Read Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) for Free Online

frame tapered to well-muscled legs with calves larger than any man's
she’d seen.
    At once, she resented Mary's paleness, and her own darkness.
Suddenly her sister, giddy, discretionless Mary, became the most beautiful
woman on the field. Henry stared at her face as if it would be the last and
only face he’d ever see. His body screamed that it wanted to touch her. Such a
pleasure must come from that look; such a longing must accompany it. They both
curtsied low, and as Henry raised them, Anne tried desperately to keep a crazy
smile from her face. Images of this fair, solid man with her tiny sister kept
creeping to her mind and for some odd reason, the thought of it thrilled her.
She envisioned him with face flushed, whispering of things she’d yet to
experience.
    "Your Grace." Mary smiled prettily. "Have you
met my younger sister, Anne?"
    Thankfully, Anne had reason to curtsey again, and lower her
face to hide the smile. As the King took her hand, she squelched the grin,
concentrating on beguiling him as she would any courtier.
    "My lady," he said blandly, then turned his gaze
back to Mary.
    He may well be the English King, but that couldn’t excuse
his rudeness. In French court, a lady’s advances were met with equal fervor,
not this cool detachment. Anne expected a polite acknowledgment at the very
least. Instead of walking away, which she wanted to do, she returned an equally
cool, "Your Grace."
    She studied him for a moment, his slight allowing Anne the
freedom of comparing him to King Francois, who may well be lecherous, but who
made a woman feel exquisite. Now she noticed something she hadn't previously, a
set line to his square jaw, a hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with
his desire for Mary, and a cruel crook to his full mouth.
    She no longer cared that he was attractive, nor did she care
to be in his company a moment longer. No wonder Queen Catherine looked so
bored—her husband probably showed her as much passion as would a monk. She
excused herself with less civility than normal, then set out to find George
again; he’d certainly be better company than a lovesick sister would. She peered
back at Mary, hating to be alone in the crowd, and saw her standing too close
to Henry.
    A shiver crept up her neck when she noticed that Mary's
animated conversation couldn't keep his attention, but that he was already
seeking out the glances of others and when he found Anne's, he locked on it.
How odd that he held Anne’s eye; he had shown no interest moments ago. She
found it difficult to tear her gaze away from that transfixing stare.

Chapter 8
    W hen George found his sister hanging closely to the fountain,
he hurried over. She stood glaring at some poor oaf who had apparently fallen
into the basin. Red wine dripped from one arm as he pawed at Anne’s skirt with
the other. His sister needed rescuing, and though it was George’s turn to
joust, he waved to the scorekeeper and sprinted from the field to go to her
aid.
    "How well would ye like to see what I’ve hidden here
beneath me cod piece?" The fellow’s speech, though slurred, was quite
plain as George drew near. Oblivious to those he shoved and pushed, and deaf to
their curses, George made it close enough to hear her tart reply.
    "Why, sir," she answered, "I can see what is
beneath; as it’s dangling quite grotesquely from the edge."
    Well, and so that was that. And to think he had relinquished
his turn at the games to show her some chivalry. George wanted to pat the man’s
shoulder in sympathy when he saw how he slunk off. The wine-sopped shirt melted
into the crowd and was gone.
    "Ho, Nan!" George grinned. The terrible storm on
her face mellowed.
    "Ho, brother." She walked toward him, lifting her
skirts as she avoided a patch of manure.
    "Let’s find a place to sit far from this crowd."
He guided her away from the fountains and toward the minstrel’s tent. They
found a seat near the back. The lilting tone of a lute seasoned the low rumble
of a