Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix

Lancaster. It was Gaunt’s son and heir, Bolingbroke, who’d deposed his uncle Richard to steal the throne and become the fourth king called Henry, but Gaunt had also sired a pack of bastards with his mistress in France. If the countess was one of those Beaufort by-blows, that made Eleanor . . .
    Ballocks. “King Henry is your uncle.”
    “So he is. Or half an uncle, at the least.” Her lips thinned as she buttered a piece of bread for herself. “Or better said, an eighth part of an uncle, since he is only half uncle to half of us, and only acts like uncle to half of those. He has always greatly favored my sisters and me over my brothers.”
    Gunnar shrugged. The reason was obvious to him. “You and your sisters cannot claim the throne.”
    “Nor can my brothers. Parliament has said it.”
    “Nor could Henry, himself, by right,” pointed out Gunnar. “Richard was the one born king. And yet there Henry sits.”
    Lady Eleanor’s expression went flat. “Be careful of what you say, sir. Richard’s supporters are not well suffered here. Nor Mortimer’s.”
    “I supported neither of them. But truth is truth. If your brothers grow powerful enough, one of them might attempt what Bolingbroke himself succeeded at. Perhaps he keeps your brothers at a distance for fear he or Prince Harry will find themselves obliged to go to war against them one day. It is difficult to fight a man once you’ve coddled him as a child.”
    She looked down to where her brothers sat, and a crease formed between her brows. “My Beaufort uncles have certainly given the king cause to consider such a possibility. You surely have it right.”
    “I wish I did not, if it makes you frown so. I should have held my tongue and kept your smile.”
    “As you say, monsire , truth is truth. And your explanation does help me better understand the king. And my father,” she added softly, almost to herself.
    They both dropped silent as the varlets approached to fill their trencher. Despite the bread and butter, Gunnar’s stomach rumbled even more loudly as the pile of food before him grew.
    Lady Eleanor’s face cleared, and she snatched up a sliver of roasted goose and held it up to him. “Here, Sir Gunnar, quickly, before you frighten the dogs.”
    Chuckling, he leaned forward to take the morsel and, with barely a thought, closed his lips over the tip of her finger and sucked.
    It was something he’d done scores of times through the centuries, letting a bite of food shared with some wench lead to the “accidental” contact of lip to finger. ’Twas always an enjoyable moment, whether it led to more or not. But this time . . .
    The surge of Gunnar’s pulse was mirrored in the slight widening of Lady Eleanor’s eyes. Yes . He released her finger before anyone could notice, but not before he ran his tongue around the tip. He grinned as he caught that sound again, that little catch in her breath he’d heard when he’d collected his victor’s kiss. A warm, rosy glow flowed up from the neck of her gown, making her look less embarrassed than . . . aroused.
    Beddable.
    He’d thought of that all week, that wooing and winning her also meant bedding her. At first it had given him trouble; the image of her as a smoke-smudged child remained in his head. But she was eight-and-ten now, or very nearly so, a woman full-grown and more than ready for marriage. A fair, spirited woman who would surely be just as spirited abed.
    A woman of royal blood.
    Now there was a twist. He hadn’t known that while he sat alone in the night forest, planning his campaign for her heart and body and spilling blood to thank the gods for this chance. He had no business considering a woman so high, not when he was what he was.
    But even as the hairs on his neck lifted in warning, Gunnar found himself reaching to cut a slice of the goose, holding it out like a lure to a falcon soaring high over his head. “You should try a bit of the gander yourself, my lady. I am certain you will