Chapter 213: You Should Freshen Up
"I do not want you to!" she snapped. "I do not," she repeated, and this time her voice shook. "Do you understand? I am tired of being saved. Being saved is what keeps dragging me deeper into this triangle of a mess...You and Richard saved me at Beaumont’s, and now look at you both. At each other’s throats because of me."
"And I am here," she continued, gesturing around the chamber, "trapped in this glorified prison because you cannot bear to be without me. And now this?...Again? You nearly dying for me? Another debt I can never repay? Another reason for you to decide my life belongs to you?"
"Speaking of glorified prisons, you should freshen up. We leave for Whitehall soon. We can continue this conversation there."
Livia turned to face him fully. "You are still committed to that?"
"Yes. I am."
Livia rolled her eyes. A king might lose blood but he would not lose an argument. Heaven forbid the crown suffer such indignity.
"You have proven far too determined to ruin yourself," he continued, "for me to leave you to your own devices. And with that assassin still at large, I will not take chances with your life."
"Ruin myself? I was happy. I was," she insisted. "If anyone is destroying me, it is you."
"I am not having this conversation again," Henry said. "Its exhausting, actually." His gaze pinned hers. "It feels as though I keep walking the same corridor with you, reaching the same locked door. You kissed me. Why? If you feel so strongly that I am your ruin...why did you kiss me? So you may only want me when no one sees it? When I cannot answer?"
"You kissed me because you do not want to feel guilty?"
Livia’s chin lifted at once. Pride came to her rescue. "Why would I feel guilty?"
"Because deep down, you know you settled for Richard. You chose Richard because you believed I was no longer in the picture. If you feel guilty then you would have to admit that you never truly loved him."
Livia went quiet. There were some roads one did not walk down unless one had packed a shovel for burying the consequences. Whatever the truth was, she was not about to let the king drag it out of her. "I would like to prepare, Your Majesty," she said at last.
Henry watched her, clearly aware she had retreated behind courtesy. "Go on." His brow lifted. "Is there something you require?"
"By myself."
The corner of his mouth curved. "Come now," he said, his voice warming with wicked amusement. "I have seen you without clothes more than once. This will not change anything, love."
Heat rushed to Livia’s face. Her blush had the loyalty of a drunk courtier—always arriving at the worst possible moment.
"Well then, I suppose I shall have to fetch Mrs Crowe to protect me."
"From what?"
"A shamelessly leering king."
Henry laughed softly. The sight stole some of the sharpness from her expression, but only a little. "I am a king," he declared, though even as he said it, he began to rise from the bed. Far less majestic than he would have liked. "Mrs Crowe bends to my will."
Livia folded her arms.
"I give the orders in this kingdom," he muttered, crossing the chamber.
"Of course."
"I am not afraid of Mrs Crowe, I tell you."
"Yes... yes... yes..."
Henry rolled his eyes but obediently stepped out of the room.
*****
Lionel and Stephen escorted the royal carriage back to Whitehall. The horsemen had been ordered to move slowly. No one wished to be the man responsible for jostling the king’s wound open. That was the sort of mistake that ended with a very short career and, depending on the monarch’s mood, possibly a shorter life.
The carriage was surrounded on every side by guards, their horses pressing close, their eyes sharp on the streets. London watched in whispers.
Inside, Livia sat opposite Henry and tried very hard not to touch him. This should have been easy. The carriage was wide enough. Yet somehow, the king of England appeared determined to make it feel the size of a church confessional. Livia pressed herself against the padded seat until her spine began to protest. Each time she shifted to avoid the possibility of their knees brushing, Henry found some entirely unnecessary reason to adjust himself directly opposite her.
Once, he claimed the light hurt his eyes. Then he needed to stretch his leg. Then the carriage leaned.
The carriage had not leaned. Livia knew this because the carriage was moving so slowly that a determined beetle could have overtaken them.
Honestly, he was behaving like a child. Livia refused to speak. Silence was safer. Other women might have been thrilled to be taken to Whitehall. A life lived near the glittering centre of power. Livia saw only walls.
Whitehall meant her life was changing faster than she could steady herself. It meant fewer chances to escape Henry’s orbit. It meant her grand, foolish plan to ruin herself in order to be free of him would become almost impossible.
Worse, it meant breathing the same air as his mother and in a few days, the court would welcome a queen.
His wife—the princess of France.
Henry must have seen the storm gathering behind her eyes. He had learned to read her silences with unsettling accuracy. She had spent much of her life being overlooked or spoken over. Henry did none of those things. He listened too closely, watched too carefully. He leaned forward, slowly enough not to startle her, and placed his hand over her knees.
"I can protect you better at Whitehall," he said quietly. "Whoever wants to hurt you will find it very difficult to reach you there."
Livia looked down at his hand. She lifted her gaze to him. "Was it not only a short while ago that Lady Bella was attacked inside Whitehall?"
