By Design (11 page)

She peered around the shadowed, crude shack that had been her home. Despite their poverty, they had been safe here.

She had to know what she faced. “Did you truly come today to purchase crockery? And just to reproach George?”

He stood beside her. His tall strength dominated the tiny space, and her. “Aye. But I also came to see you, to be sure that you were well.”

“Do you swear that was all? That you did not come here planning to take me away?”

He did not answer at once. She waited, the caution that she knew too well pounding its low beat in her blood.

“I do not think that I planned to take you away. But I can not swear it.”

His hand appeared again. She wished that she could trust him. She rose on her own. “If you are an honest man, I fear that you will regret this. If you are not, I certainly will.”

“It appears that we will both be taking a chance.”

“It appears that you give me no choice but to do so.”

He lifted her sack and opened the door. “That is true, Joan. I give you no choice. You will come with me now.”

Her brother followed a few hours later. Rhys heard him call into the house from the street, seeking Joan.

He left the small workroom and went down the stairs to the door. Smells of soup and bread filled the hall. Like the kitchen clutter Joan had already caused, such ordinary things were interesting novelties here.

Mark stood in the street, holding the wooden box. He was big for his age. Already his shoulders had broadened,
giving his youthful frame a loose, wiry appearance. His blond hair hung straight to his shoulders, and his eyes, surprisingly dark in one so fair, gave Rhys a very unfriendly inspection.

“So it is you,” he said.

“Aye, it is me.”

Rhys brought him to the kitchen. Joan stirred some soup at the hearth. He walked out to the garden, leaving Mark with her so that they could speak privately.

He went over to the bench where the statue lay propped. He had begun working the face yesterday. He always did that near the end. His saints were famed for their humanity, because he did not rely on the traditional formulas for their poses and characters. He waited for the faces to emerge in his mind. When they came to him, they were composites of many that he had seen in the city, of eyes and mouths and expressions branded on his memory.

This Ursula would be dignified and soulful, showing both the confidence of her high birth and the acceptance of her suffering. Not above it all, like too many carved martyrs.

Mark came out of the house, carrying the box. He put it on the table under the tree and faced Rhys. A little cocky. A little defensive. The man of the family was ready to discuss terms.

“She says that I can stay here, too.”

“I will hardly leave you in the alley.”

Mark considered that, then speared him with a knowing gaze. “You have no wife.”

“It appears not.”

“She will not whore for you.” He looked away. “I will not, either.”

“I am looking for no whore, least of all you.”

“No matter what you call it, she won't do it. As long as you accept that.” He pulled two folded sacks from the top of
the box. “I brought our beds. Good thing that I did, eh? Even a mason would not have three. They need straw, though.”

Rhys gestured to the far portal, and led Mark to the stable.

The youth's eyes widened in delight when they entered. “Do you own a horse?”

“That one there.”

He entered the stall, and began checking teeth and legs as though he knew what he was doing. “He looks to be a good animal. What, about six years?”

“How came you to learn about horses?”

“My father had one. We were not always so poor.”

Not poor at all, if the father owned a horse. “You can take over caring for him, since you know what you are about.”

“If you don#x0027;t use him every day, I will exercise him, too.”

Rhys imagined the young man happily galloping through the city lanes, wreaking havoc. “Let me think about that. Now, the clean straw is over there.”

“I will tell Joan where it is.”

“Nay, you will do it yourself.”

Mark looked shocked. “I do not stuff pallets.”

“You do if you want to eat.”

“You do not understand. She will not permit it.”

“
You
do not understand. It is not her say now, but mine. If you live here, you will work. There will be chores every day. You will care for the horse and tend the garden. The stable roof needs rethatching, too. You will not live off your sister's labor anymore.”

Mark resentfully grabbed an armful of straw and sulked all the way back to the house.

They found the meal ready. Two bowls waited on the kitchen table. Rhys wandered into the hall. There, alone on the long table, stood the last bowl and cup.

He went back to the kitchen. “Move your crockery in there with me.”

“Servants do not eat at the master's table,” Joan said primly.

“This master does not choose to eat alone. It is why I always went to taverns. Move them.”

It was a silent meal. Joan kept her eyes on her food, as if she did not want to see her surroundings. Or him. Even when he complimented her cooking, she did not respond.

Mark did not notice the awkwardness. He wolfed everything in sight, and would have taken the last of the bread if Joan had not smacked his hand. Remembering the relentless hunger of that age, Rhys broke off a small piece and pushed the rest to him.

Joan grabbed the bread from her brother, and slammed it back down in front of Rhys. “It is yours, not his. Stop mixing things up. Stop acting like this is other than it is.”

He pushed the bread back to the boy. “Take that, and go stuff the pallets.”

Mark darted glances to them both. Suddenly alert to the tension, he left quickly.

Rhys rose, and looked down on Joan's bowed crown. “I must go meet some men, Joan. When I return you will explain to me what you think this is, since you seem to know better than I do.”

He did not come back quickly. Joan spent the whole time in a turmoil, waiting for the sounds of his return. She worried that he would not come back alone, but with guards who would take away her brother, and probably her, too.

Several times, while she washed the cups and cleaned the kitchen, she nearly succumbed to an onslaught of panic. She almost called for Mark to tell him they must
run. Rhys had gone to Westminster, to report that he had them. The meal had just been a gesture to lull them into complacency. To fatten them up for the kill.

Run to where, though? That consideration always intruded, and forced more rational thoughts. She had no real evidence that he knew who she was or the crimes she could prove. None at all. She was letting her imagination unhinge her judgment. If Mortimer suspected, he need not have sent Rhys to the tile yard. His guard could have found her there as easily as here.

She debated it back and forth, over and over, trying to decide what to do. The sun set on her agitation, taking the choice out of her hands. Mark laid their pallets near the kitchen hearth, and soon fell asleep on his.

She paced the hall, sick to her stomach, listening through the silence for the sounds of horses and boots.

Finally she grew exhausted from the fear. She went out through the garden to the well, to wash off the clay and the soils of cooking.

The city had gone to bed. It was very quiet now, very peaceful. That calmed her. Hidden by the night and the wall, she slipped her arms up through the gown's broad neckline, and let the bodice and shift fall around her hips so she could wash more thoroughly.

The cold water felt good. It enlivened her skin. The night air dried her with a subtle chill, making her very alert.

Suddenly she sensed him. He was here, in the garden. Sitting at the table, under the tree. She did not turn and look, she just recognized his presence.

He had been there all along. He had returned through the garden portal much earlier. The whole time that she washed herself, he had been silently watching in the moonlight.

She quickly pulled her shift up to cover her breasts. She heard him move, and rise, and walk toward her.

“You should have said something, and made your presence known,” she said accusingly.

“I couldn#x0027;t. My heart was in my throat.”

She fumbled to find the shift's armholes. He came up behind her and reached around, doing it for her. His arms encircled and enclosed even as they aided. Heart pounding, she shoved her arms through.

Rhys's fingertips brushed her shoulder, making her tremble.

She stepped aside, so he would not seem so close. “Did you go to Westminster?”

“I went to the Guildhall. Why did you think I had gone to the palace? No one works there this late.”

“I thought perhaps you went to answer that summons.”

“I did, but not tonight.”

She still fumbled clumsily with the gown. He watched. She got the sense that he could see more of her than she of him. His attention left her so exposed that she might have been standing naked beside him.

“If you know about that summons, you were still here when the messenger came. I have wondered about that. Did he offend you? Is that why you left?”

She finally got the gown up. She set it on her shoulders with relief, but still felt naked. “He was offensive enough, but that is not why I left.”

“Then why?”

“Because I did not want to stay. I did not want it to continue. But it appears that you did not understand that. Your vanity has put too much weight on a few kisses. I meant nothing by them.”

“I have kissed often enough to know what they meant. Have you?”

“Often enough, as you say. To my mind.”

He reached out and brushed his fingers on her mouth. “Except that you never kissed back before, because you did not want to.”

She turned her face, but his hand did not fall away. His fingertips lingered on her skin.

Best to have it out now.

“You want me to sleep with you, don't you? You lied at the tile yard. You said that you did not intend that.”

“I will never force you, pretty dove. But I will not pretend that what passes between us is not there.”

She forced herself to angle away from his touch, and break the contact. “Nothing passes between us. I do not like men in that way.”

“You like this man in that way.”

Hands reaching for her. Gently closing on her shoulders. Turning her, so that her hips now rested against the well.

He caressed her arms down to her hands, and pinned them wide apart on the ledge, leaving her spread and vulnerable, and standing so close that his chest brushed her breasts. “Something most definitely passes between us, Joan. At the very least, a very promising pleasure does.”

He kissed her neck, then her ear, then her mouth.

More than promising. Astounding. It flowed and tingled and sunk low quickly, as if she had been waiting for it. She realized that she had. Anticipation had been a part of her worry and her fear, and even her anger, complicating all of her emotions.

Craving impulses awoke, and grew and grew. He gently bit her lower lip, demanding more.

It frightened her. A chilling sadness intruded on the pleasure, as though invisible hands pulled her out of it. She could never permit what he wanted. Neither the past nor the future would let her.

He stopped, as if he sensed her retreat. His hands caressed her arms up to her shoulders. “You are a confounding woman.”

“Perhaps I am just a virtuous woman. There are a few left in the world.”

“I do not think of these things in such commonplace ways, Joan. I don't believe that you do, either. But if I am wrong, and I offend your virtue, say so. Look me in the eyes and say that you think this is sin, and I will never touch you again.”

She could not. He would hear the lack of conviction and know that she lied. Her ideas about right and wrong, about virtue, had long ago been abandoned. This was not wrong in that way. If anything it was too right.

Rhys took her face in both his hands.

“You think that you know what
this is
, Joan. I am more curious about what this might be.”

His rough, gentle hands reminded her of the care in the market and at the stocks and in the bath. His words lured her with memories of the bond forged that night and then explored the next day under the tree. The yearning spread intensely. Her heart ached from it so badly that she wanted to weep.

She removed his hands. “I cannot let this be anything more than it is. I will not be staying in London much longer. There are things that I must do soon.”

“What things?”

“Things close to my heart that I do not speak of. I have nothing to give you but the service that you have bought. There is nothing I can take from you except a few nights of shelter.”

“There is friendship and pleasure, in the very least.”

“If I ever lie with a man, it will not be for that.”

“What then? You said you did not want marriage.”

“Nay, definitely not marriage. That bondage is even
more permanent than the indenture. If I wanted that, I could have had it by now, and spared myself three years in the tile yard.”

“Then for what do you save yourself, if not affection or security?”

I want a man killed
.

She almost said it. She came so close that she knew he was weakening her, and luring her to confidences that would jeopardize everything.

“I save myself for myself, and for duties and plans much older than your knowledge of me. I will not let you interfere with them.”

She slipped from between him and the well and began walking back to the house. He fell into step with her.

“We have not settled what services you expect,” she reminded him, seeking refuge in practical things so as to hide her unsteady emotions.

“They will settle themselves. Only I do not think of you as a servant, so do not insist that I treat you as one.”

“Then I am your guest?”

“Since you will not be my lover, I suppose that you are.”

“You offer an odd hospitality. Normal guests can leave.”

“I will not hold you against your will. You can leave when you know where you will be going, and that you will be cared for, and it is not back to the tile yard.”