My bones seemed to turn to jelly beneath my skin. “That’s why I’m so dreadfully afraid. That’s why, after all the unwanted attentions at the noon meal, I knew I must escape.”
Jean perched himself on the hand-hewn table, just inches from me. “Unwanted attentions?”
I nodded, the flush in my cheeks having cooled to an eerie pale. “My cup of wine ran empty. A groomsman refilled it and whispered, Compliments of the King.” I stared into my cup as the water steeped the black leaves into what I hoped would be a strong tea. “Nobody else’s cup was refilled.”
Somewhere nearby a cricket began to sing, setting my tale of woe to music. “Then, one of the courtiers who came to my house marched in and said that His Majesty had chosen a queen and she was indeed among us, seated at the table. When I saw a brown eye peeking at me, leering really, from behind a tapestry, I knew it was His Majesty.” A tremble started in my fingers and overtook my hands. Tea sloshed onto my lap.
Jean took my cup, gently set it on the floor with his before covering both my fidgeting hands with his. They were so much softer than I remembered. “So you ran away then.”
Moisture welled in my eyes. In this moment, I wasn’t sitting helplessly in the home of His Majesty’s executioner. I was transported to the solemn quiet safety of a Catholic confessional. I drew in a breath.
“I fear it’s me. I fear His Majesty has chosen me for his next Queen. And I couldn’t stay. They promised to make the formal announcement in the morning.” A lone drop escaped my eye and slid down my lashes, dangling only a moment before falling onto Jean’s hand. I sniffled.
“I know the fear you speak of.” His thumb stroked my hands. “Which is why I must do my job well. To end that very fear. Quickly. Without pain.”
Emotion caught in my throat, and I raised my face. Jean, still stroking my hands, stared back at me with eyes like blue flames. “Thank you for taking away that bloody tremble from my hands.”
A small smile lifted his lips and chased away the ghosts of those whose lives were ended too soon. His voice emerged quiet, breathy. “Bridget, have you ever loved?”
I flexed my fingers beneath his comforting grasp and let my touch dance along his palm. “No. I’ve not, though I suppose I would have been loved had I not escaped the King this afternoon.”
“Come again?”
I shifted my weight on the seat. The bottom was tight leather lashed to the wooden frame, probably made by Jean himself. It was surprisingly comfortable. “I was lost, trying to find my way to my chambers, and found myself in a hallway with an abrupt end.”
Jean nodded. “And lit with candles, no servants, and no doors. Am I right?”
My jaw went slack. “Yes. How did you—?”
“They’re traps, rather effective. His Majesty likes to hunt, for anything. The thrill of the chase is what drives him on in his old age. Like a cat with a mouse. Once the mouse is caught—”
I followed Jean’s pointed glance up to his axe. A sheen of sweat rolled over me like an ocean wave, leaving me feeling nearly weightless.
“Nor have I.” Jean’s voice changed the conversation back to the tone of a warm confessional. Safe. Private. Words spoken here only meant for one set of ears. “Nor have I loved, I mean.”
For a moment, I was a fish out of water. My mouth calling for air that just wouldn’t come. How close had I been to death today? Closer than I cared to be.
“I had a woman once. A Welsh maiden. She claimed to love me and to want to be married. Until she found out what I did for my life’s work. Then she left.”
Jean broke our grasp and plucked up our cups. “I suppose she loved with as much sincerity, or lack thereof, as His Majesty loves anything. Aside from self-pleasure.” He drew a long sip off the top of his tea. “For with true love, you should never bear to part from it without the intent to return. Never. And certainly never execute it.”
“I agree.” I accepted my tea from Jean’s hand and swirled it, then took a sip. Strong, but not overpowering. Just right. “All must make their way in this life. I certainly don’t judge you by your station.” My words, full to bursting with unspoken meaning, hung thick in the air about us.
Jean drained his cup. He leaned slightly and reached out with those long fingers.
A horrid thought grasped my mind and threatened to choke all the romantic feelings from between us.
This hand deals death like royal men deal cards. Yet it advances.
Jean’s hand stopped short and brushed a lock of my hair with his thumb. Slowly, his soft fingers trailed from my forehead down my cheek. My eyes closed on their own and soaked up the sizzling trail they left in their wake. “And I admire you for having the courage to run away from certain death.”
I couldn’t respond. Everything inside me seemed to have turned to stone.
Jean brushed my lips with his thumb and sent my heart skipping like a flat rock across the water. My eyes sprang open and a different brand of tremble shook my fingers. I pushed myself up on wobbly knees. “Your cup is empty. Please, let me fill it.”
Nervous flutters in my stomach made my movements jumpy and odd as I accepted his cup and stepped to the hearth.
Oh Bridget, really. Do you suppose it possible to honestly fall in love with a man over one spot of tea? And of all men, the man who murders at the King’s whim? I heard my hoarse breath, coming quickly, so I fought to control it. And do you suppose he is really capable of love. And could he possibly love me?
The King’s Forest
The Home of the Headsman
I
replaced the kettle beside the fire and stood. “There now, here we go,” I started. A warm hand from behind cupped my face and trailed down my neck. My words turned to almost forgotten thoughts. A gasp escaped my lips as Jean’s long fingers circled about my throat.
His breath warmed my ear. Jean’s other hand snaked about my waist, erasing the space between us. “Bridget,” he breathed as though he were punctuating a prayer with my name.
I sucked in a shuddering breath, lost in the feel of his hands on my body. Exploring. Soothing. Perhaps a bit teasing. My eyes closed on their own as I looped my arm up and around the neck of the executioner who stole my heart. His long, ebony locks tickled my arm and turned my insides to mush.
I turned into his strong, waiting arms. Our lips met at once. Jean’s mouth worked against mine, letting loose a lifetime of unspent passion.
Never having experienced anything of the sort, my pulse raced through my body like a great steed through the hunter’s green. My lips parted against Jean’s hungry kiss as his fingers traced my face before winding into my hair. Jean wrested his fingers deep into my hair and pulled my head back slowly until my throat was fully exposed to his ravenous passions.
His name wisped from my lips as my fingers dug into his muscled back. “Jean.” Wanting ached within me, tightening unrealized muscles and sending a seductive pulse through my secret places. The thick, sweet scent of Jean’s earthen home combined with his woodsy musk left my head spinning, as though we’d been drinking sweet brandy instead of black tea.
Damp, dark locks laced his strong jaw and curled down, tickling my throat. His lightly stubbled face scratched me as he guided my lips back to his with gentle hands. My quivering fingers cupped his face. Tracing and memorizing every curve. Every crevasse. I brushed a dark curl from the thick fringe of lashes that ringed those icy azure eyes that seemed to see straight through me, straight into my very soul.
