With all the affection Charles has given her over the years, Mary never thought he could hurt her. But he did when he arrived home. So now she's ignoring him. However, ignoring the person who loves her, cares for her, and has missed her has been difficult. Ever since he came home bringing that woman into the house, Mary has refused to speak. She doesn't want to make concessions. She doesn't want to get along just for the sake of making life run more smoothly. No.
Mary has been doing those things her whole life. And what did that get her? A trip to Ludlow and the disapproval of His Majesty, her father. It's high time she let her true feelings show. So that's what she's doing- letting how she feels break out. Lady Flora told her this treatment was like dandelions. "You pluck one from the ground, blow it, and it scatters its seeds everywhere. New dandelions pop up in unexpected places. So too are the seeds of discontent."
Except Lady Flora is wrong. She's not discontented. Angry, yes. All Mary really wants is that French woman gone from her home. Why this Brigitte is there, Her Highness doesn't know. And it rankles her nerves seeing the woman playing in the gardens with the children- her children! Charles acts like everything is okay. What is the woman to him? His foreign lover or something?
That's when Mary thought perhaps Lady Flora was correct. Maybe she is discontented. The Princess tried to calm down by walking to the upstairs office space close to the music room. She was unprepared to see the French woman with Paisley packing baskets when she arrived. It only irritated her nerves that much more.
Turning on her heels, Her Highness stalked off to the library downstairs. No one except her ever goes into the place. Thank God! It's here she can brood and stew and scream if need be. The library is a large room with two separate seating spaces on either end of it. There are walls of books all around, two massive fireplaces, and a section of floor-to-ceiling windows in the middle serving as a room divider.
In front of the windows, the Princess paced and thought. The anger mounted inside her chest and threatened to break free. The more she thought about Charles and the French woman, the more fury took over. Her feet took her to a table close to one of the sofas. Grasping a delicate vase with a stunning floral arrangement, Mary threw it sailing across the room.
A man lying down and hidden by the back of the sofa poked his head up. He whistled a reprimand as he looked at the vase shattered to bits. Similarly, the painting of the Welsh countryside was wet from the water that sloshed out of the now broken object.
"Sir, you should have announced yourself when I entered," Mary scolded.
Charles, now fully sitting, told her, "Perhaps, but what fun would that have been? Especially since you're not talking to me at the moment. I see your Tudor temper got the better of you." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to straighten it.
With a scoff, his wife strode over to a row of books. She began trailing a finger over the titles when her husband's scent wafted over her. His looming presence was behind, boxing her in. It was the closest they had been since his return. Swallowing thickly, still looking at the books, she asked, "What do you want?"
His answer left her flushed and breathless. The skin on the back of her neck prickled when he spoke. "You," was all he said for the longest time. Then Charles quantified it by saying, "I want you to tell me what's gotten you so worked up that you can't stand being around me."
It would be easy to turn around and give into the desire to kiss him, but when has anything in Mary's life been easy? Instead, she sidestepped her husband and narrowed her eyes. Pointing her finger in his direction, she remarked, "What has me so worked up is you bringing that woman into my home. How dare you, Sir? How dare you escort another female! It's disrespectful and shameful! I won't stand for it. Either she leaves, or I do. You choose."
Charles Brandon, the reformed philanderer, knew many things. One of the things he knew best was women. Over the years, he's become an avid reader. Except whereas his wife loves to read books about romance, poetry, and the knights of King Arthur's round table, he delights in reading her. Putting together all the things he knows about women and the things he's learned about his wife, Charles knew Mary was jealous and feeling insecure.
For the past two weeks, he thought that if he waited patiently, she would come to him. But she didn't. He also erroneously believed that by waiting it out, Mary would cool off. But she hasn't. His wife is angry and upset. One way to calm a bothered woman is to let her get it out of her system. He did that, and now it's time for action.
Stepping into her space, in one swoop, Charles scooped his wife up and threw her over his shoulder. Thank goodness she's not wearing one of those full, puffy skirts that are in fashion. Otherwise, it would have been uneasy to see where he was going. Yelling at him to put her down and hitting at his back only made him more determined in his efforts. While the servants watched and giggled behind their hands, he carted her off to their bedroom. An upstairs maid, who had been dusting in the hallway, opened the door for the Prince. He deposited his wife on the bed and began rolling up the arms of his sleeves.
There's something sexy about her husband's forearms. The hair on them, the muscles, it all does something to raise Mary's pulse. Choosing to ignore those feelings, she rolled over and got up. In the process of fixing the skirt of the dress, which got twisted, Charles sat down in an armchair and began taking off his boots. She heard the plop of them falling on the floor. Turning her blue eyes to his, she watched with fascination as he took off his socks too.
Once his feet were free, he steepled his hands over his stomach and stared at her. Sometimes the best thing in the world is when she looks at Charles, and he's already looking at her. However, this was different. This stare burns deep and cuts to the quick. Eye contact is a dangerous thing because it tells more than words ever could. His eyes changed the entire conversation without saying one word.
Mary's heart rose into her throat. The only thing she could think of to say was, "Sometimes I'm not angry. I'm hurt, and there's a big difference, you know."
Her Prince stood up and began walking toward her. No. Walking is not quite right. Stalking, that's perhaps the better word. He was stalking toward her, and she felt powerless under the weight of his gaze and his gait. Immbolized with a racing heart, Mary turned to remove herself from the hunt, but he caught her and wrapped her up in his arms. Those powerful forearms held her close and pressed her to him. The embrace of the man she loves is the most exquisite thing she can ever wear.
The Princess thought of how she should be angry, but she isn't. No. She loves this man, and being in his arms is the only place she wants to be at the moment. Moving, Mary twisted around in those arms and flung hers around his middle. But that wouldn't do because Charles wanted her closer. So he picked her up a second time. His wife seemed to have caught on because her slender legs wrapped around his muscular frame. Her arms encased his head with her fingers gliding through his hair. Mary bent to kiss his forehead, and a soft smile appeared on her face—the first genuine smile in days. And it tempted his mind while she made his body wait.
Charles began walking backward with her holding onto him. Instead of immediately going to the bed, as his body wanted, he returned to the armchair and sat. The goal is to feel his wife as close as possible to him with clothes on. And it was delicious, especially since she straddled his lap. Her lips came near to his, but his voice chased them away. "I've missed you, Mary. I've been away at war for months, and the first thing you said to me was to go away. Do you have any idea how much that stung?"
Refusing to move, she continued straddling him even while being reprimanded for her poor behavior. And when he put it that way, the persona of the Princess became Lady Brandon and was shamed. Her eyes are staring into the mess that she's made. The itch to stroke his beard welled up inside her, but she kept her hands still on his shoulders.
"Your stubbornness refused to see me off, and it also kept us from a happy reunion. Don't you know by now that you're the only woman I love? After all this time, you're still the one. Now I realize you're upset about the female I brought home," he told her.
Upon sensing her tension, his fingers began stroking her back. Charles explained, "Her name is Brigitte, and she's a prisoner of war. She's the daughter of a lesser French nobleman. Edward and I discussed letting her go, but the woman made a valid point. If we let her go and she went back to her family, they would think she's been ruined. They would have nothing to do with her and cast her off. She would have to fend for herself. That's true, Mary. You know that would have happened. So, we took her home to England with us."
With a strained voice, Mary asked, "But why did she have to come home with you? Couldn't she have gone with Edward to one of his older sons?"
That made Charles chuckle. Then he told her, "I posed that to him, but he disapproved of having a French girl in the family. So, I want you to know that I have been corresponding with several families willing to take her in as a ward. Your Lady Flora has been helping me with that. Brigitte will leave for Rochester in the coming days, where she'll be a ward and a governess to Lord Appleby's family."
Mary's eyes grew round with wonder. "Truly," she inquired.
With a fond crinkle at the corners of his eyes, he stated, "Truly."
Time is a strange fickle thing. One moment there can never be enough of it, and the next can drag on endlessly. But love and forgiveness don't fit into any timeframe. For good or for ill, for better or for worse, this is life. And life is all about seizing the moment. Life is best when it's lived.
Mary looked into the eyes of the man she loves and told him, "I missed you every day you were away, and I prayed for your safety. But when I was weak, really weak, I burned for you. I ached all over for you. You are my other half; my heart and body were missing yours."
His eyes clouded over, and he leaned in to kiss her neck, which she bared to let him. He trailed kisses all over to the front, leaving burn marks down the valley of her breasts. And Mary grew tired of that. Pulling his head up, she fused her lips with his and drank his kiss like a greedy kitten lapping milk from a bowl. Breathless, Charles stopped and spoke like a man stranded on a desert island. "Kiss me again and again until I'm sick of it. I've needed you and your love. I've needed your kisses because I've been lost without them."
Then Mary kissed him as she never had before. With her hands raking through his lush brown hair, it was better than any amount of chocolate, alcohol, or hunting. His wife is the only thing that matters in the world. Her kiss was the kind that left his skin tingly and him feeling drunk. It's hard to sit there and not want to do other things. He ached because it's been so long since he's been touched. It's a hunger that's surging inside him. That feat of self-control became incredibly challenging as his hand trailed up her thigh, which had become exposed from her dress riding up.
Standing from her husband's lap, Mary slowly stepped away just a little. She pulled the zipper of her dress down, gradually releasing the straps on her shoulders. Almost bare to her husband's gaze, the Princess took off her shift and let it pool at her feet along with the dress. Removing the lacy undergarments, she began to walk backwards to the bed, never taking her eyes from his starving gaze. Then Charles rapidly did the same and joined her. What started as tender grew wild when Mary, uncharacteristically, took the lead and gave her husband the welcoming home he should have had from the beginning. It was the kind of welcome she had wanted to give him before allowing her mind to wander and her feelings to hurt.
And when it was over, she lay there curled into his side, thinking. Sensing his wife had something to say, he turned onto his side and propped himself up with his arm. His eyebrow raised in question as his blue eyes held hers. It prompted Mary to speak. "I made you unbelievably sad and feel unwanted. With bruised stubbornness and broken stupidity, I apologize to you unconditionally. Please forgive me, Charles."
He covered her with his body, where they met face to face, locking her under him. His minty breath caressed her as he talked. "Darling, I forgive you because I love you. It's that simple and uncomplicated. You're not perfect, and neither am I."
Then they loved each other to completion again. All was right. All was well and as it should be. And in the morning, as the couple lay in bed together, Charles wondered at the reports on his desk. The two weren't leaving the comfort of their bedroom until they had to, but he must know, "How did you manage to find jobs for all of the pilgrims who crossed our Welsh border? How did you succeed when others have failed?"
She rose and leaned over, her auburn hair wrapping them in. After leaving a tender kiss on her husband's lips, she laid back down. "That's easy. I had to. The Abbeys were overcrowded, and I needed to take my mind off the war. So, I did what must be done and had each lord take inventory of the work required on their estates. When they responded, the ladies and I matched the people with the jobs. I called it Cardiff Career Day. Then I had Dot do the same in Suffolk; Anne did so in Somerset."
Not for the first time in their marriage was Charles in awe of his wife. "Amazing. If I had known you could solve this problem, I would have had you do it sooner before the war. When you're Queen, the country will be better for it."
But Mary disagrees. "No. I'm only as good as the person by my side. And that's you, Charles. Together is the only way I'll rule. Plus, I'll make it known that England will not go to war without a just cause."
Then her eyes grew moist as she begged. "Please, please don't leave me again. Even if my father sends the country to war over the loss of sweets, please stay with me. Don't go."
Charles assured his wife, "I'm not leaving ever again. I won't be going to war anymore, but I won't promise forever because I will die for you. I will defend you to the death, My Sweetheart. When we rule, I'd be expected to lead the battle if something happens. Though, as you said, not without a valid reason would I ever set foot on the battlefield again. And I won't get involved in wars I can't win. You have no idea how humiliating it was to surrender Boulogne to King Francis."
That pricked her heart. Mary had not known that. Even with Charles at home, she had not heard the talk of the surrender because she was too busy being offended. Indeed, the Princess could see how difficult a position her father had placed upon her husband's back. "Of course, he'd leave you with that task. He always has you clean up his messes. The country should have never been at war with France in the first place. Fighting wars we can't fund is stupid."
Charles agrees with that statement. It's a wonder England stays afloat with only being funded jointly by Wales, Suffolk, and now Somerset. But, "Let's discuss the kingdom's ills later. I haven't yet finished writing poetry on your lovely body." With a mischievous smile, he moved his wife under him and began kissing her again.
When the couple finally left the bedroom two days later, it was to see Brigitte off to Rochester. Once the French lady had departed, life at Hapus House returned to normal. Well, as standard as life can get with twins and two children under three. The days and months blossomed with hope and goodwill until almost a year later when the royal riders showed up with an urgent message. It directed them to return to the palace immediately.