Chapter 212: Whatever It Is You Want
Madeleine’s laughter died.
"You may sit on the chair," Theodora continued, "but I will rule it. You will say what I want said. You will bend what I want bent. You will do what I want done by the authority of the throne."
"You win," Madeleine said, each word unwilling. "Whatever it is you want."
"I did not think it would be so easy, princess," Theodora replied. "But let us be clear. Should you ever imagine you can betray me, we shall have this little dance again."
Madeleine lifted her chin. "Of course. I understand."
"Good," Theodora said. "Then let us see the royal wedding concluded first." She gathered her skirts and allowed her attendant to help her into the carriage. Even that simple act looked like a declaration of war.
Madeleine curtsied. She remained in that posture until the carriage began to move, its polished wheels cutting through the road, its curtains drawn.
Only when it had gone did Madeleine straighten.
*****
Livia woke slowly, drifting up from sleep. Everything was warmth: the soft press of linen beneath her cheek, the weight of an arm around her waist.
It felt familiar and safe. Then memory returned. She was not in Kingsmere. This was not her chamber.
There was only one man in the entire kingdom who could have his arm around her with such shameless entitlement in Covent garden.
Livia’s eyes opened and very carefully, she turned her head. The king lay beside her, asleep. For several stunned seconds, she simply stared. He should have been unconscious. He should not have been in her bed. She tried to ease away, but his arm tightened around her waist.
His eyes opened to gaze at her.
"Your Majesty?" Livia whispered.
The king’s eyes remained on her. "Here I was," he murmured, "hoping you would kiss me in my sleep again."
Livia’s eyes widened at once. She looked like he had accused her of treason. Then she tried to scramble out of bed.
His arm tightened around her waist.
"Let go," she hissed. She meant to mention the indecency of him apparently being strong enough to hold her prisoner after being shot. But then she saw the strain on his face.
The faint tremor at the corner of his mouth. The tightness around his eyes. He was trying to make light of it, but pain had left its mark on him. His colour had not fully returned, and beneath the teasing curve of his lips, there was exhaustion so deep it seemed to pull at his bones.
Livia stopped struggling out of consideration. He exhaled slowly, his grip easing just enough.
"Would you stay still," he said, voice rough, "and stop behaving as if you have climbed into bed with the devil?"
"First of all," she said, "I did not climb into bed with you. I woke up and found you here, which is very different. And second," she continued, "you may as well be the devil."
He gave a low laugh. "I like it when you forget for a moment that you are speaking to your king."
"Why?" Livia asked. "No one ever dares to challenge you?"
"Oh some do. But only you get away with it."
Livia could not help the small smile that curved her lips. It was a foolish thing to feel triumphant about, perhaps. Still, she allowed herself the satisfaction. She, Livia from Beaumonts—low-born was permitted to challenge the King of England and live to tell the tale.
Henry noticed the smile. "You look pleased with yourself."
Her gaze moved over his face, and the warmth softened into concern. He was still pale, his strength clearly held together by pride. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
"I am well."
Livia arched a brow.
Henry sighed. "Well enough." He shifted slightly. "I need to ask you some questions. Or rather, I need to understand a few things."
The quiet seriousness in his tone made Livia’s smile fade.
"What is it?"
He reached beneath the edge of the coverlet and drew out a the seal hanging from a chain. Henry held it between them. "Do you recognise this?"
"Vaguely," she said. "My mother had something similar to this. Where did you find it?" she asked.
"It fell off the shooter from last night."
Livia stared at the seal. "What does that have to do with me?" she asked.
"Liv," he said quietly, "you were the target."
"Me? What? Why?"
"That," Henry said, his voice tightening, "is the question I have demanded answered."
Livia looked from him to the seal again, trying to make sense of it, but nothing aligned.
"So tell me about Florence," Henry continued, "before you came here. Tell me anything that might help me understand what we are dealing with, or at least allow me to build a theory."
Livia shook her head. "This cannot be happening." She had been poor before. She had been frightened before. But being hunted was new, and frankly, she disliked it immediately. At least, the attack at Beaumont’s were from known faces. She couldn’t even remember anyone from Italy except her mother and her father who had sold her.
She pulled away from Henry’s arm, and this time he let her go. He had seen the agitation on her face.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
Livia pushed a hand through her hair, her thoughts tumbling over one another. "This," she said, gesturing between them, the room, the whole impossible mess. "You."
Henry’s brows drew together.
"You took an arrow meant for me," she said. "I mean, thank you, truly. I owe you my life. But what is it with the men around me saving me."
"I did not know I was saving you," Henry said after a moment, his voice dry and unfairly calm, "if that brings you any comfort."
"It does not."
"I suspected as much."
Livia shot him a look. The man had the nerve to sound amused. It was deeply irritating. Henry’s faint smile faded.
"Livia, listen to me. It may not seem so," he continued, "after everything that has happened between us, but I would take a hundred arrows for you."
(100 power stones!!!)
