Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year. Кэрол Мортимер

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      Nicholas forced his eyes away and picked up the needlework again, glad of the excuse to break his gaze, struggling to remember his thoughts.

      ‘Are you a juggler, Sir Nicholas?’

      He thought she had not noticed. ‘Only to amuse myself.’ He remembered now, as he returned her stitchery to her, his question. Had she wanted him to forget? ‘Her marriage to Holland. Were you there?’

      ‘Yes, of course. It was a quiet affair.’

      ‘I meant the first time.’

      She looked away. ‘The first time? Her marriage to Salisbury, you mean?’

      ‘No. Her first marriage to Holland. The secret one.’

      She pursed the thin lips. ‘I was but four. They did not have a babbling babe present.’

      He thought of her at four and smiled.

      She did not. ‘Now, as you have reminded me, I have duties to perform in the here and now.’ She put the needlework in a pouch and reached for her walking stick.

      ‘Let me...’ He reached to help her, still not knowing why, again resenting her for his discomfort.

      She turned a frigid gaze on him. ‘I have lived twenty-five years without your help. I do not need it now.’

      He gritted his teeth to hold back sharp words. ‘Then I shall not offer it again.’

      He watched her hobble away, anger mixing with guilt for thinking ill of her when he should be filled with pity.

      Yet pity was the last thing he felt. She wore her limp as proudly as a knight might wore his scars earned by prowess in war.

      No, he was feeling something else even more surprising.

      Want.

      He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He had been too long without a woman. On his trip to Canterbury, he’d make a detour to Grape Lane and find a woman with fair hair and lush lips and blue eyes who did not hurl prickly insults at him.

      Strange, he puzzled again, watching her stumble back to the lodge, for Lady Joan to keep such a woman with her, and not only because of her tart tongue. Typically, such persons were shunned, or discreetly kept out of sight. This woman, on the other hand, was ever close to her lady. And while she could not agilely leap to perform tasks, she seemed to be in charge of others who did.

      Well, he was not here to wonder about a lady-in-waiting. He was here to make sure the Prince could wed his lady love.

      After that, he’d be gone.

      * * *

      ‘Come, Anne,’ Lady Joan said, patting the bench beside her as Anne returned to her chambers. ‘Where have you been? We must speak of all that is to be done before the wedding.’

      Anne hobbled over to the bench and sank onto it, more tired than usual. Her first thought was to tell her lady that Nicholas had asked dangerous questions.

      Her second thought was to keep that secret to herself.

      But her lady, speaking of the wedding, did not question further, so Anne pulled out her needle and thread and settled in to listen.

      Her lady demanded all her attention and more. She was as jumpy as a cat, Anne thought, prowling the chamber, speaking of one idea, then another, her fabled calm shattered.

      Lady Joan was unaccustomed to being without a man. When Thomas Holland had been gone to war, well, that was one thing. But he died late in December, in Normandy, she by his side. It had been a blur, those next weeks. Packing, moving back across the Channel. Anne had expected peace and mourning when they returned.

      But her lady was not a woman who could live for long without a husband. How many weeks had it been after they returned before she was looking for her next companion? Barely enough to mourn the man. And Joan was not only the most beautiful woman in England, she was also the most wealthy. She had her pick of men, clustered, pleading their cases.

      But she had waited for the best catch of them all. And a man she had known in the nursery.

      Anne had no opinion about Edward of Woodstock. She couldn’t afford to. Some tongues had wagged. The lusty widow. But if it had been Anne, the Prince would not have stirred her lust.

      Unbidden, she thought of Nicholas. He of the strong brows and the rugged nose and the lips that...

      She shook her head. The man’s lips were no longer of any interest to her unless they were speaking of something of interest to her lady.

      ‘We must craft the celebration carefully,’ the Countess was saying. ‘It must not be so gay that it dishonours those taken by the pestilence, yet it must be grand and appropriate to a future King and Queen.’ A perplexed pout quivered on her lips. ‘And yet, it is a ceremony for two who are already married.’

      ‘Not in the eyes of the Pope.’ Anne swallowed, wishing she could recall the words. She knew better than to speak so bluntly to her lady. Sparring with Sir Nicholas had made her tongue tart.

      Lady Joan blinked, as if her pet monkey had suddenly nipped her. ‘The Pope will get his chapels. All will be as it must.’

      ‘If Sir Nicholas obtains the proper blessing from the Archbishop.’

      Now, the Countess turned her full gaze on her. ‘You assured me there was nothing to fear. Have you spoken to him again? Has something changed?’

      Yes. He was asking questions, the very questions neither she, nor her lady, wanted to answer. But to say so would be to admit she had whiled away a few minutes in the sunshine with a handsome knight who actually looked at her. To admit that instead of avoiding him, she had spoken to him of wants...

      She cleared her throat and shook her head, looking at her stitches instead of at her lady. ‘I only mean that if he is looking into the past, he might become curious. He might ask more questions.’

      Reassured, the Countess waved her hand. ‘He will find little.’

      That, of course, was what she was afraid of. And what would Nicholas Lovayne do then? No doubt he would be loyal to his Prince, just as she was to her lady.

      ‘I know!’ The Lady Joan stopped her pacing. ‘After the wedding, we’ll have a celebration. A tournament before all the people to prove that we have triumphed over the death that haunts our land.’

      Anne smoothed her fingers over the silver stitches, holding back a pointed reply. Only Jesus Christ triumphed over death.

      But her lady was speaking of dresses and colours...

      ‘Shall he come to the wedding?’

      ‘Who?’ Her lady returned to the bench and placed cool fingers on Anne’s forehead. ‘Are you ill? You are not like yourself today.’

      No, she was not. She was still dizzy with confusion. ‘I meant Sir Nicholas. Since he helped to make it possible.’

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