The Sacred Shore by T. Davis Bunn Read Free Book Online Page B

rough-hewn village lass. Anne Harrow was raven-haired, lithe, and slight, somehow holding to a fragility more suited to a formal parlor than a primitive country village church.
    Dressed in homespun and a small lace cap, with no jewelry or adornment whatsoever, she was evidently poor. Yet she possessed the calm demeanor and confidence of a true lady. Charles felt his heart race with anticipation. Perhaps fate’s hand was finally turning toward him.
    â€œExcuse my chatter,” she said, starting to move away. “You no doubt wish for solitude.”
    â€œYou are not disturbing me at all,” he quickly assured her. An idea took shape in his mind. Perhaps he did not need to go hat in hand to his brother at all. It was possible he could avoid the need to beg him for anything. He could speak his piece here and now to this newly discovered niece and present his brother with an accomplished fact.
    Anne walked over to put her broom in the corner. “My sweeping can wait. I should leave and permit you to speak with God in peace.”
    â€œNo. Wait. I … I wish to speak with you.”
    She showed quiet surprise. “With me?”
    â€œYes. You see, I … well, I come from England.”
    â€œEngland.” She clasped delicate hands before her. “Oh, I have always dreamed of seeing England. My father comes from there.”
    â€œI know.” He was making a terrible job of this. Charles tried to swallow down his nervousness. “Would you sit here for a moment? Please. This is important.”
    She hesitated, her dark gaze wary now. When she did nod and move forward it was to slide into the pew opposite his own, sitting on the very edge. “What could be so important about a village church that it would interest a gentleman from England?”
    â€œIt is not the church. It is you.”
    Her eyes widened. “Me?”
    Charles nodded. “I have traveled all this way to find you. And I must say, my dear—”
    But Anne was already on her feet. “Perhaps you should reserve further speech for my father, sir.”
    â€œNo, wait! I beseech you, Anne Harrow, hear me out!”
    She halted midway to the door. “How did you know my family name?”
    â€œBecause it is my name as well.” Charles rushed on, hurrying now to say what he had planned for months and months. “I am your father’s brother. Charles, the eighth earl of Sutton. Has your father not spoken of me?” When there was no reply, only a shocked look on the girl’s face, he hurried on. “I am wealthy, my dear. I don’t know how else to tell you. Rich beyond your wildest dreams. I am also childless. My second wife died last autumn, leaving me no heir. I have braved the North Atlantic in late winter because I had to find you. I want—”
    â€œNo …” Anne’s feet seemed unable to move in time to her body. She stumbled against the last pew, caught herself, stumbled again. “I must …”
    â€œI want to take you away from all this, give you the kingdom! I mean just that!” He started toward her, then stopped midstride, fearful of driving her away before he could say it all. “I will make you a proper lady, introduce you at court, give you everything you have ever dreamed of owning and more. It is all yours, Anne. Titles, land, riches, everything!”
    Her hands scrambled over the door, found the latch, and flung it open to flee down the steps. Charles stood with one hand outstretched, listening to her footsteps grow distant down the village lane. In his heart he knew he had bungled everything. Smacking a fist into his hand, he chided himself for his impatience and insensitivity. After coming so far and enduring so much—he had totally mismanaged the encounter. Now he would need to start over and attempt to rectify the damage he had done. He was used to having his own way without question or resistance. But now he had frightened Anne half