Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.
shoulder. How did a man comfort a woman?
He had never thought to ask.
Finally, she lifted her head, her huge eyes, fringed by those light red lashes, tangled in tears. His breath matched hers, still uneven, and if he just bent his head, touched his lips to her...
Instead, she was the one who reached up, put her arm around his neck and kissed him.
A kiss quick and as unexpected as an arrow from a hidden enemy. And near as deadly.
Unlike an arrow though, it did not stop him from moving, but drove him closer, gripped by the urge to protect, share, join, fall into her, give her his strength and lean on hers.
Then, as suddenly as they had come, her lips were gone.
Wide-eyed, she met his gaze. The grey-green eyes that had seemed dreamy only a moment ago had come to. Still as frank and assessing as when he had first seen them, but with a new caution, a shame he had never thought to see.
This was not what he had expected from a woman in tears before a dead man’s grave and not what he had expected of himself.
Now, he was the one unsteady on his feet, robbed of words. For a second, he’d felt something that was more than physical. Something that had touched the Nicholas inside, behind the face the world saw.
But he did not let her go.
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