A Game of Want and Wanting
by Sandrine Shaw
"May I have this dance, my lady?"
Mary's gaze flickers around the room, as if hoping someone might come to her rescue. Francis is caught up in a discussion with his bastard brother, though, both of them oblivious to Mary's distress. With an expression of displeasure, poorly covered up by a smile that's as strained as it's false, she takes the hand Simon has offered her and allows him to lead her to the dance floor.
Her fingers curve around his, the touch delicate and hesitant. He doesn't think he's imagining the soft gasp drawn from her throat when he pulls her towards him, and he can't help wondering what kind of sounds she'd make if he stripped her bare, laid her out on his sheets and mapped her pale skin with his hands.
Coming to court, he hadn't been prepared for how disarmingly beautiful Mary was.
When they warned him about her, they spoke of her strength of character, her stubbornness, her wit. No one thought to mention that her most formidable weapons were a pair of haunting, dark eyes and lips that were made to be kissed raw.
Tonight, she's a vision of burgundy and gold, sparkling in the candlelight. Simon puts his hands on her hips and lifts her up, and for a split second her face is only a breath away from his own, her skin flushed rosy with heat. It's altogether too easy to lose yourself in her beauty and forget that she's an enemy to the Crown.
Fortunately for him, she takes it upon herself to remind him, her tongue as sharp as ever. "No threats today? Are you feeling quite well, Simon?" As soon as her feet touch the floor again, she moves out of reach, and he has to wait a full sequence of steps until she's close enough for him to reply.
"I didn't think they were necessary at this stage." He chuckles. "Surely even you must realize by now that between the English, Queen Catherine, the pagans and Francis' little girlfriend, you have more enemies than allies here at court."
Her glare is reproachful. "It must please you very much how many people are out for my blood."
As a matter of fact, it doesn't. His agenda is the same as it's been all along, and if Mary were to pack her things and leave the French court, saying goodbye to a union that threatens his Queen and country, it would make him happy. The idea that she could pay for her stubbornness in blood, however, is most distasteful to him.
He frowns at her. "Believe it or not, but I assure you, it would not bring me any pleasure to see you come to harm."
She stills abruptly, interrupting the dance, and he's forced to stop as well if he doesn't want to continue on alone. Their fellow dancers move around them, parting like a wave that breaks on a rock, while the music plays on.
Mary narrows her eyes at him. "You actually mean that, don't you?" she asks, bewildered.
Simon shrugs. "I once promised you frankness, did I not? And I do owe you my life."
He's good with words. He can tell the truth and still make it sound like something else entirely. What she'll take from the statement is that he wishes her no harm because he's indebted to her and wishes to repay the favor, and it'll restore the status quo to her. It would do her pretty little head in to imagine that Simon cared about her well-being for her own sake.
"Oh, so you do remember. I thought you might have forgotten."
Their little impasse is starting to get noticed, people around them turning their heads and observing them a little more closely than he likes. He tugs at her hand, forcing her to fall back into step. When the dance brings them close again, he leans down so his lips are right at her ear, and his breath brushes her skin when he speaks.
"I haven't forgotten anything," he vows ominously, and even he can't tell anymore whether it's meant to be a threat or a promise.
Mary doesn't seem too concerned with it. Her lips curve into a small smile. "Good. Because I'm not forgetting anything either."
He finds a pretty servant with dark hair and deep brown eyes and takes her to bed, a girl who looks enough like Mary in the dim light of his chambers, even though she has neither her grace nor her spark. He presses bruises into her milk white skin and tells her to slap him for them, but the impact of her hand is tentative and there's nothing regal about her expression.
When he sends her on her way after he's done with her, he makes sure that the timing is just right that Mary sees them and gets a good look at the girl as she leaves his bed chambers.
Leaning against the doorframe, he watches Mary's cheeks color in embarrassment or perhaps anger. Her eyes follow the servant, who hurries bare-footed along the corridor in a flurry of raven locks and rustling robes until she disappears around the corner.
"She looks familiar."
Mary's tone is heavy with the weight of judgement, but Simon loftily shrugs it off, pretends he doesn't know what she speaks of. "Is that so? I hadn't noticed."
Mary purses her lips. "It's such a shame that you'll never find out how she compares."
The comment, casual as it may be, hits right home, and Simon grinds his teeth and clings to his nonchalance, unwilling to let her see how much she affects him.
"Oh, I assure you, she's a woman of many talents who knows exactly what she's doing. I'm confident that she doesn't have to fear the comparison with a scared little virgin."
It's not quite the truth, of course. The girl was... adequate, not a bad lover, but not half as talented as he claims. Not that it matters, because his words were obviously enough to scrape at Mary's womanly pride.
"I'm not scared," she says fiercely, and her eyes blaze with such furious fire that when she takes a step towards him, he expects her to hit him.
Instead, those sinful, full lips that haunted his fantasies clash against his, and it's everything that he hoped it would be, all her passion and anger, the tension that sizzles between them like burning embers released into the hungry slide of her mouth against his. A virgin she may be but she knows how to kiss, and he wonders who taught her, absurdly jealous of them. Her lips open under his, and her small, slender hands fist the seams of his shirt, nails scraping at his skin.
It's him who pulls back, breathless, the thrill of being granted a taste of the forbidden fruit warring with fear of what might happen if he gets carried away. It's not like he hasn't thought about it. After all, he has orders to put a stop to her engagement to France by any means necessary, and what better way to ruin her than to take her maidenhood and make her unsuitable to be Francis's or any future king's wife? But even if he wasn't burdened by moral qualms and didn't prefer his women willing, they'd have his head for it. No woman, not even one as exquisite as Mary, is worth that.
He steps back, wide-eyed, his heart beating frantically against his chest. "Are you insane? Those walls have eyes and ears."
"Who's scared now?" she asks with the amused tilt of an eyebrow. The smile she offers him is mocking, and he realizes that this was by no means a foolish moment of weakness on her part, but the calculated move of a woman who knows that while she may be risking her reputation, he's risking his life.
He pulls himself together, countering her implicit threat with one of his own. "Careful, your Majesty. I may just decide that having you for myself is worth dying for, and where would that leave you?"
Mary swallows. She looks scared, but he doesn't think it's him she's scared of. Her cheeks are flushed, her breath comes a little too quickly, and he could swear that he spots the tip of her tongue dart across her kiss-bruised lips. She's never been more beautiful – or more attainable, but he knows that however tempted she may be, she's not going to put her marriage with Francis at risk, neither for the chance of besting him, nor for a passionate frenzy.
She straightens and backs away. "You're right. That was foolish of me. It would serve us both well never to speak of it again."
"It's already forgotten," Simon lies, taking her hand and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. He allows his mouth to linger for a second too long against her skin, until Mary pulls her fingers from his grip and hurries away.
"Are you proposing, or are you trying to scare me?" she asked him once, when he was gloating about the stalemate in her engagement at the ball where they were introduced. Not a serious question, of course, a taunt more than anything.
And yet, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't considered it.
The sweet irony is, it would solve all their problems. Marrying an English nobleman who's cousin to the Queen would make allies out of Mary's enemies in the most amicable way, and even if he has no armies to help her defend the Scottish border, she would never have to worry about an English invasion ever again. As for Simon, beyond the obvious satisfaction gained from making Mary his, he'd win the Queen's gratitude for neutralizing what she considers a formidable threat.
If he suggested it now, though, Mary would laugh in his face. She wouldn't consider it, not as long as she's still hoping for the union with France to come into fruition. If that happened to fall through, however, and she were left with no better option... she might not be as opposed to the notion.
All the more reason to sabotage her engagement with Francis. He can be a patient man if he has to be, play the waiting game and be the ever present thorn in Mary's side, using threats and flirtation to throw her off. The longer King Henry makes Francis wait, the more likely it is that the alliance will fall apart, and if– when it inevitably does, Simon will step in as Mary's savior. If he plays his cards right, it's only a matter of time until he gets to have her, and this time he won't have to content himself with a little taste.
Until then, all that he can do is pull a few strings, play some mind games, get under Mary's skin as good as he can, and not allow her to burrow herself too deeply under his skin in turn. It's easier said than done, because she makes an impressive opponent, and she doesn't understand yet that his victory would serve them both well. He might tell her, if he thought she'd believe him, or if he didn't like the fight half as much as he does. After all, an easy victory is almost less satisfactory than a defeat, and he intends for this victory to be a sweet one.
End.