Free Two Passionate Proposals by Serenity Woods

but he’d
seen the way her eyes changed and knew his words served only to remind them
both of the current situation.
    He leaned his head on the back of the tub.
She’d folded a towel there thoughtfully so it would be comfortable and had also
placed a table nearby so he had somewhere to put his wine. Clearly, she’d been
well trained in the art of being a good wife.
    He thought about the comment she’d made
regarding her husband. Richard had been wrong; she hadn’t loved de Woodford,
and yet obviously she’d made a life for herself here and had tended her husband’s
needs. The thought of the oafish Geoffrey touching her, using her, maybe
mistreating her, made a sudden surge of anger flood through him. They’d both
suffered in their own way when their parents forced them to part, but Eleanor
had probably endured the worst deal. Although he and Maud had not been in love,
his wife’s worst sin had been disinterest in him, and she’d never been cruel to
him, or abusive.
    He closed his eyes, still feeling the
gentle brush of Eleanor’s fingers tracing the scar along his ribs. He’d seen
the look on her face when he stripped off his shirt, the widening of her eyes,
the admiration. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, had just been desperate
to get into the bath and soak away the aches of the day, but when she’d traced
his scar and looked up at him, he’d seen the desire flicker in her eyes like a
candle in a draught.
    For a moment, he wished he’d said
something, maybe leaned forward and kissed her, but that would have been a
mistake. She’d recently lost her husband, and even if she hadn’t loved de
Woodford, it must be a traumatic time for her. Also, giving up the castle had
clearly not been easy. The last thing she needed was the new master of the
manor to stroll in and demand his lordly rights.
    Henry knew men who would have done
it—invaded the castle, put the guards who’d resisted to the sword, plundered
the castle’s riches, and taken whichever women they chose. But he was not one
of them. Still, for a moment, he fantasised about what Eleanor would have done
if he’d ridden into the castle, lifted her off the horse, and carried her
straight up to this bedchamber. Would she have screamed, cried, fought him all
the way? Or would she have looked up at him, her dark green eyes brimming with
the passion they’d felt all those years ago? Perhaps her mouth would have
opened under his; maybe her fingers would have slid through his hair, or lifted
his shirt, stroking his skin the way she had earlier, moving down to take him in
her hand…
    Henry sighed. He shouldn’t let his mind
wander down that road. His body was responding to his lustful thoughts, and he
had no outlet for his desire. Hadn’t had for some time, in fact, which only
made matters worse. How was he going to cope during the evening meal, watching
Eleanor moving about the hall, her hips swaying, her breasts spilling out of
her bodice, as she leaned over to pour him wine?
    Perhaps he should have found himself a
serving wench to help him out. He huffed a sigh. He didn’t want a serving
wench. He wanted Eleanor. How many times had he visualised her over the years?
In his dreams, she appeared as the slim girl he’d known in his youth, but it
wasn’t the narrow-hipped, young lass he now pictured behind his closed eyes.
Instead, he imagined the mature woman, the one whose curves had made his mouth
go dry. He wanted to pull her into his arms and crush her to him, to cover her
mouth with his and unlace her gown. He wanted her naked beneath him; he wanted
to pleasure her with his mouth and hands before taking her passionately.
    Henry sighed again, glaring down at
himself. He was hard, and it wasn’t going away, not with Eleanor around. He
cast a glance across at the door; she hadn’t closed it properly, but the
passageway outside was quiet, and he’d hear his squire’s heavy boots coming up
the steps long before he appeared.
    He moved his legs,