Involuntarily she looked up, hearing the movement of the other, and actually looked for the first time.
Poiters. The King’s favourite mount. And Henry the King.
A choked cry emerged from her mouth. Summer dropped to her knees, utterly heedless of anything else, and ducked her head. “Your Grace, I — ” Her throat closed up and words failed her. All she could do was wait for his wrath to descend on her, for her temerity in not recognising him immediately and in confessing such an unseemly emotion.
He stopped as he recognised her and he took a deep breath, as he stopped to look over at her.
“Lady Summer,” he said to her, and he saw her kneeling, and thought that she had fallen once again of her ankle, and he rushed to her, carefully picking her up. “You should not be riding with your ankle still unwell.”
“No, no please — don’t — Henry — ” As his name fell from her mouth Summer froze, certain that now, now his kindness would vanish like snow in summer, now she would be justly punished. Tears overflowed down her face, pulled to the surface by conflicting emotions.
Henry looked at her, worried that she no longer wanted him and he let go of her as they balanced from where they were standing, and his eyes fell to hers and he saw the tears on her face.
He should turn to leave, as he had that night, but once again his mind did not respond, and he moved and pressed his lips against hers again, pulling her closer to him.
His kiss was so familiar, Summer responded without thinking, swaying in to his body. For a long moment there was nothing but his mouth against hers and his arms holding her, and then memory stomped a hoof and she broke the kiss. “M-my lord?” It was hard to find the words, to shape them into her sudden apprehension. “My lord, were you in my rooms last night?”