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

because the child was not his."
    George couldn’t help the gasp that broke from his throat.
    "How could a man act so? Why?"
    "Why? Why." She shook her head. "I don't
know. I only know she told me of her fear weeks before. I remember the bruises
she’d try to cover all the months I had known her. I remember her disgust as he
paraded mistress after mistress. I know of her joy when she fell in love."
    He swallowed a great lump that wouldn’t go down, no matter
how hard he tried.
    She straightened, as if she didn’t want to think on it
anymore, didn’t want to share it.
    "It happens much in France—a man grows tired of his
wife, or finds a wealthy mistress. One man stabbed his wife to death and
bragged about it in court. Francois let him go free. Strange, is it not, that
the man may philander but the lady must be content to allow it."
    "It won't happen to you, Nan. Certainly you’re no
heiress and Father is in no hurry to marry you off."
    "No. He’ll await a promising union for me, I
imagine."
    Her voice was hard as she went on. "And as for Sara—in
the end she found happiness, mustered the courage to save her pride. She may
have died for it, but I admire her."
    George felt strangely forlorn. Surely Anne would find love,
rather than shackles. Why even his own betrothal was not that bad when he
thought on it. She was a sweet girl, naive, meek. Though his sister was neither
of the two, he knew she’d enchant any man Father chose. He believed Anne would
make her union pleasant. He had to believe it.

Chapter 9
France: September 1520
    "Y ou're adept with your bow, mademoiselle ."
    "Am I?" Anne’s answer to Jacques was filled with
coquetry. She'd practiced her flirtations in France enough to know she had him
enthralled, but this time, she felt as taken by a man as she pretended to be.
In the weeks since the festival, she found herself attending Queen Claude as
the King made progress throughout the French countryside. The deep greens of
late summer leaves and the quiet blues of the afternoon sky helped her forget
the festival. The heady smell of the outdoors, of the woods and grass purged
her mind of George. She’d killed two geese in the afternoon and sat chewing on
the cooked breast of one beside the fire that lit the dusk in a smoky, ethereal
haze.
    The fever of the kill was still on her, mastery, pride,
skill—all flooded her veins with their potion, making her drunk with them.
Jacques’ compliment only fed it. His voice sounded smoky as the fire, and
filled with heat. She measured him, her eyes glancing to his profile. How
exciting he seemed, so unlike the genteel, well-bred, but coarse men of court.
He was natural as the air. His hard-worked body lured her. His presence deliciously
indecent.
    She grew as intoxicated from his gaze as from the sense of
transcendence she felt—that she should be completely out of his reach, yet
wanted him. The fire crackled nearby, sending a waft of smoke to the gentle
breeze that caressed the trees. She looked at his face and thought how
attractive it was; plain, masculine.
    Small stubble crept round his chin, and in the early dusk,
it made him look mysterious. Green eyes blazed back at her, the light of the
fire reflecting and twisting the color into a cat yellow. When the breeze
brought his scent to her, and the coming night lit his jaw in the eerie,
magical way it does, she thought, I'm as old as these hills, old as the fire,
as the grass. So she kissed him. Lightly. On the cheek. She felt as if the fire
had come inside her. She could see others slipping off to tents around the
fire, or slipping into the shadows to celebrate their hunt. She wondered what
it would be like to enjoy the celebration, if she could sneak away as easily.
    "Would you walk me to my tent?" she dared ask,
surprised at her own brazenness, but pleased when Jacques nodded his answer.
    The way his jaw looked in the haze tightened her chest, made
her feel even more powerful, that she could have him if she wanted,