Chapter 2

So. A woman of nearly fifty, ravished by the Lord Protector of the realm.

All night long.

Thank God I've taken care of myself. Tisanes, hippocras, regular walks up the hill to the abbey for Mass. Decades of discipline.

Otherwise, he truly would have killed me.

Somewhere around midnight, a knock sounds at the door.

"Your Grace, the girl's here. To help you break the fever."

What he hears in response is... not conversation. The sounds coming from inside that room are deeply, profoundly improper.

Roland doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. Just turns his head and snarls:

"Get out!"

The attendant's voice brightens with understanding. "Ah—Your Grace already has... company. I'll return the young lady at once."

I try to call for help.

"S-save... save me..."

Roland clamps a hand over my mouth. "Don't scream. I'll have you begging soon enough."

He is... formidable.

More formidable than Henry was on our wedding night thirty-four years ago. And Henry had been a young man then.

We married at sixteen. By twenty-five, Henry was already flagging. By thirty, he left me altogether—went to meet his Maker.

This kind of vigor? I've only ever read about it in those courtly romances. Lancelot, Tristan—none of them hold a candle.

The pleasure is like nothing I've ever known.

"How... how is this even possible???"

Roland's voice, husky and amused, brushes my ear. "You're enjoying it too. Aren't you?"

That night, we are utterly shameless.

The Rosary snaps. Beads scatter across the linen sheets, clicking softly, catching the firelight. That Rosary—my most treasured possession. Blessed by Father Benedict's own hand. I used it every single day in prayer.

At first, I can't fight him.

Later, I don't want to.

It is... magnificent.

I never imagined—not at my age, with one foot already in the grave—that I could feel something like this.

But beneath the bliss, a cold thread of worry coils in my chest.

This man controls the kingdom. The Everwoods are respectable, yes, but we are no great house. If Roland decides to destroy us, it takes nothing more than a stroke of his pen.

I can't drag my family into this.

So when he finally falls asleep, I peel myself free of his arms and slip away.

The damage he's done to my body is... considerable. I can barely stand. My walking stick trembles against the flagstones with every step.

The stone stairs down the hillside are a special kind of torture. My legs buckle. My hips scream. The stick skids on the steps three separate times, and each time I nearly pitch forward into empty air. Somehow—somehow—I make it to the bottom.

Agnes, my lady's maid, waits by the carriage.

"Milady, Lady Eleanor was returned safely. I've been waiting ages. You look dreadful—did something happen?"

Eleanor is safe. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Agnes is still staring at me. I wave her off.

"Nothing happened. I dozed off in the guest quarters, that's all. Lost track of time."

"Eleanor's safe. That's what matters. Take me home."

In the carriage, I clench my hands together, close my eyes, and pray.

*Holy Mary, have mercy on me... Holy Mary, have mercy on me...*

Let no one ever learn of this. Not in this life. Not ever.

But my mind won't cooperate. It keeps replaying—his face, the breadth of his shoulders, the relentless way he moved—

Henry. I try to summon Henry's face. My husband. We were betrothed as children, married at sixteen, parted by death at thirty. I never remarried. Nearly twenty years.

I swore at his coffin that no man would ever touch me again. Twenty years, I kept that vow.

I thought Henry would be the only man I'd ever have.

And now—practically in my grave—twenty years of faithfulness, shattered in a single night.

"Henry... God rest your soul... I'm so sorry..."

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