“Or maybe Fagin,” Trevor says. “Two.”
I believe her. I believe every fucking word she says. If I don’t comply, she’ll hurt Fagin and Nico out of irredeemable spite.
“Last chance.”
Hoarse. Drained. Defeated. I whisper the words. “I’m powerless. There’s nothing I can do.”
Without warning, the lever of the bathroom door turns down, and I don’t have the energy to hide as it swings open leaving me face-to-face with a dumbfounded King Henry the Eighth.
Chapter 19
The shock on King Henry’s face tells me that finding a young woman hiding in his bathroom is not an everyday occurrence. For a moment, we’re both immobilized, blinking at each other like idiots.
The king glances over his shoulder, but he doesn’t call out for Wiltshire or any of his guards. He looks around the stool, then back at me. “Mademoiselle?” he says, extending a tentative hand. I must look a fright because he moves like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Are you well?”
“Wh-what?”
“You look unwell.”
It takes every ounce of energy I have to rise to my feet. I wobble, reel backward on my heels. The king rushes forward and grabs my elbows. He leads to the bedroom and settles me on a low stool.
Kneeling beside me, he asks, “Why are you here, child?”
“Tell him you had a fight with your mother,” Nico says, realizing my brain is still rebounding from Trevor’s blows. “Tell him you had to get away from the crowd.”
I inhale deeply, and let out a slow breath, focusing on the king’s eyes. They’re soft and concerned. His strong hand encloses my small one in a firm grasp.
Nico prompts again, “You had a fight with your mother.”
“There was... um...” I stumble over the words, following Nico’s voice to firmer emotional ground. “I fought with my mother. I was so distraught that I had to find a quiet place to think.”
Henry’s eyes narrow. “You thought you would find solace in my apartments?”
“This should be good,” Trevor taunts.
My mind teeters on the edge of anxiety, again, when Nico counters her jab with a right cross. “You’ve had your fun. One more word from you and I’ll pull Dodger from the palace right fucking now.”
Trevor must believe Nico’s threat because she actually shuts the hell up.
“I didn’t plan to come here. Once I started walking, I found myself near the stairs, so I climbed them. I found those men asleep from all the ale they’d drunk, I could smell them from the corridor.”
Henry grimaces. “My sentries slept at their post?”
“I didn’t realize these are your rooms until I stepped inside. When I heard you ascending the stairs and I...I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I know I shouldn’t be here, but I needed a quiet place to compose myself.” I don’t have to act unmoored and emotionally adrift. My heart is still pounding. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I don’t mean to trouble you. I just feel so...lost.”
I lean forward and rest my head on his shoulder. He startles and, after a moment’s hesitation, puts his arms around me. He pats my shoulder in a paternal manner.
Powerless. Nothing I can do.
Nico, seeming to read my thoughts, says with quiet resolve, “You are who you choose to be, babe. All that shit Trevor said, it doesn’t have power unless you allow it.”
“Roger,” I say softly, covering the word with a snuffle against the king’s silk doublet. My nose is running, and it’s left a small damp spot on his chest. Henry notices and I try wiping it dry with the fore-sleeve of my gown.
“Sorry,” I mumble, looking up at him.
No matter how tender he seems, Trevor is right about one thing: This king’s progeny will rain violence and bloodshed not just on my parents, but on millions.
Nico’s right, too. I’m not powerless unless I choose to be. In this moment, sitting with the king of fucking England, I see opportunity in a new light. What if I could change everything? What if I could change the whole bloody world?
“You’ve been so kind, Your Majesty,” I say, turning the grief in my eyes to coquettish desire. “Allow me to return the kindness.” I lean forward and brush my lips against his.
“Hey!” Nico says, alarmed. “What the hell was that?”
Henry emits a small, muffled sound of protest, grasps my shoulders, and gently pushes me away. “Mademoiselle, please don’t mistake gentle concern for romantic intent.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but there was a moment, downstairs, when a look passed between us. You wanted me.”
He looks puzzled. Then there’s a small, surprised. “Oh.”
There it is. The memory of lust.
“No, Mademoiselle,” he says, giving me a gentle smile. “You misunderstand.”
I didn’t, of course, because he’s glossing over the leer he threw my way at the banquet table. I play along and shake my head, looking slightly distressed. “Your eyes tell me that I perfectly understood your intent, sire. ’Twas desire that I saw in you.”
“There was a time when I would have plucked you out from among the many roses in my court,” he says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “You are beautiful and clever, the wittiest of any lady here in my court save my own sweet Anne.” He tugs upward on a black cord fastened around his neck and, up from the neck of his shirt, pops a silver locket.
I’ll be damned.
He unties the cord and pulls it from his neck so he can open the clasp. Inside is Lady Anne’s limning. “You do know that my heart belongs wholly, completely to the future queen.” The words are kindly said; he seems to think I’ll be crushed by his rejection.
He lifts my chin and wipes the tear from my cheek. With the other hand, he drops the locket into a leather pouch, leaving it’s flap unsecured. “You protested against needing a husband. After this encounter, I’m not swayed from the opinion that you do. A husband would soothe your melancholy and divert your mind to more pleasant things.”
“I will look to your good
