The Lady Series Read Online Free Page A

filling her eyes.
    Anne pressed a swift and reassuring kiss to her cheek. “You worry when there’s no need. If he comes for any reason this day, it’s to announce that he’s found me a husband now that I’m your only heir. Remember his vow to leave me with you for all time. That means the man he chooses must abide here and, thus, must accept you as you are.”
    This time Frances’s eyes widened in a far different concern.
    Shame touched Anne’s answering smile. The isolation of her life here hadn’t proved a perfect barrier to sin. She gave a half-hearted shrug. “Any man who can accept you will also be accepting of me as I am.”
    From their hall, which filled the full crossbar of the “H”, came the sound of wood scraping stone. As one, mother and daughter looked at the parlor door as if they could see through it. Anne hissed in irritation as she came to her feet, her mother’s hand yet clasped in hers.
    “He doesn’t even ask before he puts his men to setting up the table and benches.” She hated the way Sir Amyas ever behaved as if Owls House yet belonged to him and wasn’t bound in trust to his second son’s daughters.
    There was a tap on the parlor door. There was no point in refusing Sir Amyas entry, not when he’d simply barge into the room, Anne called, “Come.”
    Cold damp air gusted in on their housekeeper’s skirts as she entered, then danced past her to set the candles to flickering and the flames leaping high upon the hearth. With no warning of visitors, she yet wore a stained apron atop her workaday attire and no veil beneath her cap to hide the bubbled, pocked ruin smallpox had made of her face.
    “Sir Amyas Blanchemain,” she announced then dropped into a deep curtsy.
    Anne’s grandsire strode into the parlor, his sodden cloak yet dripping and mud spewing from his boots. At three score, Sir Amyas was still a handsome man, being fine-featured and olive-skinned. His hair was pure white beneath his black cap.
    He gave no word of greeting to his second son’s widow or her daughter. Instead, he glanced around the room. Anne’s lip curled as she watched him do as he always did, taking inventory of the parlor’s fittings. His gaze alit only upon the room’s most valuable assets: the expensive carpet that covered the narrow oak table, the golden bowl at the center of the walnut mantelpiece, the massive desk.
    Then his attention shifted to the Flemish tapestry on the far wall. Anne’s eyes narrowed. That wasn’t his to covet. It belonged to her mother, brought by Frances into her marriage, thus forever beyond Amyas’s reach.
    Their housekeeper rose from her curtsy, careful to keep her face turned away from their auspicious guest. Sir Amyas’s religious beliefs were far less forgiving than those held by Frances. He claimed the pox scars she wore upon her face were a sign that God had marked her for damnation.
    “Might I take your cloak, Sir Amyas?” she asked.
    Amyas opened his cloak without removing his gloves then slipped the garment from his shoulders, handing it to her without looking at her. Beneath it he wore a knee-length black coat trimmed in black fur and, beneath that, his usual black doublet studded with pearls. But, his breeches were brown leather, the only suitable riding attire for such a wet day. Scarlet garters, held closed by pins from which pearls dangled, held the tops of his boots to his thighs. The massive gold chain that crossed his breast made certain no one mistook him for anyone other than this shire’s wealthiest man and its justice.
    “See to it my party is served a goodly meal and is accommodated for the night. We’ll be leaving on the morrow at first light.”
    “As you will, Sir Amyas.”
    As she retreated, leaving the door ajar behind her Amyas turned his sharp gaze upon his granddaughter. His mouth was but a thin crack in the granite slabs that were his cheeks. His eyes narrowed beneath their tangled brows. Anne stared back at him. It was their eyes