She reached for the stack, running her finger over frayed edges and even a few places where the parchment had cracked because it had been opened and closed so many times. They looked a decade old instead of merely three years. Her eyes filled with tears, for no man faked such longing. It was the sort of thing that words alone might never convey. Right there in the ragged edges was proof that his heart longed for her.

“I learned to love you through those letters, Bridget.”

“But you rarely wrote me back … Love me? You cannot mean such a thing. We are still strangers … having spent little time in one another’s company …”

He took the stack, and his face transformed into an expression of pure enjoyment, his fingers cradling the letters in a loving manner. This tenderness touched her because there were no words to describe it; only the sight was powerful enough to impart just how much he truly did value her letters.

“I marched my army into Scotland after you. That is my way of showing devotion.” He sighed. “It is a truth that I feared you would find my attempts at wooing you lacking. I am a man of action, not rhyming couplets. Yet the thought of buying verse from some poet to send to you made me jealous. I wrote each letter with my own hand. That was the best I could do.”

Many a noble knight paid for some other man to write his love letters. She realized instantly that she would far rather read the few, short ones he had sent her than any polished one bought like a beet in the market. The very fact that he had penned his letters himself sent tenderness through her. If she were naught but a mare to breed his children upon, he would have paid the poet and never considered the matter again.

“Action is not your only way of showing devotion.” She reached out and stroked the top of the letter bundle. Her heart was suddenly filled with joy. It sent her lips up into a broad smile. Love … she had so feared it and yet she had discovered that it felt wonderful.

“You prove it in many other ways, Curan.”

Too many wonderful ways to deny. The chamber suddenly became a place of comfort and solace. A place she did not want to leave no matter what judgment was cast onto her name.

“I promise that I will never willingly leave you again, husband.”

His face became serious, his keen stare cutting into hers, but she stood steady, without flinching, for she had never been more sincere.

“I swear it, Curan.”

He sat the bundle down and swept her off her feet a moment later, cradling her against his chest, his arms threatening to crush her with the amount of strength he used.

“I still want to keep you nude and locked in my chamber. But as a reward.”

He settled her in the bed once more, and she pressed her lower lip out in a pout.

“You seem to not understand how to respond to the gift of my promise to you. Locking me up is not a reward, my lord.” He pressed her back, clamping his hands around her wrists and stretching her arms above her head while his body settled on top of hers.

“And you, sweet Bridget, seem to not understand that I intend to be locked in here with you. With nothing to do save show you how very devoted I can be.”

“Ah …” She purred softly and gained a soft growl from him. “Now that is an altogether different proposal.”

His eyebrow arched. “One that you are interested in entertaining, perhaps?”

“If you promise to be entertaining, I am definitely interested.”


Someone pounded on the chamber door at dawn.

“Begone!”

Bridget smothered a giggle because her husband sounded gruff, but there was a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. He shot a glare at the door and pulled the bedding up around them to cover their bare bodies. His cock was hard against her thigh, and she raised her knee so that her leg brushed along it.

“I could become used to awakening at first light if you are in this bed with me, wife.”

He nuzzled against her, his lips pressing a warm kiss against her throat. He captured one breast and gently thumbed the nipple until it hardened. The pounding began once more.

“I said, begone!” He roared loud enough to wake the stable grooms.

The door opened in spite of his order, and a male voice clearing his throat caused her husband’s grip to flex against her breast. He muttered something against her neck before turning over to face his man. He yanked the bedding up to his shoulders so that she was covered.

“My apologies, my lord, yet I must speak with you.”

“Nay, you do not.” Curan rolled over, giving his back to Synclair. He trapped her leg so that she could not toy with him any further, but his hand returned to cup her breast and toy with the nipple again. Little waves of enjoyment began to ripple down her body, and her face heated to know that Synclair knew what his lord was about.

“We are observing the French custom of a honeymoon. Tell someone to bring us some honey mead on your way out, and tell everyone to leave us behind a closed door for the rest of the month.”

Synclair did not appear put off by his lord’s gruffness. The knight boldly entered the chamber, his face a mask of fury.

“Forgive me, Lord Ryppon, but you are requested below.”

Curan stroked her belly instead, his fingers sending little ripples of delight across her bare skin. She pushed at his hand, humiliation making her squirm.

“I am occupied, Synclair. I have given you the authority to act however you see fit. Use it to deal with whatever is below.”

A soft sound came from the knight, and Bridget peeked over Curan’s shoulder at him. Something flickered in Synclair’s eyes that looked like triumph, but he canceled it quickly, his lips pressing back into a hard line. He drew in a deep breath.

“We have messengers from court arrived.”

The hand teasing her belly froze, and she felt her husband’s body tensing.

“You have been summoned to Whitehall along with Mistress Newbury.”

Her husband rolled over and tucked the sheeting across her body in one swift motion. Synclair extended a parchment that Curan sat up and snatched from his hand. The bottom was fixed with a wax seal bearing the rampant lion of the king. But what sent ice through her veins was the clear ink spelling out her maiden name. The parchment crushed inside her husband’s fist.

“Ready my men.”

Curan spoke in a deadly whisper. His eyes glittered with outrage. Synclair did not hesitate but turned almost before his lord finished giving him his instructions. Her husband cupped her chin.

“I am sorry if you love your father, Bridget, for I believe I may have to kill him.”


Curan meant his words. Bridget saw the rage burning in his eyes throughout the day. She did not get the chance to try to reason with him. His men were obedient, but it was clear that they did not care for the order to set out onto the road so soon again.

They did it nonetheless and with less argument than she might have expected. Reluctance tugged on her as well, the sight of her mare being led around to the front steps of Amber Hill making her frown. Several aches suddenly complained loudly, making her grit her teeth in order to gain the saddle. They took to the road without conversation, the expressions of the men around her grim.

Bridget felt the weight of judgment pressing down on her. She could not say that she had not been warned. Could not argue that she had not known fully what to expect if she celebrated her union with Curan.

Yet she would not have it undone.

That truth burned in her heart. She loved Curan and could not obey her father any longer. Childhood was past now, but that did not give her comfort. Along with her newfound maturity came the knowledge that she might have to protect the man she loved from ruining himself. Curan deserved that from her. Her thoughts remained dark as the road stretched out in front of them. Curan took no wagons this time, only his mounted men. They covered the distance much faster without the infantry and archers.

All that much faster to take her where she did not want to go. Curan’s face reflected a similar sentiment, but he remained firm in the saddle, intent on answering the summons from his king. Witnessing how true he was to his honor only deepened her need to protect him. Love demanded no less.


Chapter Thirteen




The road to London was easier to travel since each day was warmer now. Yet it felt twice as long because she had no desire to go there. Instead, Bridget discovered herself looking back behind them throughout the two-day journey.

The night was the worst.

Her lover was missing. Curan lay next to her, but he did not touch her as he had before. He looped a hard arm around her that was more a mark of possession than tender affection. She awoke in a surly mood from kicking about most of the night. A soft grumble from her husband confirmed that his little amount of rest in the night equaled hers.

Nonetheless it was his lack of conversation that bothered her the most. His face remained in its stern mask again. Firm purpose etched into his features.

This was one nightmare she would have liked to quickly awaken from.

Instead, the road became increasingly crowded. Carts and wagons slowed their progress. They shared their path with heavy-laden vehicles that were carrying casks and barrels and sacks of grain into London from the surrounding villages. Curan’s men rode in tight formation, their colors clearly displayed. Only border barons were allowed to approach the capital with so many mounted knights. Bridget felt the eyes of the curious on them as they headed toward Whitehall Palace.

The gate guards refused them entrance until a captain appeared. He slowly read the scroll that Curan offered him, before lifting his face to survey the mounted men. Around him, the royal guards were tense. The hair on the back of Bridget’s neck stood up, and time felt frozen.

“You may enter, Lord Ryppon.”

Curan nodded and led his men forward. Whitehall Palace was huge, covering more than two full city blocks. It was Henry Tudor’s seat of government. The yard they entered was full of nobles and plainly clothed clerks alike. Horses were led away through gates that would take the animals and the smells that accompanied them away from the main halls.

The Thames ran along the back of the palace, allowing for barges to carry ambassadors to and from the great receiving hall. A mass of people hurried about. Groups of lavishly dressed courtiers climbed the steps that led up into one of the larger buildings, while their servants followed behind them. Men wearing wool and scholars’ hats headed in another direction with their arms full of rolled parchments. Stable grooms threaded their way through the newly arrived, taking horses while attendants struggled to unstrap trunks from wagons.

Bridget had never seen so many people in one place. Dust rose from their travel-stained clothing, and she suddenly craved a bath just from smelling the mass of unwashed bodies.

Her husband did not hesitate once being admitted to the inner palace grounds. He dismounted and reached up to help her off her mare. His gaze was darting back and forth around them, never staying on any group too long. There was a tense look on his face that cautioned her to remain silent while surrounded by so many ears. He led her into one of the buildings and down what seemed like an endless series of corridors before one of his men fit a large iron key into a door and swung it open.

“Now let these men come and tell me to my face that they shall take the wife the church has blessed as mine.”

The room they entered had a long table set with wide chairs. Off to the side was a cupboard, and large windows allowed the sunlight in. Curan’s men opened the windows, allowing the early spring air into the room. A staircase in the back corner promised private sleeping chambers above them.

“You cannot say such things, my lord.”

Her husband pulled his riding gauntlets off and tossed them down onto a table before answering her. Servants were scurrying to open shutters on the floor above, and their steps echoed in the room.

“I can and have. You are my wife, Bridget.” He raised his hands. “Look about, madam, these are my private chambers, kept for my use by decree of the king. I will and shall protect our union.”

Private accommodations at court were indeed a coveted thing and a mark of how much the king thought of him, but that did not wash her fears aside. Henry Tudor had married six times; the man was known to change his mind when it came to those he favored. More than one person had lost their head for forgetting that.