“I would die for you,” he replies.
“For me? Or for the goddess Medren?”
He laughs. “It is the same to me.”
There is little more than a breath between their bodies. The topmost buttons of his doublet are undone, so that she can spy his chest beneath. An old scar runs across the skin. She traces it, and his smile widens.
“What happened?” she asks.
He shrugs. “That dragon we used for sport.”
She remembers, then, the way he lashed the creature to bend it to his will, and the care he took over her when Henry injured her. She knows, better than anyone, that a person can hold many facets within them. A hall of many mirrors. What she does not know is which facet is the true Culpepper.
Tentatively, he places his hands on her waist. She could almost feel safe with him. She should feel safe with him. He wants to help. Hepulls her closer. The hardness beneath his hose ignites something she had thought dormant.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he murmurs, before pressing his mouth against hers.
Her mouth opens automatically. His tongue meets hers, and he sighs very softly, as if he has imagined this moment for so long. He backs her up against a chest, his hands stroking her arms, twining in her hair.
He is a very, very good kisser. His touch speaks of attentiveness and respect. Yet she is frozen still. She suddenly imagines herself a doll being played with. But dolls do not have voices. They do not move themselves or say yes or no.
All this time, she has thought this his test. A test she set for him. But it never was. It was a test she set for herself.
She presses a hand to his chest, stopping the kiss.
“Kneel,” she says, her voice husky.
His mouth goes thin, but then he drops to his knees before her.
She thinks of the way she has explored her own body of late, and leans back against the chest, pulling up her skirts.
“Here,” she says, guiding his touch to the point of exquisite pleasure. As soon as she moves her hand from his, he goes faster, harder. Too hard.
“Gently,” she says, closing her eyes, trying to lose herself.
“I know,” he says, easing only a little. It is still too much.
The freeze is seeping up her body once more, like mould. She shifts, moving his hand away, and drops her gown.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
“Kiss me,” she says.
He does so, then grabs for her again. “Let me bring you to a finish,” he murmurs against her lips. She stops his roving hand. “Not now. Tonight,” she says. That satisfies him.
Suddenly, he is all upright, all command, all gloating smile.
“I have never seen your bedchamber.” And he makes for the door to her most private room, as if it belongs to him.
“What do you gain?” she blurts out.
He turns, his hand resting on the door to her room.
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you really helping me? Why are you so quick to commit treason?”
He shrugs, that smile still there. “Because yours is the true cause. It’s just the right thing to do.”
