Rolling over, Mary slipped her legs between her husband’s and pressed her cool, soft body against him. Francis’ lips curled upward, his eyes still closed as Mary combed her fingers through his hair, pulling lightly in the way that he liked, and gently pressed her mouth to his.
“Am I dreaming?” Francis whispered as her lips traveled down his throat, her hands massaging the taut muscles in his back. “This is a very pleasant way to start the day.”
Mary combed long strands of brown hair out of her eyes and pressed her forehead to his. “I want to give you a child,” she replied, stroking his face with the tips of her fingers. “I want our sons and daughters to run around in the gardens and play in the secret passageways, as we once did.”
Francis gently pushed her backward into the abundance of feather pillows on their bed and gazed down at his wife. “You’re so beautiful when you wake up,” he said, pausing to capture the memory. “This is when you’re mine.”
Mary smiled. She felt soft and gentle and loved. A feeling that felt far away some days. “I am always yours,” she promised. “Not just as your Queen.”