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It’s not the subtlest plan she’s ever come up with but, Lizzie reflects as her maids finish filling the tub, it promises to be an effective one, and that is the most important thing.
The water steams, the scent of marjoram, rosemary, and orange peel hanging heavy in the air, and Lizzie sends the girls away with a little flick of her fingers. She’d told them earlier that she’d attend to herself in her bath tonight, but they giggle as they head for the door now, undoubtedly aware of the note Lizzie sent only a few moments before.
She has a blessed moment alone to herself there in her chamber, and she takes a deep breath, her hands unconsciously going to the slight roundness just underneath the belt of her dressing gown. This babe is quieter than its brother had been, and although she knows that there’s no way of knowing, she finds herself often referring to the child in her womb as “she.” A daughter would be a welcome addition to their family, and Lizzie smiles as she pictures a little girl all her own. A princess with Henry’s blue eyes and Lizzie’s golden hair.
Lizzie is still smiling when the door opens and Henry walks in, his strident footsteps stuttering to a stop when he sees her there, her hands cradling her belly, the tub steaming to her left.
“You…,” he begins, and then clasps his hands in front of him. “You said you wished to speak with me?”
Something clutches in her chest, seeing him standing there like that, unsure and overly formal. It’s too soon to call whatever this thing is warming between them love, but in moments like this, Lizzie struggles to think of any other word for what she feels for him.
Reaching out her hand, she beckons him closer. “I said I wished to see you,” she gently corrects. “We’ve had so little time together of late.”
Unsaid is that she’s seen him less because as soon as she learned she was with child again, he quit her bed and her rooms entirely. Lizzie had not realized just how much she’d grown used to those nights with him by her side. Not only him making love to her- although she missed that quite a lot, their bodies having overcome whatever reservations their hearts and heads still held-, but simply...being with him. The solid, warm presence of him at her back, the soft look in his eyes when they woke in the mornings.
Henry takes her hand, his fingers worrying hers, and Lizzie steps closer. “Sit with me awhile,” she says, her voice low, and Henry’s gaze darts again to the tub.
“While you bathe?” he asks. There’s a dryness in his tone, and he raises his eyebrows as though this must surely be some kind of jest, but Lizzie sees the pink flush rising up his neck, the way his throat moves as he swallows hard.
Widening her eyes at him, she asks, “Would my nakedness shock you, Your Grace? I would’ve thought you’d seen all I have to offer.”
He huffs out a laugh at that, his fingers briefly tightening on hers, but he’s still watching her warily. Always looking out for a trick, her husband, for a lie, for someone to snatch whatever bauble they’re dangling back from his grasp.
“You know you don’t have to call me that,” he says at last. “Not...not when it’s only us.”
Another tightening in her breast, another strange flood of warmth that makes her want to push his hair back from his forehead and kiss his brow. But she also sees him swallow again, notes that his pupils are wide with desire, and that starts a different sort of heat unfurling within her.
“But you like it,” Lizzie teases, and he doesn’t even attempt to protest. Instead, he lets her lead him gently to the chair before the fire, the one she’d had specially placed there so that he would have the best view of her as she bathed. There’s a table at his elbow with a flagon of wine and Lizzie fills a goblet, handing him the drink before retreating back towards the tub.
She glances back over her shoulder at him, her hands on the belt of her robe. He’s watching her as he sips his wine, and she’s reminded of the day they met. She’d despised him then, or thought she did, and while she knows the reasons she’d felt the way she had, they almost seem to belong to some other girl. Some other Lizzie who is not the woman standing her, very determinedly seducing her own husband.
When she drops her dressing gown, Henry sucks in a breath she can hear even over the crackle of the flames in the hearth.
For a long moment, she stands there, unashamed in her nakedness while his gaze rakes over her. He taught her this, how heady it feels to be wanted. Henry has been inside of her dozens of times, but he always looks at her like this, as though he would drink in the sight of her, and Lizzie lets him for several long moments. This , she tells him with her small smile, with the heat in her own eyes, this is what you have won along with a country. The right to sit in beautiful rooms and look your fill at a woman who wants you, at the mother of your children. This is what can be yours every night if you’ll let me in.
Finally, she places a leg over the edge of the tub and slips into the water. It’s only warm now, not hot, but it still feels good, and she sighs happily as she sinks deeper, letting the water lap her chin.
Henry takes another sip of wine before placing his goblet back on the table and folding his hands over his stomach, leaning back to watch her with obvious pleasure. “You love your little luxuries, don’t you?” he asks, smiling, and Lizzie gives an indulgent shrug.
“I’m descended from the water goddess Melusina, Your Grace. Naturally I enjoy a bath.”
She watches him carefully. His mother would call such talk heresy, no doubt, and Lizzie wonders if Henry is the same.
Instead, he chuckles. “So I’ve married a siren? A mermaid, perhaps?”
Lizzie lifts one foot from the bath, wiggling her toes at him. “No fins here, Your Grace.”
Henry smiles again, his gaze grown heavy-lidded. “Henry,” he murmurs. “Say my name.”
Sitting up in the water, Lizzie wraps her arms around her upraised knees. “Henry,” she dutifully echoes, and he takes a deep breath, chest rising and falling.
And then Lizzie quirks an eyebrow at him. “Henry,” she says again. “Wash my hair for me.”
It’s a demand, not a request, and for the space of several heartbeats, Lizzie worries she’s pushed him too far. He is her husband, yes, and the father of her children, but he’s also a king, and she’s just asked him to perform a fundamentally servile task.
But Henry rises from the chair nonetheless, and Lizzie feels the victory of it singing in her blood.
The soap and pitcher are beside the tub, and he picks up both in each hand, looking back and forth between them. “I...don’t believe I’ve ever washed anyone’s hair before,” he says at last, and Lizzie laughs gently.
“I promise, it is not difficult. Kneel down beside me.”
Another demand.
Henry looks down at her, and Lizzie lifts her chin, meeting his gaze. Something important seems to hang in the balance, and she has a brief moment of doubt. What will she do if he refuses? Laugh it off, no doubt, try to salvage the evening in other ways. But she hopes…
And then he kneels.
Lizzie breathes in, her eyes locked on his. The King of England, kneeling beside her bath, pitcher and soap in hand, watching her.
“Show me,” he says, voice rough, and Lizzie’s hands shake only a little as she takes the pitcher from him, dunking it in the water to fill it.
“First you must wet my hair,” she tells him as she returns the pitcher to him, and he does so with gentleness, pouring slow and steady, and Lizzie shivers from more than just the sensation.
Over and over again, he wets her hair, and Lizzie sighs, tipping her head back. It’s so quiet in her rooms, only the sound of the water, the crackle of the fire, the two of them breathing, and a lassitude steals through her limbs, making her feel slow and heavy.
She doesn’t need to instruct him when it comes time for the soap. He plunges his hands in the bath, fingers briefly brushing her thigh. Even that butterfly-light touch makes her heart pound, her blood feel thicker in her veins, and then he is working the small bar of castile soap into a lather in his hands.
“I thought you’d never done this before,” she says as he begins to scrub her hair, the scent of olive oil and lemon rising around them.
“I haven’t,” he replies, and then she feels his lips against her earlobe. “Perhaps I am a natural.”
That makes her laugh in spite of how slow and drunk she feels, his hands moving over her scalp.
“A king of many talents, then,” she answers, and he laughs in return, although the sound is a little strained.
He plunges his hands back into the bath to clean them of the soap, and when he dunks the pitcher to rinse her head, Lizzie captures his free hand, bringing it to rest on her collarbone, urging his fingers to play along the upper swells of her breasts.
They do, his touch hot against her slick skin, and Lizzie closes her eyes, letting him wash the rest of the suds from her hair.
Only when she hears the sound of the stone pitcher against the wooden floor does she open her eyes, twisting to look at him.
The only time Henry has looked as open and vulnerable as he does now was the day Arthur was born, and even now, Lizzie can remember the way her heart had thudded to see him rush in the doorway. She had known then the way things had begun to change in him, change between them, in that moment when she’d seen her own heart reflected in his face.
It feels the same now, and Lizzie puts a hand to the side of his face without thinking. “Henry,” she says, and then he’s kissing her, clutching her face, his body pressed against the side of the tub, the angle awkward.
It’s good, though, and Lizzie opens her mouth underneath his, letting her tongue boldly sweep along his, the groan he gives in return sweet to her ears.
When they part, he is nearly panting, his hand sliding from her cheek to her breast, thumb moving over her nipple.
It’s been so long since he touched her that it’s almost enough to undo her, and she cries out, pressing herself closer.
Henry’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips, his gaze sliding along her body.
“The child,” he says, and Lizzie sees the spasm of guilt on his face, can already feel him steeling himself to pull away.
That will not do.
Staring fiercely into his face, she takes the hand he has on her breast and slides it down her body, over the swelling of their child and then lower, between her legs.
He makes an almost startled sound, his eyes going wide, but he doesn’t pull away, and Lizzie holds his gaze as she pushes her hips against his hand.
“Our child is safe,” she promises him, “and well. But your wife misses her husband’s touch.”
Henry looks at her, his expression still a mix of worry and lust, but he doesn’t move to pull his hand away, not even when she releases his wrists. And when his fingers begin to move against her, Lizzie’s lips part, her breath coming faster.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Like that.”
Lowering his forehead to hers, Henry hisses through his teeth, but he doesn’t stop, touching her with the surety she taught him. That’s the curse of it, she sometimes thinks, how accepting he was, how eager to learn everything that pleased her, every touch she craved. She grew used to that certain and assured touch, and now is not inclined to live without it.
His fingers move faster, circling the way she likes, and Lizzie gives herself up to it, decorum and shame long gone. She lifts her hips in time with his touch, makes no effort to silence her cries and whimpers, and when her release hits her, it is strong enough to make her toes curl against the linen lining the tub.
Henry’s own breath saws in and out of his lungs, his forehead still pressed to hers, and Lizzie pulls back to press a kiss to his brow as she’d wanted to earlier. Her heart is thudding heavily in her chest, her throat, between her legs, and she wraps a hand around the back of his neck, tugging at the curls there.
“You will not leave me on my own again,” she whispers.
“I will not,” he answers, voice low and rough.
“Whether I am with child or not,” Lizzie adds, and he nods against her lips.
“As you wish.”
To her surprise, Lizzie feels tears prick the corners of her eyes. It’s the babe, no doubt, and the rush of emotions that always accompany any sort of coupling, but she suddenly wants nothing more than be out of this tub and in his arms.
He must sense that because he rises to his feet, snatching the drying sheet from where it rests on her bed, then helping her stand, his touch almost unbearably gentle.
Henry looks at her all the while as he wraps the sheet around her, and she looks back, her wet hair streaming down her back.
Once the ends of the sheet are securely tucked around her, Henry lifts his palm to her cheek, thumb running along her cheekbone.
His voice is almost rueful when he asks, “What have you done to me?”
That makes her smile, and she leans forward to place a nip at his lower lip. “I think perhaps we are both conquerors,” she tells him and then, with a sly smile, adds, “Your Grace.”
The answering grin he gives her warms her more than her bath or even the pleasure he’d coaxed from her body, and Lizzie knows then that even if she is not ready to call it love, what she feels for him can be nothing else.