The New Forest was the King’s private deer park. Here, the animals could roam and breed unhindered by any but royalty. Dappled sunlight came and went through the lush green canopy of leaves, ruffled by a breeze perfect for bringing the scent of the deer to the eager dogs.
He glanced at the woman beside him. Slow on her feet, she was less awkward on the horse. The beast’s four legs carried her where her three could not. It was not so much the hunt she enjoyed, he decided. It was the freedom to run where her poor body could not take her.
‘If we do not keep up,’ he began, ‘will you mind missing the kill?’
‘I like being on the horse and in the fresh air. I do not like seeing...’ she faced him and there was truth in her eyes ‘...harm come to weaker creatures.’
Weaker creatures. As she was. A woman, even a man with her lameness might be savaged for such a flaw. He had seen it. Blind men armed with sticks told there was a pig for them to feast on if they could kill it. But there was no pig. There was only another man, as blind as the first, so the two ended up beating each other for the amusement of the sighted.
Suddenly, he was angry on her behalf for all the ignorant people who had, or would ever, hurt her. A strange and unwelcome thought.
He had lived as he wanted for so long, detached, thinking only of how to keep men and horses moving or how to get a pope to bless Prince Edward’s match. Suddenly, he had heard the woman beside him, recognised her pain, and cared. An unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling.
Feeling led to disappointment. To mourning a mother who was gone and a new mother who did not care.
And this woman needed no sympathy from him. She was well taken care of now and, once her lady married the Prince, she’d have a life most would envy. Few cripples, even a dwarf who served as a jester, could hope for as much.
He glanced to his side to see how she fared on the horse. Pain and joy mixed uneasily on her face. Tight lips a testament to her struggle not to fall off the courser’s back, yet eyes that looked out on the day so eagerly that a smile broke the lock that pain held on her mouth.
Well for the moment, yet she could not ride the day long this way and it would be impossible for her to keep up once the chase began.
A horn sounded. The deer had been found. The men hurried their horses ahead, hooves trampling the grass, leaving the women to come as they pleased, arriving, perhaps, to celebrate the successful kill.
Nicholas’s horse started to trot, as eager as his rider to join the chase. He pulled the reins, holding back the animal, and himself. He could not race off and leave her here, struggling to keep her seat.
Where was Lady Joan? When she dropped back, he could leave Anne with her. But as the Prince dashed ahead, Joan urged her horse to follow.
He looked over at Anne. ‘She rides with him?’
She nodded. ‘They do not leave each other’s sight unless they must.’
The King’s daughter Isabella and a few of her ladies trotted ahead, far enough behind the men that they would not have to breathe their dust and far enough ahead of him that he knew Anne could not keep up.
He was trapped.
He had a fleeting hope that he could take her to the lodge and then race back, fast enough to catch the rest in time for the kill.
One glance at the slump of her shoulders ended that thought.
He had spent years and miles on a horse. His thighs were practised at gripping his mount, his feet at steering the horse with a touch.
But her right foot could not stay in the stirrup. Every shift by her mount threatened to land her in the dirt. Riding for hours would be a constant struggle. Chasing the stag impossible.
And yet, she had tried.
The rest of the riders disappeared, the sound of pounding hooves fading until all he could hear was the rustle of leaves.
He sighed. ‘Come.’ He nodded at a fallen tree. ‘Let’s rest.’
‘There is no need.’ Her stubborn words shook.
He ignored them.
He dismounted and came to help her. She had already been in the saddle when he saw her this morning and he had never thought to wonder how she’d managed it. Could she mount and dismount alone?
He reached for her and she swung her lame, right leg over the saddle and slid down into his arms.
Close. Too close. Her breasts pressed his chest, her breath brushed his cheek, and he caught a scent like the orange fruit from Spain he had tasted, at once sweet and tart.
Her cheek coloured and she seemed to hold her breath.
So did he.
And finally, he did what he had wanted to do ever since she had first bumped against him in the Hall.
He tilted her chin, lifted her lips to his and kissed her.
His first thought—could he even call it that?—was that her lips were softer and warmer than he had expected. His second was that they moved hungrily over his, saying things no other part of her body dared.
And he knew, without knowing how, that no one had ever kissed her before.
Their lips parted slowly. Reluctantly. He let her go and she turned away, reaching for the stick tied to her saddle.
And he waited for a shy maidenly protest. Or a sly, womanly smile, promising hidden delights.
Neither came.
No word. No blush. No smile. No protest. She leaned on her stick and took a step toward the fallen tree as if nothing had happened. As if the kiss were nothing. As if he were nothing.
He gritted his teeth, fighting the unfamiliar feeling roiling his blood. Not rage. Not even lust, though that had stirred, naturally.
No. It was something much less familiar. Possession. Protection. A mad desire to grab her and claim her and call her his.
And she seemed to notice nothing at all.
* * *
Anne turned her back on him, afraid to meet his eyes, and took another step.
A blur, all of it. It should not, could not, have happened. Yet she had kissed him. And wanted, oh, so much more.
Why had she come at all? Distract him, her lady had said, not lead him into temptation, though she would not have put it past Lady Joan to ask. But she did not because they both knew it was as impossible as asking Anne to run.
I am not a woman to capture a man’s attentions.
And yet, he had kissed her. Deliberately.
And she turned away because if she had not, she might have kissed him again and never stopped.
But his lips, ah, lips not full, but precisely sculpted, seemed to bring her very skin to life. All the strength she had amassed to fight the pain was useless against the pleasure that bloomed from the very whisper of his lips.
Now she must act as if nothing had happened, so she could pretend it had not.
She sank down on to the fallen tree with a sigh of relief.
‘You must be tired,’ he said, his words quick and meaningless.
And she, who never admitted weakness, nodded, with a weak smile.
‘Anne. Look at me.’
She wanted to pretend it had not happened. He would not.
So she lifted her chin and met his eyes, daring him to acknowledge it. ‘I forgive you.’ Dismissive words. As if she had been affronted, instead of moved.
‘I did not ask to be forgiven.’
Only his gaze touched her now,