Chapter Thirty-Nine: Just One Time
"Blackmail!" Mary Tudor pulled away from her personal maid in shock, eyeing Sally Weeks as though she'd just grown two heads.
"That's about the size of it, Your Grace." Sally's big blue eyes were full of knowing sympathy. Princess Mary had just come home after attending the star-studded funeral of Bridget O'Flaherty, a close friend and one of England's biggest film stars. "Look, beautiful lady, I'll tell you all about it. But first let's get you out of those too-tight heels and that uncomfortable black dress!"
"You picked out the heels and the dress yourself," Mary grumbled, turning her back and letting Sally get on with the job of undressing her. During the funeral the high-necked dress had been a suit of armor, protecting her from flashing cameras and curious stares. Now it felt like a straitjacket, stifling her and suffocating her. Mary let out a sigh of relief as Sally swiftly unbuttoned her buttons.
"My, we are tense," the perky blonde remarked, once the weary Tudor princess had shed her clothes and was perched on the sofa in her favorite frilly robe. Sensing her young lady's mood, Sally began rubbing the tension from her shoulders, using her strong fingers to gradually relax her sore, tired muscles. "Poor Bridget's funeral must have been quite an ordeal. Reporters everywhere and loads of fans swarming about. All those people!"
"Most of them didn't even know her!" Mary felt exhausted by everything she'd been through. During the funeral she'd wept non-stop, unaware of the press snapping their filthy little pictures.
"You loved her," Sally said simply. "But loving eyes don't always see clearly. Bridget was using you."
"I don't believe it!" Mary moaned, letting her tired body give in to the massage. Sally's firm fingers felt surprisingly soothing. Yet the grip on her shoulders was surprisingly strong.
"You'd better believe it." Sally's brisk, take-charge personality matched the briskness of her hands. "This wasn't in the tabloids, but on the night she died, Bridget was carrying a memory stick full of pictures. Video images of you and her, making love."
"That's a lie!" Mary shook free from the strong, soothing hands that had held her spellbound. Lovely Sally was lying. She had to be! "You expect me to believe a famous movie star with tons of offers would resort to blackmail just to get a little extra money?"
"Maybe it was about money," Sally shrugged. "Maybe it was about something else. I've heard that Bridget didn't like her film contract with the studio that made The Pirate Queen. It could be that she wanted out, and needed powerful backing to make it happen."
"But who? But why?" Mary's mood tilted away from anger to a dizzying sensation of dismay. Had she really known Bridget at all?
"I don't know," Sally said quietly. Her strong hands went back to stroking Mary's weary, sagging shoulders. "But Queen Jane had an instinct that you might be in trouble. She sent me and that friend of hers, the Texan, to come get you. I'm glad we arrived when we did. You'd been drugged, lovely lady. And Bridget was just getting ready to put that video on the market."
"I'm such a fool," Mary sighed. She remembered Bridget pouring champagne, the two of them drinking. She remembered letting Bridget undress her in front of the fire. And after that, nothing.
"No, you're not a fool," Sally told her. "Bridget was the real fool. She passed up a chance at true love!"
"Whatever that means." Mary closed her eyes, feeling cynical. She'd fallen in love with the fantasy image of The Pirate Queen, but that wasn't real. Maybe love itself wasn't real. There were times when she just wanted to forget her worries and drift away.
"Tell you what," her maid said brightly. "You've had a hell of a day. Why not let me run you a hot bath? We'll light a few scented candles, and throw in some soothing bath salts. And after that, I'll leave you to your long soak. Unless you might like company?"
"Mm." Mary pictured Sally slipping out of her maid's uniform and joining her in the bath. Well, why not? After everything she'd been through, she was entitled to a little pleasure. It would just be this one time, of course. Just one time.