“So it was attempted murder?”
“Contrary to some of the gossip now running rampant, it was.”
Henry was suddenly smiling. “Was she really running away from de Warenne?”
“You find that amusing?”
“Very amusing.” He laughed. “By God, I’ll wager Stephen was enraged. Thai little chit daring to defy him—how I wish I could be privy to at least one of their conversations!”
“Hmm. I imagine you would rather be privy to that little chit.”
Henry eyed his brother. “Would such temptation be delivered to me, I would never refuse. And if de Warenne gave you the slightest encouragement, you would jump into his bed as quickly, would you not, Your Majesty?”
Now it was Rufus’s turn to be furious. “Perhaps when he was a boy, but now such a man is hardly attractive. Hardly attractive,” the King repeated harshly. Yet he was lying, not just to his brother, but to himself. Unrequited lust was a dangerous thing, especially after so many years.
“Perhaps Stephen will be so grateful, he will thank you as you would like,” Henry said, striding to the door and laughing. “But I do not think so, Will. I do not think so.” With a mocking bow, Henry left.
Rufus stared after his brother, fists clenched. If Henry were not such a valuable military ally, with a host of Norman mercenaries at his beck and call, he would toss him in the dungeons and throw away the key. Sometimes he hated his brother so much that he was truly tempted to do so. But that was not relevant to his cause. So he would use his brother to the best advantage that he could, always taking care to remain one full step ahead of him. For Rufus understood his brother far better than Henry thought. The reason Henry was so furious over an alliance that hardly affected him now was that he dearly coveted England’s throne. But that, of course, would never be.
Adele Beaufort lay sprawled flat on her stomach in bed, uncovered, her arms around a pillow, clad only in a short, thin cotton chemise. She was alone in the chamber, all of the other ladies partaking of the day’s last meal. Her eyes were closed, but she was not asleep, and her breathing was irregular.
The scene from the other day with Geoffrey de Warenne replayed over and over in her mind, and each time her resolve rose anew. Never had she felt the consuming desire for anyone that she felt for him. These past few days he ignored her, pretending she did not exist, pretending that the afternoon they had shared in such utter abandon had never happened. But it had. And she would have him again, and soon. She must.
She moaned softly, low, clutching the pillow harder, her body on fire. He was here, at the Tower; even now he was downstairs, with everyone else, dining. Adele’s knee came up and pressed into the bed, her shift baring her buttocks.
Adele recalled everything he had done to her that afternoon, and everything she had done to him. She moaned softly, the fire creeping up her limbs. After such an encounter, she did not think she would ever be really satisfied by any other man.
She heard footsteps and became still. They were heavy and male and they paused outside the door of her chamber. She did not open her eyes, but the throbbing of her body increased. She imagined Geoffrey entering, running his hands over her back and clasping her buttocks in prelude to impaling her with his massive cock.
The door opened, without a knock. Adele squeezed the pillow harder, knowing he was staring at her.
Slowly he closed the door. “Who has you so hot, you little bitch?”
Adele moaned, the only response she was capable of, unable to stand the agony much longer.
He approached. “Who?” he asked, pausing at the foot of the bed. “Who has you writhing alone in your bed? Do you even need me, Adele?”
“Please,” she whispered, hating herself, hating him, fiercely.
She heard the sound of loosening fabric as he undressed.
“Please,” she whispered again, begging now.
He laughed. The pallet buckled from his weight as he knelt between her thighs, his hands roaming up them and only stopping when they had grabbed handfuls of her buttocks. Adele spasmed, gasping.
“Who has you like this?” He was getting angry, and he gripped her hard, making her cry out. “Who, dammit!”
Adele spread her legs. “Geoffrey de Warenne,” she gasped.
With a cry, he thrust into her. Adele bit her tongue to keep from screaming, instantly swept up into a violent climax. Shortly after, he followed, collapsing on top of her.
She shoved him off, leaping to her feet. In one stride she had reached her tunic and was pulling it on. She looked at the man lounging on her bed. “Get out of here!”
Roger Beaufort sat up indolently. “I locked the door.” His smile was taunting. “Is this the gratitude you show me, darling?”
“Get out,” she repeated furiously. She hated him, she always had, for it was he who had revealed to them both the depths of her immorality—a long time ago.
Beaufort rose, dressed slowly, and sauntered past her. “You will never change,” he said into her ear. “And he only toys with you—for he has virtue—something you do not even remotely understand.”
