The Maid's Lover. Amanda McCabeЧитать онлайн книгу.

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Author Note

      When I started writing the book The Winter Queen(part of Mills & Boon volume Christmas Betrothals), about Anton Gustavson and Lady Rosamund Ramsay, I meant for Anne Percy and Lord Langley to be the friends of the hero and heroine and help their story along. But then they started stealing long, simmering glances at each other—and Anne seemed quite angry about something. I just had to find out what was going on there! Luckily, this story gave me the chance to do just that, and to give Anne and Robert their own happy ending. I doubt their lives together will always be peaceful, but they will be quite exciting!

      I also loved getting the chance to research Renaissance Christmas traditions for these two stories. Queen Elizabeth certainly knew how to throw a great party! Be sure and visit my website (http://ammandamccabe.com), especially the “Behind the Book” page, for some research sources and tidbits about Christmases in the sixteenth century and the ultra-cold winter of 1564 (plus some Elizabethan holiday recipes!)

      Prologue

       Summer 1564

      Anne Percy ran as fast as she could down the rocky path. The leafy undergrowth to either side, lush and thick in the summer warmth, caught at the hem of her skirts, snagging the delicate silk. She hoisted them high above her stockinged ankles, dashing onward as her lungs ached as if they would burst.

      The bright sun beat down on her uncovered hair from the brilliant blue sky; a welcome heat after the long days of rain. She had sat indoors for what seemed like years, sewing in her grandmother’s great hall as she listened to the other ladies bicker and quarrel and shriek. Their high, shrill voices combined with the clacking of her grandmother’s French-speaking parrot, gave her a piercing headache. She had scarcely a moment to be alone, to think.

      And she had so much to think about, so much to—savor.

      Anne glanced over her shoulder at a sudden rush of laughter, sure she was being followed. Her grandmother’s wards, forced together too much in dull days of sewing, reading and prayers, loved nothing more than to spy and tattle on each other. But they were still in the gardens near the house, enjoying a game of blindman’s buff in the wondrous sunlight. With luck, she would not be missed for hours.

      She slipped through a gate in the tall yew hedge that enclosed the formal gardens, running even faster down the lane to the forested great park. Her uncle often hunted there, but they were all off at Court, accompanying Queen Elizabeth on her summer progress. There would be no one to see her there.

      The shadows of the woods were cool and delicious after the sun’s heat, casting dark fingers over her neck and shoulders, bared by her light silk bodice. She shrugged the heavy fall of her dark hair down her back, slowing her pace so she wouldn’t trip over the stones and tree roots. The silence closed around her, and it seemed even deeper after the constant noise of the house. Anne did like company and parties and fine conversation, but enough was sometimes enough.

      Especially when she could not speak of what was really in her heart. She burst to talk about him, about all her hopes, her exhilaration, her confusion. Her fear.

      She couldn’t, though. Not yet. Not until she was sure. And she was so far from “sure.” The whole thing was so fragile and precious. It could collapse into ruins at any moment.

      She came to a small clearing, an almost eerily perfect circle of trees where there was no sound at all. Not even a bird sang; there was no rustle of wind in the trees. She remembered an old maidservant of her grandmother’s, who used to try to frighten her when she was a child with tales of fairy rings and humans who stumbled onto them unaware. The fairies would snatch them and dance them to death—or worse.

      Anne could not be frightened back then, much to the maid’s chagrin. She would just laugh at the tales, but deep down she half hoped a fairy would kidnap her. Her own precarious life, as a poor orphan at the mercy of noble relations, was dull and frightening. To be a fairy dancer would surely be an improvement.

      And since she had met him, she sometimes felt she really had fallen into some enchanted world. When they had their stolen moments, she could forget, just for an instant, the realities of her life. She could relax her constant vigilance, her prickly barbs that kept her safe, and just be Anne. He was her safety then.

      She feared that was an illusion, too, one that could not last long. But for now it was wondrously sweet. She lived for these moments, and was terrified that she had begun to want more. To need more. She wanted his assurance that, despite everything, they had a future together.

      And where was he, anyway?

      Anne rubbed her arms, suddenly prickly-cold in her folded-back silk sleeves, and peered deeper into the shadows. She had burned his note, as she always did, but she was sure this was the meeting place. Sometimes he was detained, or she could not slip away, and their meetings were thwarted. She hated the sharp disappointment of those times, hated the way they were becoming more and more acute. Today could not be one of those days, though. Not with the perfect sunlight all around her.

      She kicked