Darcey Bonnette - The Tudor Princess

‘Wonderful, Maggie!’ Jamie cried as he dismounted. He instructed his courtiers to remove the stag to the palace for our evening’s supper. With this executed we stood alone. Our breathing was heavy, the thrill of the kill still surging through our veins. I quivered, trembling with excitement.

Jamie approached me, taking my hands in his. They were hot, slick with sweat. He shook his head as though in disbelief. ‘My God, Maggie … You’re so beautiful.’

I smiled, drawing him nearer to me. ‘Jamie …’

He wrapped his arms about me, his lips descending upon mine in our first true kiss. His lips were hungry, inflamed with a passion I did not know he possessed as he devoured mine. I returned the kiss, matching his passion with my own. His hands roamed my body and I found myself boldly unlacing his breeches and removing his doublet. Freed of our bonds, we stood before each other as God made us, shining with sweat, our chests heaving. I took in Jamie’s body, drinking in its beauty – all angles, all muscles, taut and fine. But he was scarred. His hips were chafed from the iron belt he insisted on wearing, his back a patchwork of white and pink wounds that snaked across his flesh, jagged rivers of pain.

‘Jamie, who dared whip you?’ I asked him.

He shook his head, tears lighting his green eyes. ‘It is a burden I bear gladly – please let us not think of it or anything unpleasant at this moment. Let me look at you … oh, Maggie …’ He drew me to him and I revelled in the silkiness of his skin against mine. We pressed against each other with urgency, kissing once more. His lips travelled down my neck, to my breasts, my belly, my legs. My body was aflame with sensation; I was primal, pagan as a priestess at a Beltane fire. Infused with passion, we fell to the ground and with tender urgency claimed what was our right, writhing with love there in the middle of the forest, on a bed of thick, sweet grass surrounded by thistles and wild roses.

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