Carole Mortimer - Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year

He had taken women before, but he had taken them as he had ridden over the land, barely stopping to glance at it on the way. Were they fair or dark? Round or sharp? It did not matter. Each was only there to get him where he wanted to go.

But Anne...

It did not matter that the room was dark. He would know her anywhere now. Her scent. The curve of her hips, one different from the other, as each had a different job to do. He had traced her pale eyebrows now, memorised them with his fingers, learned the shape of her jaw by kissing it, imprinted her body on his own as if he were earth.

No woman had ever given herself to him so freely, without expecting anything in return. He had thought he would have to coax her. To tease her slowly, to lead her bit by bit. A touch on the hand, then on the neck. A soft kiss first. He had thought that passion would have to wait, as he drew her in.

Instead, the barest touch, the first meeting of lips and tongue, and all the hesitation was gone. She had yielded, pressing herself to him as if he were her returning lover, coming home from the war.

When in his life had he ever given himself so completely? When had he ever known a woman so completely?

If he never saw her again, he knew he would carry the memory until the day he died.

If...

There was no ‘if’. There was only the certainty that he must take her, as he promised, to a small, cold convent near the end of the world and leave her there, far away from the very world she hungered to experience.

He could not leave her.

Could not or would not?

To the Prince, of course, he had owed his duty. There was no duty here. There was only...

He refused to think the word. The woman was nothing to him. She would tie him down, even more than an ordinary woman.

And he was trapped by the argument, unable to do anything but watch her and wait for her to wake, not knowing what would happen when she did.

* * *

Anne knew she waked, but she squeezed her eyes tighter, not wanting to face the dawn. Oh, she had given herself last night and she had no regrets. It was better than riding a horse, or chasing a hawk. It was as if her own, poor body could fly.

Oh, it had been more awkward, she supposed, than it would have been for some women, as he honoured his promise and did not look at or touch her foot, but at the end, it was as if her spirit, at once in her body and mingling with his in the air, was no longer felt trapped.

That was the memory she had wanted. That was the memory she would cherish in the long, dark days to come.

The bed was empty, but she heard his breath, near the hearth.

Life. Life must be resumed.

Stretched on her stomach, she pushed herself up on her elbows and looked at him, her breath catching in her throat all over again. She had felt him all over, but in the dark tumble beneath the covers she had not seen him.

Not like this.

Now, she could see those legs. As long and straight as she had imagined, and yet the thighs...well, now she knew. The strength it took to sit on a horse.

And the curves she had caressed on his shoulders and arms, smooth like the worn steps of Canterbury, now she could see the blue of his veins, strong as a river, coursing beneath his skin.

She would remember this, exactly. Later.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

He opened his mouth and shut it, for once without words.

She felt, now, that her foot was naked and she sat up, looking frantically for the sock to cover it. ‘Don’t look,’ she warned, before she pulled her foot from under the covers, and he sighed, but turned his head.

Covered again, she tried to swing her leg around, suddenly awkward, all the freedom and grace of last night gone. Immediately, he was there, settling her with a touch, as if he knew just how to help without making her feel clumsy.

Oh, the tenderness in just that simple gesture. Equal to every passionate touch from last night.

He sat beside her and turned her face to his. ‘Anne...’

She jerked away from his hands. ‘No words. What are words compared to what happened last night? Nothing.’ Weak, worthless things.

‘But everything has changed.’

‘Nothing has changed.’ All gone. All the joy of the memory. Not to be visited again until she was safely away from him. ‘Everything will be as it must.’

He rose, pacing again. Ah, how she envied him those simple steps. ‘As it must? Or as Lady Joan wills it?’

Anne gripped the bedpost and pulled herself to her feet. ‘Or the Prince or the King or the Pope.’

‘What about what Anne wants?’

The sad smile came before she could stop it. ‘I know what Nicholas wants. Nicholas wants freedom. Nicholas wants to roam the earth of France or Italy or Castile or even Cyprus. Nicholas wants to roam unfettered.’ She bit her lip.

And so did she.

‘So Nicholas,’ she continued, ‘will do as he said he would and take me to Holystone to rest. Then, he will be free.’

Oh, the ache that word put in her throat.

She could not read his face clearly, but she saw a struggle there. Some tug of war between what he wanted and what he...desired.

‘I am not a man who falls in love.’

‘I know.’ And now for the lesson Agatha had taught her. ‘I am not a woman who expects love.’ Wants it, yes. Oh, yes. But she had known, always, there would not even be marriage, let alone passion. ‘This was one night. A gift.’ A memory to be taken out and relived when the cold walls of her sister cell closed in on her like the short, dark winter days.

And then his eyes warmed. ‘Not just one. We will have more nights to come.’

Chapter Nineteen

So they made their way north, not hurrying, pretending to each other that the journey would not end.

And if they went a few miles afield to see a cathedral or enjoy a market day, what was the harm? Anne refused to dwell on it. Refused to think of anything beyond the day. And the night.

And if she had a child? She would not think of that, either. She would be safely locked away, the babe cared for in the convent, and no one beyond those walls would ever know.

With no one to stitch for, her hands were empty, so in the evenings Nicholas taught her to juggle. Or tried to. She learned to toss two balls, and the other guests at the inn applauded the night she finally succeeded with three.

And afterwards they went up the stairs together, letting the others think they were married.

Eustace and Agatha kept their secret.

* * *

‘We will be in Lincoln tomorrow,’ Nicholas said, late one night a week later, as they lay together, sated and warm.

She snuggled closer. ‘Beyond the scent of the tannery, I hope.’ She had not seen it, but the stench had hovered in the air most of the day.

Beside her, he went still and quiet. ‘Yes. Well beyond.’

She nodded and drifted toward sleep. Then, something he had said, long ago, tickled her memory. ‘Is your home near? Would you show me?’ He had no family left, she remembered that, so there would be no awkward explanations to make.

She rolled on to her back and tapped his nose with her finger. ‘I’d like to picture you there as a little boy.’ She giggled. ‘Learning to juggle. Show me where you learned to juggle.’

Abruptly, he turned away and sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘Why would you want to see that?’

‘Because I care about you.’ She trailed her fingers down his bare back.

He moved again, standing, out of reach of her hand. ‘Because you are trying to trap me.’

‘Trap you?’ She shook her head, thinking her sleep-fogged brain must be confused. ‘How... Why... What...?’

Nicholas was pacing now, as if he wanted to escape the room. ‘Yes. Trap me, force me into marriage.’

Something cold, as if she were frozen, trickled under Anne’s skin. ‘How can you think—?’