Pray for Reign (an Anne Boleyn novel) by Thea Atkinson

her, pulling along two waiting women. He
took a moment to bow low to Catherine who waved him to stand after only a
moment. His golden head bobbed indulgently next to her auburn hair as he sat
next to her, making her smile with soft words and pleasantries. After a
respectable amount of time had gone by, Harry left the Queen’s side. All the
while, Anne waited impatiently for him to come to her, knowing he would. His
touch on her shoulder felt warm and moist through the satin of her gown.
    "Mistress Anne, is it? Have we not met?" She
stopped playing, knowing her next move to be more important than entertaining
this pride of lionesses.
    "Yes. I believe so." She turned so her back faced
the virginal, her eyes uplifted to his face, his mouth. "We danced at the
masque."
    "Ah, yes." Such a beautiful voice; sensitive,
strong. But those women—they still clung to him, and one stroked his arm,
trying to claim him. She motioned him to the bench next to her.
    "Do you play?" That should scatter the flock.
    "No, but I love to watch a skilled musician." He
excused himself ever so politely from the leeches, and rested a discreet
distance away from her on the bench. He smelled of rose water and it blended
nicely with the rushes beneath their feet. Already the rest of them were
gathering, their eyes devouring his features.
    "What shall I play?"
    "Something happy, as Her Majesty suggests. Like you
were playing just a moment ago."
    She glanced to where Catherine sat, watching them with a
hint of a smile. She held a pawn in her delicate fingers, poised to rejuvenate
her queen. Without a word, Anne continued, allowing his presence to saturate
her feelings. Her body rocked with each note. For long moments neither spoke.
The other women found different pursuits. She didn't care.
    "Shall I come tomorrow?" He touched her hand, and
she wanted him.
    "Yes."
    "Good. Then I will. Say you'll be here."
    She nodded, the 'yes' stuck in her throat, captured by the
lust that clung there.

Chapter 13
    D ays later, Anne sat alone in the bower room, having been
given leave by Catherine who lay abed. The Queen’s apartments usually lent
laughter and music to the gloom of the castle, but today no sounds came down
the corridor or eked into the bower room. The Queen must be sleeping, probably
strained with the knowledge that she had discovered again that she was not with
child. Anne felt a fleeting pity, then lost it in the gratitude of being alone
for an hour or two. The remains of a snack sat on the hearth in a pewter plate:
Spermese cheese, some bread and a slab of poorly cooked pork. She looked at it
for a moment, thinking she should eat the cheese for it would grow hard if left
to the air.
    Before she could decide, a quick rap came on the door. She
stood hastily, smoothed her skirts. Surely someone called her back to
Catherine.
    "Nan, I’ve been searching for you. The Queen said you
might be in these apartments."
    "My Lord Father..." She hurried to Thomas, knowing
as she saw him that he came for a formal purpose. She swallowed the
nervousness. He gave the room a leisurely glance that rested on the hearth and
its remnants and Anne as she stood with crinkled skirts that even now she was
smoothing.
    "I’ve come to discuss your wedding."
    "My wedding, my Lord?" Her heart lurched. During
the month she’d prayed she’d not be given to the Irishman so quickly. She
didn’t think she could stand it if the news was anything besides that she’d
have to wait another month.
    "Yes, it seems as if your fiancé has become quite
enamored of you." Thomas’ tone sounded angry and she couldn't imagine what
had him so upset. He must think she had bedded the young man. He strode across
the room, picked at the cheese as he watched her.
    "I can’t have you marry the boy. And I can’t have you
making him believe he wants you." His features hardened. She stared at him
for a long time, utterly confused, and watched his black eyes stare right back.
They never flinched, nor