Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year. Кэрол Мортимер

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      She made no quick retort this time and, in the silence, his suspicions resurfaced. Was there something more to this journey than she had said?

      Finally, she blinked, as if waking from a distant vision. ‘I have not been away from Lady Joan in more than fifteen years.’

      A startling thought. The royal household was constantly on the move. By the time he was ready to return from Canterbury, the King would have moved on to Clarendon or Brockenhurst or Carisbrooke. Individual members of the household might stay behind or go before. For Anne to have never been separated from her lady in so long was more than unusual.

      He could not imagine that kind of constancy. But her affliction, of course, made any travel monumental, best undertaken with a cart to move her. Travelling with Lady Joan, they could ride together in safety and comfort.

      For her to come on this journey, on horseback, accompanied by only a few knights and squires and a maid, must take more courage than he had appreciated. ‘Will you miss her?’

      She smiled. ‘I’ll have time to discover that, won’t I?’

      And he saw no fear in her eyes. Only a yearning that rekindled the twinge of weakness he had felt in his chest more than once when he looked at her.

      He struggled to reclaim his stern face, searched for curt words.

      Oh, a quick kiss with a smiling maiden was a harmless diversion when he was stuck in the New Forest for three days. They had shared some barbed words and some laughter, but he had always known he would move on.

      Yet now, when he was ready to leave, here she was. And here she would be, day after day, on the road beside him.

      And what was worse, was that he was not certain he minded.

      * * *

      Anne had journeyed on horseback before, but never for so long a ride, day after day. Roads were rutted, carts slow and uncomfortable, and sometimes, she and her lady had been carried in the comfort of a litter, cushioned with pillows and shielded from wind and sun.

      There would be no such respite now.

      Simply to stay on the horse took all her strength. Her right foot could not rest in the stirrup, so she clenched her thighs, as tightly as she could, hoping with every mile that she would not slide off and be trampled. The horse, sensing her tension, seemed to fight her, making every step a struggle.

      By afternoon, her muscles shook with pain.

      Yet she felt happy enough to sing.

      Though she had imagined, in the moments before sleep, journeying to the far corners of the world, seeing sights too strange to be imagined, she knew it to be a dream. Only in the circle of her lady’s protection could she live safely. In lucid, waking moments, she could not conceive of leaving Lady Joan’s side.

      Yet here she was, on a lovely summer day, so far away she could not hear or see or even be summoned by the Countess. And instead of fear, exhilaration pulsed through her. She took in the wonderful scent of flowers, first those of bright yellow, then some of vivid blue, and the rise and fall of the grasslands at the edge of the forest. Perhaps they would ride near enough to the water that she would get a glimpse.

      Happiness—all the result of a freedom she had never known. Because now, today, she could pretend she was the person she wanted to be, one who could travel unencumbered. That was the reason. Not Sir Nicholas Lovayne.

      His horse inched ahead of her time after time and he kept looking over his shoulder as if to make sure she still kept her seat.

      Abruptly, he rode closer, as if he had recognised her thought. They had not spoken since she had mounted, a process made easy with his help. He had a way of lifting her so gracefully that it was no longer a struggle to get on the horse.

      ‘Is it comfortable for you?’ he said. ‘To ride? Should we stop to rest?’

      Kind of him to ask. He had not seemed so generous this morning. And even if she had to tie herself to the horse, she would not succumb. ‘You said it yourself. We have no time. Besides, isn’t a pilgrim supposed to suffer?’ She smiled, as if to assure him she did not.

      She hoped he did not see her grit her teeth.

      ‘Come. Let us rest and eat.’

      He gave quick orders to those with them and his squire Eustace scurried to set up a blanket while Agatha, the serving girl Lady Joan had lent her, unpacked a cold meal by the stream. They travelled lightly, escorted by only two knights and their squires.

      But Nicholas arranged everything, a task much simpler, she was certain, than managing food and drink for hundreds of men, as he had in France. Still, with him, she was not a lady-in-waiting with an obligation to fetch or carry.

      He came to the near side of her horse, ready to lift her down and she braced herself against desire.

      His arms were strong and tight. Then her body pressed to his, close, close as lovers might be. But there was nothing beyond duty in his care of her. She knew that. He was the Prince’s man, she attached to Lady Joan. But somehow, away from the court, no longer surrounded, she felt as if they had escaped for a tryst.

      Her feet touched the uneven ground and she stumbled, leaning into him so she would not fall.

      ‘I have you.’ His voice was a rumble in his chest. ‘Don’t worry.’

      She closed her eyes, only to see a fantasy she had long forbidden herself.

      The picture of herself as an ordinary woman. One who might have a husband, even a lover. If she were that woman, would she choose this man? Surely she was attracted only because he was the one man who had come near enough to touch her.

      She raised her eyes, murmuring thanks, and was struck by him all over again.

      Tall and straight, yes. That she had known from the first. He was of a similar height to the King or the Prince. Unusual. Few men could look either Edward in the eye. Nicholas stood on equal ground.

      With her hands on his arms she could feel the strength that could swing a sword, yet his muscles, like so much about him, seemed hidden, used as a last resort instead of a first. Finely carved lips were a sharp contrast to a nose that looked as if it had lived through more than one battle. Taken together, he was an uneasy mix of diplomat and warrior.

      She raised her eyes to meet his, so deep set it was hard to see their colour or read his expression. Too late, she realised he was gazing back at her.

      ‘What are you looking at?’ he said.

      ‘Your eyes.’ Too late to lie.

      He leaned back, near dropping her, but he did not look away. ‘And your conclusion?’

      Heat bloomed on her cheek and crept lower. Could he see her thoughts?

      No. Certainly not. And if he were strong enough to hold her gaze, she would not look away. ‘I thought your eyes were brown, but I was wrong. They are...’

      She narrowed her gaze. She had never been able to name the colour of his eyes. Green or brown in СКАЧАТЬ