seducing Henry merely by inflaming his imagination.
The conversation was deceptively casual; for the moment, they were both pretending to be oblivious of the undercurrents swirling between them. The questions were mainly Eleanor’s, the answers Henry’s. He explained that his father had gotten the informal surname Plantagenet because of his habit of wearing a sprig of broom or planta genesta in his cap. He confirmed that he called himself Henry Fitz Empress rather than Fitz Count or Fitz Geoffrey. While he did not elaborate upon his reasons for this break with tradition, Eleanor understood the realism of it and approved. After fourteen years of marriage to a man without a shred of practicality in his soul, she could appreciate Henry’s pragmatism as much as she did his ambition.
Petronilla had lamented the fact that Henry did not resemble his father more closely. While she’d agreed that he was attractive, he was too rough-hewn for her taste, utterly lacking Geoffrey’s flamboyant good looks and dashing sense of style. Eleanor conceded that no one would ever call Henry suave, as they did Geoffrey. Geoffrey always looked as if he’d just been visited by his tailor, whereas Henry’s clothes were of good quality but carelessly worn, as if he’d flung on the first garment at hand. Geoffrey had hair any woman might envy, bright gold and gleaming, rarely mussed. Henry’s hair was redder, unfashionably short, and usually tousled. Petronilla had remarked that he looked more like a huntsman than a highborn lord, and Eleanor tended to agree with her sister. She thought it a fine joke that the son of the Empress Maude and Geoffrey le Bel should be so down-to-earth, so indifferent to the trappings of power.
But Henry was not indifferent to the power itself, that she never doubted. As she studied him now, she was struck again by his presence. She had to keep reminding herself that he was not yet nineteen, for already he had it, that indefinable quality that would give him the mastery of other men.
He’d been in motion constantly as he talked, gesturing expressively with his hands, stretching out his legs. He wore high leather boots, not shoes, as if he’d dressed for a day’s hunting, and with sudden insight, she realized that this was indeed how he seemed to her-as a man always on the verge of action. His energy was awesome, like a fire at full blaze, and she found herself wondering what it would be like to feel all that energy between her thighs. The erotic image of the two of them entwined together in a rumpled bed startled her somewhat, for she’d not expected to be drawn so strongly to him.
“I think,” she said, “that it is time I told you why I contrived to meet you out in these rain-sodden gardens. You were right when you said it was an unlikely place for a tryst. But it is a good place to avoid eavesdroppers or onlookers, whilst not compromising me beyond repair if we are discovered together.” Her dimple flashed again, almost too quick to catch. “Rumors to the contrary, I am more careful of my reputation than certain churchmen claim.”
Henry saw no reason not to name her enemy straight out. “If we are choosing up sides, Lady Eleanor, I would rather be on yours than on Abbot Bernard’s,” he said, and this time her dimple lingered.
“It is passing strange,” she said, “the odd turns that fate takes. No sensible man would set out upon a long journey without knowing the roads to follow, and yet we all blunder through life without any maps whatsoever. I’ve puzzled you, I can see. I was remembering that long-ago suggestion of your father’s, that we consider marriage for you and my daughter Marie. Who would ever have imagined then what lay ahead? Do not ever doubt, Harry, that the Almighty has a sense of humor!”
This was the first time she’d called him Harry, and he was young enough to take pleasure in that. But he also felt a distinct letdown. Was this why she’d wanted to see him alone-to revive those scuttled marriage plans? That was such a prosaic and mundane solution to a marvelous mystery. No intrigue, merely a marital alliance. Hiding his disappointment, he said, “I am not sure I understand, Lady Eleanor. Are you offering me your daughter again?”
“No, Harry, I am offering myself.”
Henry had been shifting in his seat. But he stopped in midmotion and stared at her. So, she thought, he can sit still, after all. He scarcely seemed to be breathing, his eyes intently searching her face. She knew without being told that he was seeking to make sure she was serious, for it was becoming evident to her that there was a cool, calculating brain behind the heat of those smoke-grey eyes.
“I accept.”
“Do not be too quick to commit yourself, Harry. Do you not want me to specify what I am offering ere you say yes?”
“I assumed you were talking of divorce. But if I misread you and you are offering a liaison, the answer is still the same. I would take you,” he said huskily, “any way I could get you, even barefoot and in rags.”
“Yes,” she murmured, “but you would not marry me without Aquitaine,” and Henry began to laugh, recognizing in this worldly older woman a true kindred spirit.
“You are right,” he admitted. “I would not marry you without Aquitaine. No more than you would marry me without Normandy. Since we are being so candid, what of England? Is this marriage of ours contingent upon my first becoming king of the English?”
“No,” she said, “I’ll take you as you are, my lord duke. Your capture of the English crown is not a contingency. But I think I can safely say that it is an inevitability.”
Henry exhaled an uneven, admiring breath. “What a Queen of England you will make!” To Eleanor’s amusement, he’d already slid over on the bench so that their bodies were now touching. How quick men were to claim possession, to plant their flags! This lad would need no prompting, for certes. He’d made a very promising beginning, kissing her fingertips, her palm, and then the pulse at her wrist. Laying her hand flat against his chest, over his heart, she said reluctantly:
“I dare not take you to my bed, Harry. No one can have even a glimmering of suspicion about us, for if they do, Louis will never set me free.”
He knew she was right. He was warmed, too, by the note of genuine regret in her voice. But that still did not make it any easier to agree. “How long do you think it will take to have your marriage annulled?”
“Most likely about six months or so,” she said, and smiled when he winced and muttered an obscenity under his breath. His eagerness was sweet balm for an old wound.
When Henry had seen her in the hall, she’d always been wearing the newly fashionable wimple, a delicate white scarf which framed her face while covering her neck and hair. Today she’d reverted to the older style and wore only a gossamer veil, which left her slender throat bare and gave him his first glimpse of her long, glossy braids, adorned with gold-thread ribbons.
He should have been surprised that her hair was not blonde, for fairness was the defining measure of beauty in their world. But he was not, for he was learning that Eleanor of Aquitaine was a law unto herself in all things. At first, he thought the braids were black, but when he reached for one and entwined it around his hand, he saw it was actually a very dark brown, burnished with auburn glints. He wondered how long it would be ere he’d get to see her hair spilling across his pillow, and his fingers twitched with the urge to untie those ribbons.
“One kiss,” he said. “Surely we can risk that. We do have a plight troth to celebrate, after all.”
Even as he spoke, he was already leaning toward her, and Eleanor decided that a kiss was not an unreasonable request. She tilted her face up and he caressed her cheek with his fingers before claiming her mouth with his own. The kiss was unhurried, gentle at first, but with enough passion to make it interesting. When they drew apart, Eleanor was smiling, very pleased with herself and this youth who would soon share her dreams and her bed. They would rule an empire together, she and Harry, and she would give him all the sons a man could want, confounding Louis and Bernard and those who’d dared to judge her so harshly, to scorn her so unfairly as that greatest of all failures, a barren queen.
She was still congratulating herself on how well her plans had gone when Henry began kissing her again. Her brain warned her this was too reckless, but her body was more receptive to the message it was getting from Henry. His mouth was hot, his hands sliding up her back, under her mantle, pulling her in tight against him. She started to tell him this was dangerous, but by then he was fondling her breasts, kissing her throat, and instead of protesting, she sought a closer embrace, followed him heedlessly into the flames.
“Christ on the Cross!”
The cry was strident, sharp enough to rip them apart. Flushed and dazed, they spun around to confront a highly indignant Petronilla. “Have you both gone stark mad?” she demanded. “If you mean to put on a public display, by all means, let’s invite the entire court so everyone can watch!”
By now, Eleanor had recovered her breath and her senses. “The rain has stopped, so people will be coming out into the garden. Harry…you must go.”
Henry was shaken, too, belatedly realizing how foolish they’d been. “You are right,” he agreed hoarsely, and
