begging for a chance to release some of his frustration by tearing into the son of a bitch in front of him.
“I didn't need my friends to take that meat out of your hands, and I don't need anyone to keep her.”
“Yes, you do.” De Canis sneered, confidence radiating from him. He leaned closer and dropped his voice. “I'm going to have her and when I do, I promise, you will hear every sordid detail.”
C
HAPTER
F
IVE
S
ynclair found her before evening.
Justina had to bite her lip and force her happiness down at the sight of Synclair. He sent her a hard look, one that sent a tingle down her back because there was a warning in it.
But staring at her was all he might do because she was once more sitting with the Queen and her ladies. No men were allowed near them, not even old ones. The snow had trapped them all inside and the first true day of winter was passing slowly.
Of course it was mostly due to her mind dwelling on memories best left in the night that had gone. But she remained with the ladies, pretending to enjoy the reading from Chaucer's
Canterbury Tales
. Justina worked her needle in and out of a shirt for Brandon, hoping it would fit him once it was finished and sent to him.
“Lady Wincott.”
Justina looked up, almost doubting that anyone had spoken because the tone had been so soft. But the Queen's eyes were upon her.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
Catherine Parr offered her a sympathetic look before tightening her hands. “I cannot shoulder gossip. Not for anyone. You must send that knight away or go, so that he will leave.”
Justina felt her stomach tighten. All of the Queen's ladies offered her no mercy.
“As you will, Your Majesty.”
She stood up and felt Synclair's eyes move with her. Forcing her steps to be even and polished taxed her almost beyond her strength because her temper had begun to flare. He waited for her, his eyes watching her while a small, victorious grin curved his lips.
Why did the man have to be so handsome? It was grossly unfair of fate to craft him with such a face that she could not ignore him. Of course, there was more than his face that she found appealing. There were the wide shoulders she had clung to last night that drew her interest. Indeed, she found his body very difficult to dismiss from her thoughts.
“You must stop watching me.”
His lips curved even more, while one of his eyebrows rose. “If you wished to be in a position to tell me what pleases you, Justina, you should have remained in bed this morning.”
“I couldn't do that.”
His eyes darkened. “The hell you could not, woman. You stole away while it was still dark, like a thief.”
Each word was hard as stone, transmitting his displeasure perfectly. She walked out of the room the Queen was in and Synclair followed her, but he reached out and caught her arm the moment they were no longer in sight of the women.
Justina stiffened, quelling the urge to push him. She had no idea where such thoughts came from but they bubbled up from the temper blazing through her.
“I would think you would be happy to have me gone and expecting nothing from you.”
He drew in a stiff breath. “Think again, Lady, and look into my eyes to see just how far from the truth your words are.”
Justina shook her head. “It doesn't matter what either of us wants. My guardian has warned me to stay away from you, and I must obey his dictates.”
“Wed with me.”
Her eyes rounded and he used the grip on her arm to pull her down another hallway. He looked in all directions before tugging her into a small workroom.
“Are you insane? If we are discovered here, Biddeford will be very displeased with me. I must consider my son, Synclair.”
“Wed me, and I will be the boy's guardian.”
“That is not assured. Viscount Biddeford is a compatriot of Chancellor Wriothesley. If I wed without my guardian's permission, my son might remain in the man's custody.”
She shuddered, her temper dying in a sputter of longing. She reached out for the man she could not have, her hands on his chest, absorbing his strength. Just her fingertips brushed against him, but she couldn't resist the need to touch him; it was likely for the last time. Tears burned her eyes but she forbid them to fall.
“I will treasure your offer.”
“You will do more than that, Justina. You will be my wife, and you will give me children.”
She shook her head, the memory of the brew she had swallowed making her insides burn. Synclair suddenly cursed. Her eyes widened in surprise. Most men would have been pleased to know she was not planning to snare him into marriage with a child conceived through lust.
“You will cease taking anything to prevent my seed from ripening your belly.”
She shook her head, incredulous to hear him making such a demand from her.
“To what end, Synclair? We have no permission to wed. It would be selfish indeed to bring a child into this world as a bastard.”
He cupped her chin, his touch gentle. His tenderness made her shudder. “Edward will witness our marriage if your belly is round. I have his word upon the matter.”
She gasped, time freezing for a moment while her heart filled with joy. She felt it burn through her, warming her in spite of the winter chill. Synclair slid a hard arm around her body, bringing her against him in a solid embrace that completed the moment perfectly.
Yet, life was not perfect.
“That will not ensure that you will gain guardianship of Brandon. I must think of my child before myself.”
“Trust me to shelter him, Justina.”
She felt her eyes widen and her hands left his chest to cross over in front of her own. Trust? She couldn't. It was a fact that she wasn't even sure that she knew how to trust any man. There had not been one man in her life who hadn't used her. She began shaking her head, the denial rising up from inside her too thick to hide. Synclair cursed, low and deep, before he pushed her farther into the room.
“It is a good thing your father and husband are dead because I would like to crush the life out of them with my bare hands for not treating you with the respect you deserve.”
“You must not say such things. My situation is not unique. Most daughters marry to please their father and then they kneel in front of their husband. England is full of women who do what they must, not what they want.”
His hand covered her lips, gently but firmly. A warning flashed through his eyes, making her gasp. Inside him was a warrior and not the gentle one that she had somehow convinced herself he was.
“Take a long look, Justina, and witness the fact that I am not so different from yourself. I have carried out orders that I despised because they were handed down by my king, actions for which I still feel guilt.”
His voice was razor sharp and his face tight. She reached up, pulling his hand away from her mouth but she pressed a soft kiss against it.
“Then you truly must understand, Synclair. I cannot wed with you. The viscount controls my future.”
He pulled his hand out of her grasp, while a small smile appeared for a moment on his lips. She shivered because it was not a kind smile. The warrior inside him was seeking victory, and he allowed her to see it.
“What I think, Justina, is that you and I are going to dance.”
He stepped away from her, his expression becoming pensive. “But not here. When I come for you, Lady, believe me, you may expect to see me coming.”
He turned and began to cover the space to the doorway. Her lips were suddenly sorry that he had not kissed her.
“What are you talking about?” Justina couldn't help asking the question; she felt her heart accelerating while she waited to hear his reply.
He turned and smiled at her once more. She had actually begun to follow him and his keen gaze noticed it. A soft chuckle crossed his lips.
“You see, Justina? You are as drawn to me as I am to you.”
A moment later, her wish was granted. He swept her up against him, securing her to his body with a firm arm around her waist. The skirts of her gown billowed backward while his head lowered and tilted slightly so that he could capture her lips. It was a hard kiss, one that punished her for fleeing from his bed. She could feel his wounded pride in the way his mouth mastered hers, pressing against her lips until she surrendered and opened her mouth. His tongue thrust deep inside, stroking along the length of her own and sending a sensation down her back. Her heart began beating faster and her rapid breathing drew his scent deep inside her. It was suddenly not enough to be kissed by him. She reached for him, her hands stroking over the sides of his firm jaw and into his shoulder-length hair. A sense of urgency filled her, a desperation to kiss him back with every ounce of need that was boiling deep inside her belly.
But he put her away from him. A tiny sound of misery escaped her open mouth before she pressed her own hand over her lips to seal them.
Victory and determination shone in Synclair's eyes.
“I shall have you, exactly as I want you, Justina.” A warning flashed in his eyes. “And you shall be glad of it.”
“But—”
Her protest fell on an empty room. Synclair was gone before she moved her hand to allow the single word out. She shivered once and then several times more as a deep hunger nipped at her body. It was not confined to her clitoris or even her passage but far more widespread. Need bit into her along her limbs and across her breasts to the nipples that had so enjoyed his hot mouth around them last night. The skin on her neck was sensitive, clamoring for the gentle touches that had built her passion to such an unbelievable height.
It defied reasoning.
The hand she held over her lips was shaking and every bit of her flesh argued against the harsh realities of her life. There was nothing logical about her longings; there had never been a time when she could not ignore the cravings of her flesh.
Except for now.
She wanted to lie with him again, but more than just lie, she wanted to reach out and touch him until he shivered. It was shocking, but she realized that she wanted to take him. Touch him in every way that she had ever been forced to learn about when it came to pleasing a man, except that this time, she wanted to do it for nothing but the pleasure it would give him.
She wanted to be Synclair's lover.
 
Henry Tudor, King of England, Ireland, and Wales, knew how to receive those who wanted his attention, in such a manner that left no question that he ruled with absolute authority. Synclair waited on the King for half a day and knew there were men who had been listening for the chamberlain to call their names for days, sometimes weeks if the King was not in the mood to listen to their cause.
The chamberlain held a large white staff that was capped on the bottom with a brass fitting. When the man made ready to announce a name that the King would honor with an audience, he lifted the staff and struck the floor three times. The men waiting all quieted, their attention turning to the ornately carved double doors that would open to reveal the King. Henry sat on a large throne that was placed on a raised dais. There were costly Persian rugs beneath his feet and intricate tapestries hung behind his back. Every time the doors opened, trumpeters sounded off from some unseen point inside the receiving room.
“The Baron Harrow.”
The staff struck the floor and the guards opened the doors, allowing Synclair to enter the King's presence. He barely crossed the threshold before those doors were firmly shut behind him.
“So you remember the way down from the north, Synclair. Some men up there become drunk on their power and forget there is a King in England.”
Synclair offered Henry Tudor an appropriate reverence but he didn't draw it out, and that gained him a short bark of amusement from his monarch.
“At least you recall that behind closed doors I have no taste for pompous behavior.”
“I could never forget your preferences, sire.” Synclair straightened. “Or your tastes. You do have a way of expressing them to those who take the time to notice, and a wise man remembers details like those.”
“I see that you are still as boldly spoken as Lord Ryppon.”
Synclair offered his king no apology and stood firmly in place while Henry considered him from hard, glittering eyes. The King chuckled and pointed one thick finger at him.
“It's one of the reasons I approved your inheritance of title and land. I need men in the north whose loyalty I don't have to question. At least I have no trouble discovering what you are thinking.”
Henry Tudor was aging quickly. Synclair gritted his teeth while his gaze took in the changes that had befallen him. The man who had once led men across France was now too large to sit on a horse. He wasn't wearing a doublet but a garment that had wide skirting beginning at his mid-chest. The fabric allowed for his increased girth, and it was quite a large increase, too.
“My leg continues to heal, making clothing a bother at best.”
Synclair felt a prickle of worry cross him. Henry Tudor snorted at him.

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