Lady of the Roses Read Online Free PDF

my strength was focused on recovery, but my heart pounded so violently against my ribs that I knew my heaving bosom betrayed my emotion. A sick giddiness born of shame, heat, and excitement made me falter, and I raised a hand to my brow.
    “My lady,” he said, steadying me by the elbow. “It seems we must seek some air. The warmth in here is suffocating.”
    I nodded, the corners of my mouth lifting. And then I remembered Sister. She would never permit me to leave the room with anyone, especially not a knight. Especially not a Neville.
    “But—” I said, turning to the front of the room where Sister sat.
    “We shall request permission, as is seemly,” he said, but his tone held a smile.
    When we reached Sœur Madeleine, I realized why. She no longer sat on the bench but in a tapestried chair set off to the corner, and her head lolled to one side as she slept, snoring loudly. A wineglass lay lightly in one hand, engulfed in the folds of her skirts. Having spilled its last drops on her knees, it bobbed up and down with each heavy breath, like a ship at sea.
    I suppressed my laughter and glanced at him.
    “It seems Sœur Madeleine is in no condition to deny us permission, my lady,” he said, his eyes twinkling and a grin revealing his irresistible dimples. He put out his hand to me. I seized it most undecorously. The fact that I remembered the hovering varlet and realized that unholy temptation had deliberately been set into Sister’s path made not a berry’s worth of difference to me.
    The air was fresh, the night beautiful, and the small walled garden profuse with blooms that sparkled with raindrops. Music drifted from the open windows of the great hall as we passed a server with a tray of oranges, and a group of courtiers and maidens around a smooth stone fountain, laughing amidst the roses.
    “They tell me you are Lancastrian,” he said.
    “They tell me you are Yorkist. And that all Yorkists are rapists and murderers,” I replied, stealing a wry look at him from beneath my lashes as we strolled.
    He laughed, a hearty, wonderful laugh that creased his cheeks and flashed his dimples to my delight. A light twinkled in his dark blue eyes. “Don’t believe everything you hear. There are a few exceptions.”
    I glanced down at the hound that strutted happily at his heels. “And what is he, Yorkist or Lancastrian, do you know?”
    “Yorkist. But sometimes he forgets and licks a Lancastrian.” He mocked a grave countenance but a corner of his mouth twitched.
    I smiled, suffused with happiness as we talked. “Is he always with you?”
    “Always, except when there is danger, as in a battle…or at a dance. Then he watches from the tent—or from under the table…. He has more sense than I do, you see.” He looked into my eyes, and even in the starlight I felt the fire that had singed me when we danced together.
    I tore my eyes from his.
    “Northumbria is very beautiful. I was there once,” I said, dropping my gaze.
    “Cambridgeshire is even lovelier. I should like to visit more frequently.”
    I shot him a glance. His mouth had curved, as though he knew I had caught his meaning. I blushed again, feeling my cheeks as red as poppies, and I was grateful for the night that shielded me with its darkness.
    We strolled deep into the garden. Here, no torches blazed to light the way, and there were no prying eyes, except those of the silver stars that sparkled over us. The music faded, and only the chirping of crickets broke the silence of the night. I was acutely aware of his nearness, and a burning tension flooded me, making me ache for his touch.
    He said, “I never had the honor of meeting your father—God rest his soul—but I know your uncle. The Earl of Worcester is a devout and scholarly man.”
    I relaxed a little at the turn of the conversation. “Aye, that he is. He has a great love of learning, and taught me the pleasure of manuscripts at a young age.”
    “What have you read?”
    “Ovid, Christine