Mary had never been one to be fascinated by the beauty of nature. She infinitely preferred the quietness and privacy of her rooms, the peace and beauty of the Scriptures, and the company of good and holy men and women who have devoted their lives to the service of God, and worked in harmony to know His mind, and find out what His will was, and to do it wholeheartedly. The tapestries and statues of the saints and Angels, especially those of the Virgin Mary, had a special, almost magical way of soothing her nerves and calming her mind that few, very few, had managed to achieve. Even the fortress-like walls of convents and churches, and the eternally serene, eternally solemn nuns and priests, were highly appealing to her. What little time that she had to herself and only herself was spent in reading, praying, and in meditation. She prayed when she got up from bed every morning, and prayed when she went to sleep every night – a habit that, she was proud to say, she had instilled in her beloved little sister, Elizabeth, and was now trying to do the same with her precious little brother, Edward.

Yes, no one can possibly doubt or argue that Mary Tudor was the most pious, most devout, most serious of King Henry the Eighth's three children. She was after all, the daughter of Katherine of Aragon, who was the classic epitome of a passionately pious, passionately devout, passionately religious Roman Catholic. It was only natural that she had inherited her mother's passions and her mother's piety – which child does not take after his or her parents in looks or characteristics?

Indeed, there were some who said that the late Queen Katherine still lived spiritually and mentally through her daughter, who took after her not only in habits and piety, but also in looks – Mary's dark hair, Mary's dark eyes, the proud and regal way she held her head and shoulders, and the swanlike grace that she glided with, they were all the beauties that her mother could boast of when she had been at the peak of her youth and vitality.

Today, however, Mary was doing something that her mother very rarely did in her private, personal time.

Instead of reading the Bible or a book of sermons, or praying with wholehearted earnestness for the well-being and happiness of her family and country, or meditating on life, nature and God, Mary was seated on a bench of white marble, in an orchard that ran down to the river.

It was midsummer, and like the rest of nature, the orchard was at the very peak of its bloom and beauty and vitality; the grass beneath her feet was a plush carpet, soft, fresh, green, and absolutely fragrant, dotted here and there by tiny gorgeous blossoms of every imaginable colour; the branches of the tall, stately trees were heavy with beautiful ripe apples that seemed to burn in the golden sunshine like perfect red rubies; the river flowed with water that seemed to be as clear as the air itself, sparkling and murmuring in a voice that seemed to come from another world, haunting and musical; the sunshine was golden and glorious, being warm yet gentle; zephyrs engaged in an exotic, gentle dance with the leaves and the blossoms.

It was probably the very first time in many long, wretched years, that Mary reveled in the beauty around her, thoroughly allowing herself to be seduced by the perfume of the flowers, as well as the sweet scent of the ripe apples, be comforted by the cooling breezes, and be hypnotized by the running water. For she was plagued by a turmoil that, for the first time in her memory, neither her books nor her prayers nor her meditation was able to rid her of, and Elizabeth – her bright, clever Elizabeth – had suggested that she take a walk in the orchards, saying that the fresh air and the sweet apple fragrance might do her a power of good, helping her to clear her mind and calm her heart. And she was very glad she had taken her advice – the beauty of nature in its fullest bloom and vigor was giving her a powerful sense of serenity, of peace, not unlike the one that her books and her prayers and her meditation gave. Her nerves, her mind, and her heart were slowly, but surely going back to the loving old state of normalcy.

Perhaps she should do this more often.

But…

Yes, in the life of Princesses, especially one like Mary Tudor, there is always a "but" that disrupts those golden moments of peace and quiet and bliss, a "but" ruins everything, especially since fate and destiny can be as playful and mischievous as a master trickster when it came to certain individuals…

Out of the blue, Mary detected a new scent in the air, a scent that was more powerful than that of the flowers and fruits, yet strangely similar to them, in a way. It was a scent like a perfume, a powerful special perfume that seemed to be a harmonious blend of delicious, intoxicating smells: roses – lush, sultry roses as red as passion itself – bursting beautifully into bloom, then there was a deeper smell like good, fine leather fit for a Prince, and then a tang like the sea.

It was the scent of a man whom she had just met.

A man who was the most enchanting creature she had ever seen.

A man who frightened and excited her by making her feel things she had never felt before, and never thought herself capable of.

A man whom, for some unapparent, unexplainable reason, she felt as if she had met before, like in a dream, or in a dream of a dream, despite the fact that she could swear by her life, by her honour, and by her faith, that she had never ever seen him before.

A man who was the reason for the turmoil that plagued her, a turmoil that was formerly diminishing, but was now resurfacing again with a vengeance, as though the scent of its master was a boost of power.

A shadow fell on the grass, and someone slid into a sitting position beside her. Mary could not help it; she turned her head to look at the one who had intruded upon her state of mental, inner peace, the master of that exotic, utterly seductive perfume.

True enough, it was Duke Philip of Bavaria.

He was graceful even in sitting, and his warm, dark brown eyes were fixed on the river as well. An incredible wave of passions washed over Mary: her pulse raced and her body tingled with his nearness…her senses were more alive…the sky was bluer…the flowers were prettier…the air was fresher and sweeter…because Philip was there. She had a sudden, insane urge to wrap her arms around his neck, and kiss him like there was no tomorrow. Then that small voice of wisdom, and that sense of self-control and royal dignity – both of whom sounded and seemed remarkably like her mother – kicked in, and she managed to get a grip on herself…but only in the nick of time. By sheer force of will, she made herself look how she normally did when she was with a stranger: cool, calm, composed, and regal. She hoped, desperately, that he had missed the flash of expression that betrayed her true feelings for him – the darkening of her eyes, the flushing of her cheeks, and the smile on her lips.

She mentally breathed a little sigh of relief when he appeared not to have noticed, his attention seemed to be fixated on the running, sparkling, murmuring river.

But what do you all think, ladies and gentlemen? Do you think he had not noticed it?

"Where does it go to, Lady Mary?" he asked at last, after a moment's silence, his voice the deep, rich brass of a desirable, sensuous man.

"To the sea, Your Grace." Mary replied, as quietly and dignified as she can, though the tingling of her body became stronger at the sound of his rich deep voice. "It flows down to the sea."

Philip nodded. He turned to look at her, a smile on his handsome face. "We should go with it, you and me."

Stunned, speechless, Mary turned to look at him, and saw from the lack of the beguiling, provocative sparkle in his dark brown eyes and the firm set of his smiling lips that he was not jesting, that he meant what he said – literally. Her heart, as treacherous as her body, could not help but sing with a joy the like of which she had never known, though her face remained a pale picture of astonishment and wonder, betraying absolutely no hint of what she truly felt – a feat that she had been able to achieve through years of practicing how to conceal her true emotions and feelings.

Then, she appeared to gather herself, forcing a fake chuckle, causing him to reflect that, whatever else she was, she was certainly not slow of wit, or bereft of control. This, however, only served to inflame his desire for her.

"Surely you jest, Your Grace." She said, a smile that he recognized as the shallow empty practiced smirk of a child of royalty plastered on her beautiful face.

"Why do you call me "Your Grace" in such a manner, when you know that we are on familiar terms?" He asked, the severe frankness and sincerity of his tone erasing the smile from her face completely, and making her midnight-blue eyes widen a little.

"We have not met before." Mary replied with the same simple, quiet dignity she had applied when she answered his first question, though her insides were trembling with fear and…dare she confess it? …excitement. With the smile gone from his face, Mary realised that his gaze was smoldering, with his eyes brooding and intense, dark with an emotion that she could not determine, but one made her feel simultaneously hot and cold, with butterflies fluttering in her stomach, her heart beating so fast and so loudly that she fancied it could rival a war drum, and an unnatural sensation of timidity and shyness spreading throughout her being. And since when was she, Mary Tudor, the precious beloved child of King Henry and Queen Katherine of England, a Princess of the Blood (no matter what they said), with an assurance that no one can learn and a grace that came from absolute confidence in her position in the world, timid and shy?

Was it because that a certain tall, dark, well-built, handsome young man was looking at her as though he wanted to eat her up alive? Looking at her as a starving dog would a great piece of juicy, succulent meat? Looking at her as a greedy child would marchpane and candied fruits? Looking at her as a man would a woman he loved with a burning desire and a passion that was as potent as a love potion?

Unconsciously, Mary's dainty white hands went out to smooth some imaginary wrinkles from her bodice, her sleeves, and her full skirts, as if ensuring that she was not sitting naked before Philip. It was taking all the considerable self-control she had to maintain her regal, calm composure, and not to blush. Her heart, however, was singing louder, more joyfully, and for the first time in her life, Mary felt as if her soul was soaring into the heavens.

"But only in body, Lady Mary. In soul and in spirit, we have already met. We have known each other in another life; you and I both know it, know it with a certainty that we cannot describe, yet shakes us to the core nonetheless. This is not the only life where we could have met. There's something between us already. You felt the power of it, and that's why you left the hall. Am I right, Lady Mary? If I am, could you rightfully resist it?"

Every word he said was true, unarguably, undoubtedly, unquestionably true.

But Mary was torn.

Part of her was rejoicing at his words. It was that tiny, yet special, part of her that always believed, always hoped that, despite her bastard status, and the fact that she was not getting any younger; she could, one day, find and know a great love that will always be true and pure. A love that was as constant as the stars above. A love that will last until the very end of time. That she may be happily married, and have children of her own. After all, long walks in the moonlight, unexpected tokens of affection, a gallant young Prince on a majestic horse…what girl hasn't dreamed of being swept off her feet by love in a fairytale romance? And what woman does not want the heat and the tenderness and the passion of a man that she could wholeheartedly love and trust?

The other part of her, however – the cold, austere, rational part that had been ruling her life with a fist of iron ever since her beloved mother was put aside for that shameless, brazen harlot whose only good deed was to mother her beloved little sister, Elizabeth, however, was chiding her for responding, not physically but mentally, to Philip's words, and for harbouring such foolish and meaningless dreams. How can a man who had just met her and barely knew her love her so? It was impossible, absolutely impossible! His words were but the frivolous, childish nonsense of poets, men who have nothing else better to do than to compose such foolishness to enchant the opposite sex. And once they had gotten what they wanted, they would break the very hearts that they had stolen with their lies and their masks. Oh, and let's not forget, he is a heretic, a man damned to hell!

Besides, she had her younger siblings, Elizabeth and Edward, to think about. Her sister and her brother both loved her dearly (an affection she returned in equal, if not greater, measure), and with their mothers dead, depended on her. They needed her. Mother of God, they practically looked up to her as a second mother! Could she "abandon" them to become the property of a complete and utter stranger?

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I think that what you are talking of is nonsense." She said, quietly, weakly, trying to gather that famous courage, those nerves of steel, which she had inherited from her mother. The question is: where did they go? "Absolute nonsense. It is the frivolous, childish foolishness that poets compose to trap the admiration of women, and then break their hearts. And I am proud to say that I am no such woman. I am not a woman to be won with fair words and gifts." She could almost hear the third crowing of a cock as she denied her true feelings, her inner turmoil.

"It is not nonsense, Lady Mary." Philip replied flatly, his brown eyes devouring her. "It is not, as you address it, frivolous, childish foolishness that poets use to trap women and break their hearts. It is the truth. The honest truth. The gospel truth. Our bodies, our minds, our hearts, and our souls call out to each other."

Mary shook her head. Without even knowing why or how, she was close to tears. She did not know what to do. She did not know what to say. She had never felt anything like this before. It was a type of madness, this emotion. It was terrible and wonderful and completely paralyzing. It was something so strange, yet so eternal.

"Please, I beg you, Your Grace, stop this." she said with silent desperation. "Please stop this madness."

Philip shook his head. His eyes, if possible, became more intense. In fact, a sense of passion and desire radiated from him, as though he was giving off burning heat. Before he met Mary, he was a ghost. He walked and he ate and he drank and he laughed…but he was just a ghost, a shadowy phantom, an empty shell utterly devoid of substance. But now, from the instant he met Mary, he was alive, gloriously alive, as Jesus had risen from the dead. No longer was he a lumbering, foolish, bumbling two-legged being, always searching for the other half that would make him a perfect sphere once again. He had found his other half, Mary, and he had no intention of letting her go, ever. "No, I will not." He said passionately, his voice like iron. "We are the lost halves of each other's soul, Lady Mary. You know it just as well as I do."

Taking a deep sharp breath to calm her agitation, her treacherous, sinfully disobedient nerves, Mary rose and glided away from the river to an apple tree taller than the rest, and leaned against it for comfort.

That scent – that clean and wholesome scent of freshly bloomed roses, good leather, and fine salt, however, invaded her nostrils again, telling her that Philip had followed her. He was still staring at her with that highly intense, highly brooding, strangely dark look that seemed to smolder her with its fiery passion. He was positively burning for her.

"Lady Mary…"

Mary silenced him by raising her hand. She mentally drew a breath to steady herself. She reminded herself that she was a fully-grown woman of almost twenty-three-years-old, that she was the daughter of King Henry and Queen Katherine of England, a granddaughter of their Most Catholic Majesties, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain, and a Princess born and bred. From the moment she could talk she had been taught to guard her tongue and conceal her true emotions, her innermost desires. She was a skilful player in a highly competitive, highly wealthy court where position and appearances mean everything. She was no shy, timid, naïve little girl who mooned over a pretty male face and surrendered easily to honey-sweet words and beautiful gifts.

"Your Grace," she started steadily, her voice gentle as she stared at the man whom she knew, beyond the slightest trace of doubt, to be her soul's mate. "It is impossible. It can never work out. There is a world of difference between us. You are a handsome and charming young man, glamourous, confident, and wealthy, of a high rank that you are absolutely sure of and can be justly proud of, with the voice of an Angel and the wits of an accomplished scholar. I am…I am…I do not even know who I am. Nobody does, actually. Nobody, including me myself, knows if I am a Princess or a bastard or a nothing. Once, I can look at you straight in the eye, with my nose high and my chin proud, and tell you that I am a child born to rights that others can only dream of, that I am a Princess born to luxury and beauty, the daughter of two great monarchs, and destined for great and wonderful things. But now, I cannot. My current rank is one that I am not proud of and never will, the only reason I accepted it was to avoid the executioner's axe, and I would never ever forgive myself for that moment's cowardice. I am plain and common, devout and dull. I have no glamour, I have no charm. It costs my younger siblings, especially my Elizabeth, a daily heartbeat to make me smile and laugh and play. It can never ever work out between us."

"Nonsense!" Philip thundered, startling Mary. "Absolute nonsense!" How could this wonderful, incredible woman say such things? How can she not see how special she truly was? How can she degrade herself so? And…how can she say that they were not meant to be?

"Our world of difference exists only in your imagination, Lady Mary, not in real life! What you have listed were but insignificant ramblings!"

In his passion, he gripped her shoulders and gazed intensely into her eyes. Mary was actually shivering a little, for Philip now looked like a dangerous, hungry, desperate predator who has finally managed to catch its prey after a long and painfully exhausting chase; his dark brown eyes were blazing, his nostrils flaring, his countenance burning with emotion. And Mary had never believed that she could drive a man mad with passion, crazed with desire. She had never believed that she could make a man lust for her, hunger for her. The realization that she can and had was shocking, unexpected, and…oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, please forgive her…delightful. Her soul, already soaring, was now flying higher and higher, towards the Seventh Heaven of Paradise. Her heart's singing was now so full of joy, so full of passion, that she fancied it would burst. "To me, you are a Princess, a true Princess, a gracious and noble Princess, and a true heir of Queen Katherine of Aragon. You are not plain and common and dull. You are someone special and unique. You are a girl educated far beyond your sex, a young woman with marvellous gifts, and the sense to use them to the best of your ability, elegant in your mind as well as your stature, with a haunting and musical voice. Do you know that nothing, absolutely nothing at all, prepared me for your beauty? Your beauty that comes from inside? To me, you are the most beautiful creature on God's earth. You are the loveliest woman I have ever met. As God and all the Angels and blessed souls in Paradise are my witnesses, you are the most intoxicating, most incredible woman I have ever seen."

Two large tears, hot and salty, rolled down Mary's flushed cheeks.

She could not believe it.

It cannot be true.

It was too unbelievable be true.

Philip, a man could have had his pick of any woman, desired her with a true and potent passion? He found her a true Princess? He found her extraordinary? He found her marvellously gifted, elegant, with a beautiful voice? He found her incomparably beautiful, both inside and outside? He found her utterly intoxicating, utterly incredible?

Not knowing what to do, not knowing what to say, she simply stared at him, taking in his finely-boned features, the blazing dark brown eyes, the straight nose, the full, pink, sensuous lips, the beautifully-trimmed circle-beard. By the Blessed Virgin, he was such a handsome man. She did not notice the tears that were still flowing down her cheeks, so suddenly entranced she was by his dark beauty. She felt as though she cannot get her fill of looking at him. Then, as if noticing how he had frightened her, the raging fire went out of his eyes, though they still remained dark and intense, and his expression became gentle and tender again, despite retaining a hint of ferocity and passionate desire, and even that seemed to enhance his handsome features. Again that disarming, devastating smile, which revealed very white, even teeth. And those soft sensuous lips…

His hands went up and caressed her face with the soft, gentle caress of a lover, brushing away her tears and erasing the stains they left on her cheeks. He could not take his eyes off her. Her snow-white skin was so silky and so smooth to the touch, and seemed to be glowing with the sheen of a priceless, cream-coloured pearl. Her rich, thick, curly hair that hung to her waist in a cascade of dark chestnut was burnished by the sunshine. The crying had left a slight flush on her round cheeks. Her dark blue eyes were huge and bright and clear, staring at him with a multitude of emotions. But there was only one emotion that he wished to see in them.

He leaned forward and gently kissed her. Instantly, he felt the young Princess stiffen with shock. As quick as lightning, he slid his hands around to the small of her back, pressing her intimately against him. Expertly, he started to nibble at his captive's lips, urging them open so that his tongue could slip inside and mingle with her own.

Mary was frozen with shock. No man had ever done this to her before. However, the only thought that Mary registered was that she had never felt this way before. A deep warmth was flooding through her, a beautiful lassitude that left her incapable of resistance. In fact, it seemed as if a fire was starting to burn deep within, a fire that urged her to wrap her arms around Philip's neck and open her mouth under his onslaught. A fire that urged her to give Philip complete control and access, a fire that she obeyed. Mother of God, she mused, as her fingertips touched his thick, curly dark brown hair as she circled her arms around his neck. His hair is so soft, softer than silk, softer than I had expected it to be…

Philip deepened the kiss the moment Mary allowed him access, his heart roaring with triumph. He expertly stroked and coaxed Mary into responding to his demanding kisses, his tongue moving freely and insistently in her mouth. Cream, he thought, and vanilla. She tasted just like cream and vanilla. Pure, chaste, and absolutely luscious. And she is mine, all mine, only mine…his heart gave another victorious roar as his hands trembled down her back, played at her waist, and moved daringly over her hips.

Mary was lost. She felt as though she was melting. She had never expected that a kiss could feel so incredible. Philip tasted of something wonderful, something indescribable but, she was sure, uniquely him. His touch through the velvet robe and the thin lawn of her chemise was both shocking and glorious. The small voice of wisdom cried out that should put a stop to this now, but it was drowned out by the swell of great waves of feelings, not to mention that there was something in her soul that answered to something in Philip's soul, something in her heart of hearts that was telling her that it was right, very right. She had never known that she could feel like this. She did not know that such passions, such needs; such desires actually existed within her.

Honestly, she felt as though she were in Paradise, that she had been waiting all her life for this. She felt whole and complete. She felt…she felt…felt…felt…happy. So happy.

Despite the fact that both wished for this moment – this special, magical moment – to last forever, it did not. They had to break apart, for air.

Mary was out of breath, and her head was spinning. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and knew without a doubt that she was blushing to the roots of her hair. She studied Philip, and went a shade redder upon seeing his eyes glazed over with intense desire, his tongue slipping out to lick his smiling lips, as if savouring the taste that lingered there. The monster in his heart was purring like a highly contented cat that had been fed a big bowl of fresh, forbidden cream.

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, Mary's arms still around Philip's neck, and his tightly around her slim waist, as if they were the only two people in the entire world.

Then, however, Mary was suddenly overcome by a wave of mental nausea, as the rational, serious part of her sprang back to life.

"What have I gotten myself into?" she mentally asked herself, involuntarily.

All sorts of questions were running through her head. But there were three that were most important.

"What have I done?"

"What have we done?"

"Why do I want more?"

One thing was for sure: she had to get away. She had to break free of this seductive, sinister spell while she still could. She had made a mistake – a serious, stupid mistake – but it can be salvaged.

With all the strength and will she could muster, Mary broke away. Her treacherous body and heart, however, instantly cried out in unspeakable protest at this, agonised over being so brutally torn away from the warmth and tenderness and comfort and safety of Philip's arms, Philip's embrace, and the steady, deep rhythm of his heartbeat.

The expression on Philip's handsome face was one of endearing confusion. "Mary? What's wrong?"

Coldly, powerfully, Mary said, "What happened just now was a mistake, Your Grace. A mistake in every sense of the word. That should not have happened. That must not have happened. I am not a woman to be played with. I am not, as I have said earlier on, a woman to be won with fair words and gifts, nor am I a silly, ignorant girl who instantly swoons and moons over a pretty male face, and can be bewitched by a cunning tongue. So please, I beg of you, stop this madness, and behave as a gentleman of your rank and stature would."

With a growl, Philip grabbed her shoulders again, his eyes flashing with unmistakable fury, his face fierce and glowering. "Mary…"

"It is Lady Mary to you, Your Grace." Mary stated, icy and formal, though her traitor of a body was tingling at again experiencing the wonderful magic of his touch. "You may be the Duke of Bavaria, you may be the Queen's favourite cousin and foster older brother, but that does not excuse you from such simple and basic formalities. Nor does it allow you to act so wantonly and so audaciously. After all, I am, as you have said, a Princess of the Blood. Forgive me if I offend, Your Grace, but I would appreciate it infinitely if our future interactions could be confined to those necessitated by our mingling in the same company. I assume you do not wish to be bored to death by my incomparable dullness, or be subjected to my rude impertinence. And I can assure you, I have no desire to again be subjected to your madness or your unacceptable jests. Above all things, I do not wish for another irredeemably foolish and thoughtless incident like the one that just occurred – to our grave misfortune – to happen again." With that, she turned to leave.

But Philip grasped her wrist and twisted her around to face him again.

"You do not mean what you say." He said flatly, in a cold quiet voice that sent chills down Mary's spine. His eyes were two raging pools of fire, dark and determined. "You simply do not. I can see it in your eyes, as plain as day. And I can hear your heart and your soul crying out the truth. You desire me just as much as I desire you, Mary. You are my soul's mate, as much as I am yours."

"You are impossible." Mary retorted though gritted teeth, with far more firmness than she was feeling. "Impossible. This is wrong."

Philip's lips curled into a dangerous smile, much to her mingled horror and joy. Sweet Mary, Mother of God, this man simply had too much charm, was simply too gifted with male beauty: whether in pleasant, courteous politeness, whether in a temper or in a crazed state of passion, he was still a breathtakingly handsome man. "To deny it would be wrong. I love you, Mary. There is nothing to do but give in to it."

"Never!" Mary cried, feeling the tears welling, and her body and senses treacherously responding to Philip. She tried to break free, but his grip on her was tight and firm.

"If there is one thing you should learn, Mary, is that once a Wittelsbach man meets the woman of his dreams, he will not rest until he possesses her completely," said Philip, licking his lips like a hungry wolf at the sight of her half-hearted struggling – if anything, it made her look all the more adorable to him. "You will be mine. You will be my wife and my Duchess, and share my bed, my name, and my wealth. I will have you, even if I have to go to Hell for it and burn for all eternity. You can go ahead and try to struggle, try to resist, but I warn you that it will be futile. If you do not come with me, then I will come for you!"

"No, Your Grace, you will not!" Mary said passionately, her voice like iron.

"We will see, my fine Princess," Philip retorted calmly, letting her go. "We will see. If it is a fight you want, Mary, then it is a fight you are going to get from me. But know that you have already lost. For we are bound by eternal and unbreakable bonds of soul and spirit, body and heart, you can run, but you cannot hide! You can deceive others, but not yourself, and especially not me!"

"You are truly the most hateful man I have ever been cursed to meet!" She flung at him, and then turned away in an imperious, feminine swish of silk and velvet, leaving the sound of his laughter behind her.