Edward Seymour shot her a look of intense hatred, but his bow to the king was entirely submissive. “Whatever Your Majesty believes is my truth.”
“You wish your kinswoman happy?”
“As I wished my dear sister. And naturally hope for my beloved nephew.”
“Even if her happiness is marriage to, now what were the words? An insolent, lowborn cur?”
Hertford visibly gritted his teeth. “If it pleases Your Majesty.”
Another long silence nearly shattered her will to live. Then Henry released her chin and offered his hand.
“Come, Annabelle, on your feet. Guard! Unchain Master de Vere.”
As soon as Rafe was free she ran, almost stumbling in her haste to feel his arms about her.
“My love,” she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder.
“Wait,” said Henry, and they both froze. “It won’t do, a lady marrying a common soldier.”
“Your Majesty,” protested Rafe, and even though he was half-broken, it still looked like he might have enough will to pummel the King of England.
“Silence. We are, however, certain there can be no objection to a lady marrying a knight. Therefore, in the presence of these witnesses, we knight thee, Sir Rafe de Vere, for services to crown and country. Now I will bless this marriage, but I do not want to see either of you back at court until the lady is properly attired and coifed…and you bring with you a suitably named baby son.”
Annabelle forgot herself completely and twirled in lunatic joy. “As Your Majesty commands.”
The smallest of smiles tugged at Henry’s lips. “I’m sure my Jane would have approved. A love match and her dear brother neatly thwarted. Bishop Williams! A wedding!”
Moments later, her hands were enveloped in the secure warmth of Rafe’s as they made their vows to each other.
The first step on a blissful journey to forever.
Epilogue
Cornwall, England, a year later
“Sir Rafe, you cannot.”
He turned around in the wide hallway and glared at Gerda, the look which had sent many an army fleeing as fast as their feet could carry them. “Cannot?”
She wavered, then pursed her lips. “My lady should still be abed. She’s just had a babe.”
“I’m well aware of that. Actually I believe the entire village is aware, the amount of din she created—ow,” he finished, glancing down at the warmly-wrapped woman in his arms. His lady wife’s return gaze was angelic, as if she hadn’t just slid finger and thumb between his doublet fastening and pinched.
“It’s not proper,” said Gerda, scowling. “An’ she’ll catch a chill.”
“I’m fine, really,” said Annabelle, squirming in his secure hold. “Just longing for some fresh air after being cooped up in that chamber for days.”
The waiting woman threw up her hands and continued past them, grumbling the entire way about foolish men, and women, for that matter. Swiftly, before she changed her mind and came back to harangue them again, he carried Annabelle outside into their favorite stone courtyard, the one that overlooked a well-tended herb and vegetable garden and farther down, beaten paths that led to the swirling ocean.
Carefully, he settled himself on a cushioned bench. “It’s not too cold, is it?”
“No,” said Annabelle, pushing off the blanket and sighing with pleasure. “I don’t know why birthing chambers must be so hot and dark. As if it’s not unpleasant enough already.”
Rafe nodded, one lazy finger smoothing an errant, wispy curl behind her ear. Her hair was a few inches past her shoulders now, but he strongly suspected Gerda of secretly trimming it to delay a return to court. Not that he was eager to go back, either, but they probably would be required to if the rumors of Henry wooing Catherine Parr, the just-widowed Lady Latimer, were true.
For about the thousandth time, Rafe stared down at the miniature perfection of their son, swaddled tightly and dozing peacefully against Annabelle’s chest.
“You did splendidly, though. He is…”
“The most beautiful babe ever created? Yes, I know,” she replied airily.
“Just as well he didn’t cry back there. If Gerda knew we were smuggling him from the nursery, she would have barred the door and nailed it shut.”
Annabelle shrugged. “Our son is wise beyond his hours. But we can’t keep calling him he. And I refuse to call him you know what.”
“We were given orders on his name. Henry it must be.”
“He can be Henry at court and something else at home. Richard? William? John? Wait, I have it. Lucas. Your father’s middle name. He was a good man, a worthy one.”
Leaning forward, Rafe touched his son’s petal-soft cheek. “Your mother’s choice is Lucas, young man. What say you?”
The infant blinked sleepily and yawned.
“A resounding yes,” said Annabelle with a laugh.
He might have rolled his eyes, but his contentment was too boundless. When he thought of everything he now had, steadfast love, a home, a family, it was hard to comprehend he’d ever been willing to settle for amiability with a stranger.
“Perhaps I could be persuaded to Lucas if my lady wishes it.”
Annabelle glanced up, countless wicked promises in her eyes.
“As my soldier commands.”
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to my agent Jessica Alvarez, editor Kate Fall, Annette Davidson, Murray Davidson, Jo McLennan, and Jackie Ashenden. I couldn’t have gotten here without you!
About the Author
Nicola Davidson worked for many years in communications and marketing as well as television and print journalism, but hasn’t looked back since she decided writing wicked historical romance was infinitely more fun. When not chained to a computer, she can be found ambling along one of New Zealand’s beautiful beaches, cheering on the champion All Blacks rugby team, history geeking on the internet, or daydreaming. If this includes chocolate—even better!
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