Harlequin Historical March 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Cowboy's Reluctant Bride\Secrets at Court\The Rebel Captain's Royalist Bride by Debra Cowan

Author:Debra Cowan [COWAN, DEBRA/GIFFORD AND ANNE HERRIES, BLYTHE]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4603-3252-8
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2014-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Prayers, unceasing, surrounded him, but Nicholas kept his gaze on Anne. Someone cried out, but he did not look to see who, or to wonder whether they shouted in joy or pain.

She knelt, still, the monk’s palm cupping the curve of her head. And he prayed that God might grant her a miracle.

The monk moved on. She lifted her head.

Then, pushing herself up with her good left leg, and the crutch tucked under her right arm, she stood. For a moment, she was still, then she swayed, unsteady.

From his vantage point at the edge of the crowd, Nicholas held his breath as she lifted her lame right leg, pulling up the knee as if ready to step on that poor, useless foot.

She wobbled and he held his breath, holding her with his eyes as if his will alone could lift her to her feet and send her skipping down the stairs toward him.

She shifted her weight, as if she expected the leg to hold her...

And crumpled to the floor.

Before he could reach her, the rest of the pilgrims surged away from the tomb and down the stairs, washing around him like an ebbing wave. He battled his way up, pushing past a monk with an outstretched hand.

Below the glittering shrine that towered over them like a golden coffin, Anne lay silent and unmoving. He crouched beside her, tucked one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back, and rose, carrying her down the treacherous stairs, away from the traitorous saint who had crushed her hopes.

And like an incoming wave, the next rush of pilgrims came up the stairs.

When Anne finally turned her eyes to his, the tremulous hope was gone, replaced by the familiar flatness of resignation.

‘You can put me down,’ she said, words devoid of life. ‘It is over.’

A moment ago, she had sagged with weariness. Now, as if her spine was a sword, she was Anne again, refusing all pity.

Reluctantly, he put her on her feet and stayed close through the long journey through the nave. This time, she did not lift her head to study the stained glass crowning the door, but kept her eyes on the ground, as if each step must be watched.

Nicholas kept a hand near her waist as they navigated the streets between the Cathedral and the inn, slowly and silently. Her limp was even more pronounced than usual, now that the hope that had kept her upright was gone.

And his vaunted control was as shaky as her legs. All his proud detachment had disappeared. Now, not even his loins held sway. That would have been bad enough.

This was worse. Now his heart was in charge, the most dangerous of organs.

In sight of the inn, she stopped. ‘Can we go somewhere else?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Where would she want to go? How could he relieve her mind of the saint’s failure? ‘There are other cathedrals.’

‘I want nothing of churches.’

He cleared his throat and looked around. What was Canterbury but churches

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