Royal Courting. #3
“Can I ask you something?” he asked, his words muffled into his drink as he took a sip.
I nodded.
“Earlier, you said you’d marry a villager someday, simply because it’s expected of you, correct?”
Fitzroy raised a brow, and I nodded to confirm he was right.
“Has living as a man taught you nothing?” His curt tone took me aback.
While Fitzroy looked into my eyes, intensely waiting for my answer, I tried to make sense of his words.
“I don’t follow…”
“In Cambas, you were valued for your skill, your bravery, your camaraderie among fellow soldiers. Not once was your worth reduced to whether you were a virgin. Yet now you’ve taken off the breeches and put on the gown, and it’s like you’ve put yourself back in your old restraints.”
I didn’t want to accept it, but he was right—though it wasn’t as simple as what garments I donned.
“You don’t understand,” I said. “It’s not that I want to obey these rules—it’s just the order of things, and I cannot change that.”
I let out a resigned sigh, feeling conflicted between expectation and defiance.
“I saw what my mother endured,” Fitzroy said, offering me his goblet.
I accepted, taking a long sip of the fruity wine before passing it back.
“If she’d been a man,” he continued, “she could have bedded half the kingdom and not one head would’ve turned. She’d be remembered simply as a great painter.”
Fitzroy took a moment to stare into his goblet, watching the red wine ripple as he swayed the vessel. There was a deep sorrow in his eyes—something I hated to see, that I wished to ease.
“Her only sin was obeying the King, and she was labeled nothing better than a whore. She listened to the courtiers’ gossip—viewed herself through the same distorted lens.
And I don’t want you to be ensnared in that trap.
You’re too talented a blacksmith—too great a witch—to measure your self-worth by your piety or whether you’re married. ”
Fitzroy tore his gaze from his goblet to meet mine, staring deep into my eyes with nothing but honesty oozing from his. His brows furrowed—an almost pained look etched into his strong features, as if the idea of me not knowing my worth hurt him.
Though my heart beat a little faster from his kind words, womanhood still seemed an impossible labyrinth to wend—a hidden pitfall around every corner.
“How can I ever escape?” I asked, searching for more of his wisdom.
“Courage—and absolute certainty that what you’re doing is the right thing. Not only for yourself, but for all who walk the realm.”
I nodded, listening intently, taking in every word.
“I truly believe Lyonesse would be a better place if magic weren’t outlawed,” he continued.
“That’s why I’m fighting to emancipate witches and wizards.
And if you think the kingdom would be better if women could be blacksmiths, and choose whether and whom they wish to marry, then you should fight for that, too. ”
Fitzroy took my hand once more. This time, he held it tight.
“I know it’s scary. I’d be a lying man if I said I wasn’t terrified. But if I have to be brave—well then, so do you.”
After a grounding exhale, I nodded once more. He was right.
“There is so much more to you than being a woman,” Fitzroy said, meeting my eye with burning certainty blazing in his. “Don’t forget that just because people call you Niamh again.”
I was stunned.
It was as if I’d been caught out in the rain, and just before my garments were drenched through, Fitzroy had come to my aid—bringing with him the sun, giving me warmth and light when I needed it most.
Usually, I could only compliment his near-perfect physical attributes, but today his soul shone through—caring, thoughtful, and radiant.
I wanted to tell him how much his words meant to me—no. I wanted to show him, to kiss him. Unable to resist, I stole a glance at his lips.
A soft chuckle escaped Fitzroy, and my cheeks heated, certain he’d caught me looking.
“I meant it when I said the carpenter’s a fool,” he murmured. “If he doesn’t want you, then that’s his loss, and someone else’s gain—because you’re truly a gemstone among the grit.”
The door to my heart burst open, and everything I felt for Fitzroy—everything I’d tried to barricade behind hatred—rushed out, flooding me with affection for him from head to toe.
Slowly, I edged nearer, desperate to kiss him, hoping he felt the same longing for me.
But before I could reach him, a yawn escaped me. I hastily covered my gaping mouth as Fitzroy smirked at my lack of decorum.
“It’s late. We should retire,” he declared, rising and extending his arm. “May I escort you to your bedchamber?”
Without hesitation, I took it. “That would be most gallant,” I replied, now more than ever, struggling to hide the feelings I harbored for Fitzroy.
Together, we walked through the eerie corridors of the castle.
Though I wasn’t usually afraid of the night, an unfamiliar sense of foreboding gripped me, prickling at my nerves.
The flickering torchlight cast distorted shadows on the stone walls, which danced like restless spirits.
I clung tightly to Fitzroy’s arm, fearing something malevolent might be hiding in the dark corners and alcoves.
Even upon reaching my chamber, I hesitated to let him go, unnerved by the moonlit halls.
“Would you care to come in?” I whispered, the mere thought of being alone sending a shiver down my spine.
He nodded and followed me inside, quietly closing the door behind us.
Fitzroy settled on the chaise lounge, silently watching me as I began to get undressed—a change from his usual demeanor.
As I unfastened the pearls from my neck, I caught his eye in the mirror; his expression was unreadable, offering no clue to his thoughts.
Before, I would’ve assumed he was quietly passing judgment.
But now I wondered if he was admiring me.
Usually, Bronwyn aided in my dressing and undressing, but Fitzroy’s presence stopped me from calling for her assistance. Instead, I fumbled with the lace at the back of my gown while Fitzroy chuckled softly, deepening my frustration.
“Would you care for some help?” he finally offered.
“Please,” I said, exasperation clear in my tone as I wrestled with the restrictive layers.
His warm breath brushed against my skin as he carefully loosened the lacing up the back of my gown. When his hands reached for my neck, I instinctively clutched the locket to my chest.
“I never take this off,” I whispered, fearful that if it ever left me, I’d lose it.
“Understood,” he replied, his voice somehow huskier than usual. “Do you grant me permission to help remove the rest of your garments?”
Heart thumping, I nodded.
This was not unlike the evening when Fitzroy helped dress me, yet undressing felt more intimate.
Once my gown, kirtle, and underskirts were shed, Fitzroy knelt before me, his gaze meeting mine as I stood clad in nothing but my sheer chemise. With a gentle touch, he removed my velvet slippers, cradling each foot as he unfastened the garters just below my knees and rolled down my stockings.
After both of my feet were bare, Fitzroy rose to his.
“Good night, Niamh,” he murmured, taking my hand and kissing the back of it.
As he headed for the door, I knew I had to find a way to make him stay.
“Do you need help undressing?” I asked, trying to stop the desperation I felt from seeping into my tone. “Let me return the favor.”
Fitzroy lingered for a moment as though debating my offer.
He turned back to face me. “If it won’t inconvenience you.”
I shook my head as we moved toward each other, meeting before the crackling fireplace.
My fingers traced the golden clasp of his fur-lined cloak before unfastening it, letting the heavy damask fabric pool around his feet.
Carefully, I lifted Fitzroy’s long silk tunic over his head, my breath hitching at the sight of him bare-chested for the first time.
His lean, athletic frame was dusted with dark hair, accentuating his composed yet rugged presence.
Lowering myself to my knees, I unlaced his boots and slipped them off, before reaching for his belt.
With careful hands, I unbuckled it, sliding off his breeches and hose so he sported only his undergarments.
I rose to my feet, standing face-to-face with Fitzroy. The gods had taken their time carving each of his features—he was breathtaking in the firelight.
I met his gaze briefly, but my traitorous eyes drifted to his lips, desperate to know if they felt as soft as they appeared.
After many long moments of gazing into his eyes, silently willing him to make the first move, I resolved that I could wait no longer.
With tentative fingers, I placed a hand on the back of his neck, drawing him in closer. Our lips met, and the sensation stole my breath. Somehow, they were softer than I’d imagined.
The hairs on my arms stood on end as he reciprocated the kiss, delicately gliding his tongue against mine. Fitzroy’s hands found my hips and slid to my rear, tenderly squeezing as he pulled me tight against his chest.
Prying my lips a hairbreadth from his, I panted, “Stay,” into his mouth.
Fitzroy pulled back, meeting my eyes.
“I wasn’t going to walk through the halls in nothing but my braies,” he said.
A giggle escaped me as I imagined him scurrying sheepishly past the guards, desperate to reach the safety of his bedchamber before crossing paths with a courtier.
“Are you certain you want me to spend the night?” Fitzroy asked, his brooding gaze never once faltering.
I nodded, knowing I’d already made up my mind.
“I want you,” I said—taking control of my own needs, no longer caring what others might think.
Cupping his face with both my hands, I leaned in, and he met me halfway. Our lips collided in a kiss far more lustful than before—his hands tangled in my hair one moment, then gripped firmly around my waist the next.
I threaded my fingers through his thick locks, holding him close, desperate to keep our mouths touching.