He took her in his arms and sighed with pleasure. He had been right to send for her; how he had missed her steady, loving presence. All the stresses of the past month were released in that sigh, and Anne looked up, concerned. “I swear you look ten years older, Richard,” she murmured, stroking his back. “Has it been aching more than usual?” Anne was the only person he allowed to mention the evidence of God’s displeasure that protruded below his shoulder; he knew he would never atone for King Henry’s murder, but he could not tell Anne that.

“Aye, I get tired more easily now. Standing as straight as I can and doing my best to conceal the monstrosity puts a strain on my whole body.” He kissed her mouth softly and felt himself aroused, but now was not the time for seduction; now was time for her to recover from her six-day journey. “How is our son?”

“He wanted to come so much, but Mistress Idley will keep him occupied until we return or send for him. He sent a million kisses. I worry he will forget me.”

Richard chuckled. “Have no fear, he won’t. If truth be told, I expect he will miss John more than us. And speaking of John, did I tell you that Francis is ready to take him on as squire now. ’Tis time the lad flew the coop.”

Anne smiled. “You indulge both your boys, Richard, and do not lie, you are besotted with your daughter.”

Richard grinned. “You’ve noticed? I shall try and be impartial from now on. But she is a beauty, is she not?”

Just like her mother, Anne wanted to say. “Pah! Impossible,” she said instead, giving him a gentle swat. “In truth, it is your kindness to the young ones that I find so dear.”

A tap on the door meant an end to their privacy, and giving Richard a peck on the cheek, Anne called, “Come.” One of her tiring women came in with Katherine in tow, and on seeing her father, the auburn-haired fifteen-year-old forgot all decorum and threw herself into his arms.

“Father! I am so happy to see you.” As she pulled back, she studied him. “Are you unwell, my lord? You look tired.”

Richard smiled, adoration in his eyes for his comely daughter, reminding him daily of Kate; she was filling out a little more rapidly than an anxious father would have liked, he admitted. “I am tired, poppet. Tired of waiting for you all to arrive,” he teased, and hoped he did not look as bad as his wife and daughter made him feel by their concern. “I thought you would never come.”