Chapter 256: I Need Words
She gagged against him, reflexively placing her palm against his thighs. Henry lost the last civilised piece of himself.
His fingers tightened in her hair as his hips moved. He watched her even through the blur of pleasure.
Her eyes watered. Her throat worked around him. She gagged once, and the sound nearly shattered him.
"Livia," he rasped.
Her name was all the warning he had left. His head fell back, mouth open. The pleasure struck so fiercely his vision darkened at the edges. He came hard, helplessly, his cock jerking against her tongue before she pulled back just enough for him to spill across her lips, chin, and cheek in thick, warm strokes.
Henry could not breathe properly. His chest rose and fell as though he had survived battle rather than a woman’s mouth. His lips parted, dragging air in too sharply, swallowing and breathing at the same time.
Livia lifted herself from him slowly. Her hair was loose around her face. Her cheeks were flushed. There was satisfaction in her eyes, it that made his spent body stir with gratitude.
"That," he managed, voice rough, "was wicked."
Her smile widened. "Get some sleep, Henry. You leave for France in the morning."
Henry reached to the side of the bed and found the embroidered handkerchief Stephen had left there. If the man had guessed it was for this particular use, Henry would have him thrown into the Thames. "Come here," he murmured.
She obeyed, moving closer on the bed. He wiped her carefully, first her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, then her chin.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked.
Livia shook her head.
"I need words."
"No," she said softly. "You did not hurt me."
His shoulders eased, though guilt still pricked at him. "I am sorry. I could not stop. Should I ask where you learned that?"
There came a small tightening near the eyes. An absolutely unsafe topic. Henry hated himself for opening it.
"I shall not," he said quickly. His mind, naturally, went where it had no right to go.
Richard.
Of course.
Leave it to the Duke of Kingsmere to ruin what little innocence Henry might have liked to take for himself.
Henry had half a mind to leave Richard in France. A very satisfying half. He said none of it. Instead, he folded her gently against him, drawing the coverlet around them both. She came without resistance, her cheek resting against his bare chest, one hand laid over the frantic slowing beat of his heart.
Henry kissed her hair and held her closer. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all. She was his now. Unfortunately for Livia, Henry had always been very good at knowing things before other people were ready to admit them.
Her walls were crumbling. He had felt the fracture in them in the way she had come to him tonight.
When he returned from France, she would marry him. He knew that now. She would still object of course.
He would love her through every objection until she ran out of them. She would become his wife. His soul’s equal. His queen. His hope. His happiness. He reached for her breast beneath the coverlet.
Livia stirred when his palm closed over her. She gave a small laugh into his chest.
"What?" he murmured, kissing her hair again.
"You really do like bosoms."
Henry opened one eye. "Who told you that?"
"Never mind."
He squeezed gently. His thumb brushed lazily over her nipple.
"I promised you sleep," she said, her hand moved over his chest. "Sleep."
Henry closed his eyes and gave in to peace but his hand never left her breast.
*****
Lionel waited in the courtyard while the king said his goodbyes to Livia. Dawn had not yet fully broken, but Whitehall was already awake. Grooms moved through the stable yard with horses. Servants came and went carrying parcels under strict instruction from Stephen. Lionel stood apart from the bustle.
He hoped—truly hoped—that he could keep the woman alive until the king returned. After that, he was done. Lionel would beg release from sworn service.
The thought had been growing in him for days, perhaps longer. He had given his life to the Crown.
This madness was making a traitor of him. It might be better to become an outsider like everyone else.
"Lighten up, Lord Ashcroft," Stephen called from behind him. "You are not missing anything."
Stephen came to stand beside him, neat as ever despite the hour. He wore a travelling cloak.
Lionel glanced at him. "I cannot believe the king is letting you go with him."
"He thinks I am worthy," Stephen said with a small shrug.
Lionel turned his head slowly. It was a dangerous sort of slow. "I sharpened my dagger this morning, Stephen."
Stephen’s expression sobered at once. "My apologies, my lord. I forget myself sometimes."
Lionel watched the activity in the courtyard without seeing much of it. "Take care of him, will you?"
Stephen stepped closer. The jest left him entirely. "With my life." He said it as one might state the day of the week. Already decided long before anyone had thought to ask.
Lionel gave a respectful nod. For all his dry tongue and insolence, Stephen loved the king. That kind of loyalty was rare.
Stephen’s gaze shifted beyond Lionel. "Take care of her, will you?"
Lionel looked back at him. Stephen had used his own words. The little bastard. "I will not disobey my orders."
Stephen spoke quietly. "Since we all moved into Whitehall, Lord Ashcroft, you have never paid Her Grace a personal visit. You have never entered her privy apartments." He stopped there. He did not need to continue.
Lionel’s hand flexed once at his side. "You know."
"No," Stephen said. "I do not. I choose not to know," Stephen added.
This was Stephen standing before him with enough knowledge to wound and choosing, for the moment, to keep the blade sheathed.
"Did you tell His Majesty?" Lionel asked.
"No."
"Why?"
Stephen’s eyes were calm. "Because I choose to give you the benefit of the doubt."
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