Читать книгу Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 60

Chapter Eight

Anne broke from his arms and sank to the floor, turning away from his eyes. ‘Forgive me.’ Her lips still burned, though she refrained from touching them. I...’ She cleared her throat. ‘I have not... It is... I’m not sure...’

She was tripping over the words just as she tripped over her feet. What had she done? What madness had seized her?

Seized both of them. For he did not rebuff her, not even as he let her go. No, she felt, for that moment, as a normal woman might, able to touch and kiss and love without facing revulsion. The closeness, mile after mile, was making her long for things she could not have.

Even her father had refused her his lap on the rare occasions he was home.

She rubbed the tears from her cheeks, then searched for her stick, feeling blind as well as lame, but it was Nicholas who found it and handed it to her.

He cleared his throat, keeping at arm’s length from her, letting her find her balance again. ‘Are you all right?’

She nodded. Yet that was only partly true, for she knew that both of them were now off balance, unsteady in whatever new ground they had just walked onto.

She would be better only when she could neither see nor hear him, nor catch his scent if he came too close. For now, the floor was a haven and she did not try to rise.

Words. She must find words to reassure him. ‘I did not... I should not... I did not mean...’

‘I did not understand how deeply you mourned for him.’

She released a breath, thankful that he assumed she wept for a dead man. She did not. Joan’s brother had been gone near ten years. She had come because her lady asked it.

No, her tears were for her own weakness. She wept because she wanted, against all reason, a life that was impossible. And then, he took her into his arms and she wanted, oh, how she wanted...

And then, she took it. Another kiss. Just one more time. And she could pretend...

She must look at him. She must pretend, again, that there had been no kiss, no hope, no desire.

‘You are kind,’ she began, blinking against the unwelcome sting of tears. Kind in a way she did not want. She allowed such care from no one, for it only affirmed her limitations. Reminded her too often of what she could not do.

No, no, Anne. You can’t, said her mother. Not by yourself.

Yet when someone helped, she must be grateful. Oh, so grateful.

‘Thank you,’ she said, at last, near choking on the words.

He did not answer.

And when she braved his eyes again, she was trapped by a long, deep gaze. One that seemed to see what she did not show, hear what she did not say.

‘I do not need thanks.’ How long had they looked at each other in silence between her words and his? ‘Do you ever have a moment’s thought for yourself?’

Angry words. As if she should.

How could she tell him that she was thinking of little but herself. Of how she craved his company like a flower craved the rain.

‘In caring for my lady, I do care for myself.’

He shook his head. ‘You are too loyal.’

He must not know how loyal. ‘Yet you serve the Prince.’

‘I do what I must.’ There was a curiosity in his gaze. ‘But you...’

Distract him. Her lady’s voice, as clear as if she were in the room.

She leaned on her stick, refusing his hand, and struggled to her feet. ‘What you must? Hold crying women?’ Was her smile too brittle? She hoped he would not notice.

‘No.’ Again, he cleared his throat, as if he might find his voice hidden there. ‘At least, not until now.’

Nor had he wanted to, she would wager.

She took a step and slipped. Once again, he caught her. But this time there was nothing but her frailty between them and she was Anne again.

The slick stone floor and steps of the church required her full attention until they emerged into the street, now bathed in twilight.

He lifted her into the cart, as effortlessly as he plucked her on and off the horse, and picked up the handles to push her through the streets.

‘So what do you do, Sir Nicholas?’ There must be no more tears or telling silence. ‘When you are not helping a demoiselle en détresse?’

‘I make problems go away,’ he said, with a sigh she recognised all too well.

‘Ah, I have done the same.’

‘You?’

‘Indeed. You supply armies. I must oversee this year’s Yuletide livery.’

‘Is that so difficult?’

It was clear from his tone that the man had no understanding as to the complexities. ‘This year? Yes. What colour shall we choose? Princess Isabella’s garb must normally be bettered only by her mother the Queen, but this year, Lady Joan will be Princess of Wales and rank above Isabella! Both must be pleased and neither offended.’

‘How can new clothes offend?’

‘The entire family must wear the same colour so they look perfect standing together. Even the servants’ livery must match. Yet blue flatters Joan and Isabella likes it not. Isabella wants yellow and Joan refuses. The Queen, hoping for peace, floats above, leaving Isabella’s lady, Cecily, and I to go between them searching for a solution.’

Then, he laughed. A sound, she wagered, that was as unfamiliar to him as it was to her. ‘Women! Thinking only of themselves. And I thought finding food and water for ten thousand men and thirty thousand horses was hard!’

She gritted her teeth against a tart response. At least she had found a topic to distract him. ‘Provisioning knights and archers cannot be compared to satisfying two princesses. I am grateful that Lady Cecily and I can laugh together.’

And so she entertained him with stories of counting ells and ermine skins and made him laugh again. Their companionship returned to its rightful place and the comfortable distance was restored.

She must not let it slip again.

* * *

In the days between Winchester and Canterbury, Nicholas rode more slowly. Edward and Joan could wait another day to wed. He would not harm Anne to pay for their folly. Yet the journey was still hard and there was little time, or breath, to tarry and talk.

Nicholas, convinced that Anne could keep up, or that she wished to pretend she could, kept his distance. And if she was silent because she was battling pain, he pretended not to notice.

Safer for them both that way.

So, once again, he let Eustace or one of the others help her on and off the horse, even though the idiots treated her as if she were a sack of grain, instead of a woman, because he could not risk getting close to her again.

One moment crying for a dead man. The next, kissing one very much alive. Why?

But who knew why women did anything except for their own gain. In his experience, women’s interest in him had been directly proportional to what he could offer them. The camp followers wanted a tent and extra food, so he had been the centre of flattery and offers he chose, usually, to refuse. Women who wanted a husband would parade before him, hoping to tempt his eye, until they discovered he could not provide the wanted wealth that would make a marriage worthwhile.

The truth was that while Anne’s actions were a puzzle, Nicholas was more worried about his own. He had come so close to not letting her go at all. Every time he got close, something urged him to go deeper, to know, to understand this woman whose eyes had trapped him from the first moment.

Why did he find her so alluring? He couldn’t even tell what colour her eyes were. He had decided they were grey, then she would turn and he would call them blue-green. Yet in another light....

And as he was studying her eyes, the drift of her eyebrow would lead him to the place where her hair grew, hiding her ear in a tantalising way...

And then he sighed, disgusted to find the miles had rolled by while he puzzled over something that mattered not at all, as if he actually cared about this woman.

He had owned little in life and wanted less. Horse, armour, work. Food and drink. Enough to keep body and soul bound to each other, but not enough to hold him down. Never anything that would keep him from moving along.

But none of these things were things he desired, craved, or longed for. He saw them with the same cool necessity that had made him effective at moving food and weapons. Make a plan. Expect obstacles. Assess and solve each one without letting emotion substitute for judgement.

At first, he had barely understood or recognised that he was feeling something for her. Certainly there was no reason for it. She was a woman beyond the blush of maidenhood. And he had slipped over thirty without noticing. As a companion of the Prince, it was easy not to notice. The Prince did not marry and so neither one of them had crossed the line that somehow changed one’s life, even if a man thought it would not.

And how did he come to think of marriage when he was thinking of Anne?

Yet he had thought of nothing but marriage, clandestine or real, for the last four months. At the end of all this, there would be a wedding, a ceremony, a celebration. That must be the reason his thoughts had turned to her, for his attraction to this woman was ridiculous and inexplicable.

And impossible to ignore.

All the better that his time with her would be brief.

* * *

In his head, Nicholas knew the reasons Anne wanted to make a pilgrimage, but only as they approached the West Gate of Canterbury did he realise, in his heart, why she was there.

Oh, he had seen pilgrims before now. Beggars. The blind, the dumb, the lame. Those without the ability that he had to move through the world. But not until today, not until he saw them littering the roadside like so many dead leaves, did he fully understand.

She could have been one of them.

Shocking as that thought was, the next one surprised him even more.

He had never really seen her that way. Not even from the first.

He stole a look at her, on the horse beside him. She kept her chin up and her eyes straight ahead, refusing to look down at the unfortunate souls. First, he wondered at her insensitivity. Then, he recognised something else. Day after day, she stayed atop the horse by pure force of will. Even with the harness, her legs were shaking with the pain of holding herself upright, all so she would not be left in the dirt like these people.

No, she did not see herself that way either.

Such courage dwarfed anything he had seen on the battlefield. It humbled him. Once, he had been ready to discard her as a burden. Instead, his doubts had been the burden. She would not suffer pity for herself, nor spare it for others. She certainly did not want it from him. She wanted nothing from him at all.

Except a kiss...

Their arrival at the inn was a welcome interruption to that thought. Now he must settle seven travellers and their horses, send word to the Archbishop of his arrival and attend to the multitude of other details that filled his days.

He made certain she was comfortable in the public room and it was an hour or more before he returned to see her still sitting there, in the corner where he had left her, looking out on to the street filled with the blind, the lame and the sick.

Crying.

Tears again, welling up in her eyes, overflowing, dripping down her cheeks and then splattering onto the wool dress, as steady as spring rain.

He stepped between her and the rest of the room, shielding her from prying eyes, and rested a hand on her shoulder.

‘Are you...well?’ Gruff words. Tripping over something lodged in his throat.

Anne turned sharply, as if he had attacked. ‘Well? Am I well?’ He heard the pain rip through her words. Pain she’d always hidden before.

But now that it had escaped, her words ran too quickly to be stopped. ‘I am warm and dry and fed and cared for, unlike these poor creatures. And through no good of my own but only that of my lady.’

My lady. Of course. The reason for the depth of her devotion was so clear, so obvious, that he had missed it. She owed her life to Lady Joan.

Have you never been loyal to anyone?

No. Not in that way. For him, loyalty was a manageable exchange. His arm, his sword, his skills, in exchange for money. Oh, it used to be that men pledged their lives and received protection in return, but now war had grown too large. Too many men had to take the field for too long. Only coins could keep the army in motion. Coins for the men and coins for the horses, arms and food to keep the men fighting.

‘But you serve her well,’ he began. Surely there must be a similar trade in her relationship with Lady Joan, not merely charity. ‘It is not as if she gives you alms.’ How demeaning that would be for a woman as proud as Anne.

She flinched, as if his words had been cruel.

Not his intent, but perhaps they were. After all, what could Anne offer Lady Joan in return for her protection? Beautifully stitched purses? Mediation on the colour of the Yuletide livery? Care of the children in off hours? Nothing that would ever equal what Lady Joan had given her. Her life.

Her tears had stopped and she shook her head. ‘No, it is worse than that. I—’

The words stopped and her expression changed, as completely as if a veil had covered her face. And once more, she was the Anne he knew, a woman proud, stubborn and strong.

Everything else was hidden.

* * *

Beneath the table, Anne wove her fingers tightly together and closed her eyes, giving prayerful thanks to God that she had stopped herself before she told this man everything he must not know.

What a weak, spineless woman she had become. Just a few days of being close enough to touch a man, close enough to dream, and she had forgotten who she really was.

‘Anne?’

Now. I must look at him as I always do. I must give him no reason to question.

She opened her eyes, only to see Canterbury’s crowded streets again, full of pilgrims with wounds visible and invisible. Turning her back, she faced Nicholas. ‘Forgive me. Being here, surrounded like this, I was...overcome.’

Her lady and her mother and the secret. That was all that stood between her and those wretched creatures.

His hand, she realised, still cradled her shoulder and he squeezed it, a gesture that seemed more intimate than any kiss they had shared. ‘I am sorry. This, I cannot make right.’

Simple words that nearly undid her. When had anyone ever told her such a thing?

Her fingers met his. ‘You are a kinder man than you think, Sir Nicholas Lovayne.’

To her relief, he straightened, breaking the intimacy. ‘And you are a gentler woman than you show, Anne of Stamford.’

No, she was not. She was a woman who knew something that must be kept from Sir Nicholas Lovayne at any cost.

A smile now. ‘All will be as it must.’ She waved him away. ‘Go. You must not worry.’

You must not become curious or suspicious or ask more questions.

For keeping that secret had been, simply, the reason for her life. Now, she would keep it for another reason.

She would keep it so that the caring she had seen in his grey-blue eyes, caring she had never seen from another person, would not turn to abomination.

And as he left to make arrangements for the beds and the horses, she gazed after him, choking on truths she dare not speak.

I am not the woman you think I am. I am a woman whose life is based on a lie and I hope you never discover the truth about me.

* * *

Nicholas forced himself to leave Anne and plunge into the distraction of the mundane. Let the serving girl attend her. He needed distance, needed to rend that invisible tie that kept pulling him to her.

Exactly the sort of tie he never wanted.

That was what had trapped his father into marriage with a second wife. There had been no logic, no reason to the choice. And later, all of them had regretted it, even the woman who had blinded his father to the truth.

But at the time, his father, full of love—longing—could think of nothing but this woman.

Nicholas would never make that mistake. Not with anyone. Certainly not with Anne of Stamford.

Kind, she called him. No, he was not kind. He was not given to passions of any sort.

Many were. Men like the Prince and his father roared with laughter or anger, loved who or what they would. They let their swords escape their brains and rode into battle blinded with blood lust instead of the sharp, clear-eyed calm needed in order to stay alive. They killed or maimed or, conversely, gifted friends with presents worth a ransom, acting as an animal might, with no more control than a squalling babe. He had never been a man like that. His father’s life had taught him well.

Instead, he watched. He assessed. He investigated. He planned. Only then did he act. And when something went wrong, and something always went wrong, he reassessed and adjusted.

There was always another way, a different choice, if you took the time to think instead of letting fear or desire overcome judgement.

And if frustration or anger sometimes choked him, he swallowed it and moved on. It was his strength, this control. It had kept him far away from the dangers of too much anger.

Or too much love.

The spectre of the dead man in Winchester rose to haunt him again. Dead. Gone. With nothing to show he had lived on this earth.

Yet that was what Nicholas had chosen. A life with nothing to weigh him down or hold him back. And when it was over, he would leave nothing behind.

That was the way he had always wanted it.

And still did.