His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

"Then why do you hesitate?" she asked, looking up at him with hopeful eyes.

"Because this is not simple. The kingdom needs this treaty but..."

Madeleine reached for the loosened strings of her gown.

His eyes narrowed. "Princess."

"Let me show you that you are not merely doing this for the kingdom."

The last of the fabric loosened. Her gown slipped from her shoulders and pooled around her feet in a soft whisper of silk.

Henry went utterly still. Madeleine stood before him, proud despite the wildness of her heartbeat.

"Let me show you what it is to be with a French princess."

Henry’s eyes moved over her slowly. Top to bottom. Madeleine was objectively stunning. Her curves were generous, her skin luminous.

It wasn’t long ago that he’d prayed that the French Princess would be enough to stir his loins when she finally arrived.

"Or is it true?" Madeleine moved closer, closing the distance between them. "What they say at court. Has his highness," she continued, her eyes holding his, "truly stopped functioning?" Her fingers found his chest — trailing downward, tracing the lines of him — and she pressed her lips against his skin, moving across his collarbone, his sternum, the curve of his shoulder.

"Touch me, my lord."

Henry looked down at her. She took his hand — he let her and guided it between her thighs. She was already wanting, already prepared, and she moved his fingers against her with a low, satisfied hum.

"Please, your highness. I yearn for you." She moved his fingers in a slow rhythm and watched his face for the response she expected.

Henry kissed her. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers. She kissed him back immediately and thoroughly, one hand sliding up into his hair.

Maybe, he thought, somewhere beneath the kissing and the warmth and the considerable effort Madeleine was investing in the situation.

Maybe this would help.

Help him forget. Just for tonight. Just forget. Henry took control. His tongue found hers and pushed the kiss deeper, one hand coming up to grip her jaw — tilting her head back, taking what he wanted while his fingers drove inside her without preamble.

Madeleine gasped into his mouth. Whatever Henry lacked in enthusiasm he apparently compensated for in competence, and his fingers moved with the authority of a man who had not forgotten how any of this worked. She moaned against his lips, her hips rolling forward to meet his hand.

Henry kissed her harder. The alternative was thinking, and thinking was the one thing he absolutely could not afford right now. He picked her up and laid her down on the bed.

She is to be your queen, he told himself. Act accordingly.

His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, the full curves of her breasts. Madeleine arched into him with encouraging sounds. He moved between her thighs.

She was warm and willing and wanted him — genuinely wanted him, he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t see that.

He pulled his pants down and pushed inside her with an exhale. Madeleine’s head fell back, ignoring the pain. Henry began to move. He was good at this. He’d always been good at this. His body knew the mechanics of making a woman moan and he gave her the rhythm, the pressure, drawing genuine pleasure from her in waves.

She cried out beneath him. Henry pressed his lips to her neck and closed his eyes. And saw, immediately and uninvited, dark eyes looking up at him, eyes he didn’t realise he’d memorised.

He opened his eyes, drove deeper.

Madeleine moaned. "Your highness."

He stayed present through sheer force of will, moving over the woman who would be his queen, drowning his yearning for another in the one he was supposed to want.

*****

The day the message came that Lady Bella had returned to the palace, Richard was the one who received it.

His heart immediately started doing mad, inconvenient things. It leapt, dropped, kicked, then tried to crawl out of his chest. He stood in the entrance hall with the note in one hand and the small purse of coins in the other, staring at the seal.

Whitehall. Lady Bella had returned to Whitehall. Which meant Diana would soon be summoned there.

Which meant Henry would be breathing the same air as her. Richard’s jaw tightened. He had been irritable since he learned about this Whitehall business. Short with the steward, sharp with a footman, complained about his meals. Thank God Diana had been too buried in her books to notice.

It was as if she was hell-bent on finishing the entire stack in only a matter of days. She read while eating. Read while walking. Read with her hair loose, shoes kicked off, one book open on her lap and another waiting beside her. Richard had begun to resent parchment in a way no reasonable man should. The books got her smiles, her sighs, her full attention.

He carried the note and the coins to her room himself. When he reached her door, he knocked once, then opened it.

She was on the bed, surrounded by books. A volume lay open on her stomach. Another rested near her elbow. Two more sat half-buried in the blankets. Her hair spilled over the pillows, and her face was soft with contentment.

Richard leaned against the doorframe. "Hello. Are you still alive, or have you finally become bones in that bed?"

Livia looked up and chuckled. "It’s just been so long since I had so many books around me."

"I’m beginning to get jealous of parchment."

Livia smiled from where she lay. "Awww... did I forget to feed you? Woof woof..." She barked from the bed.

"That’s not what a puppy sounds like," Richard argued.

"You would know. You’re the puppy." She looked far too pleased with herself.

He crossed the room and sat beside her on the bed, careful not to crush the open book near her knee. "Here," he said, handing her the note and the purse of coins. "Your first payment. And a message that says you have to be ready to head to Whitehall tomorrow afternoon."

(100 power stones! We are improving. Can we make 200 before the end of the week?)