By Design (33 page)

The alertness to the present had not left her, and now she looked into those eyes and saw more deeply than she had in the past. Amidst the lust, she perceived another tiny hunger. A sad one. She suddenly knew him even better than she had before. Better than she wanted to.

Guy Leighton suspected what his dead soul denied him. He recognized the void. Her comprehension of him was perhaps the closest he had ever come to a true human connection. That was why he relished her hatred, and goaded
it. That was why he wanted her, and had kept her alive, and had bothered to try to make Mark's death look like an accident.

Her new insight did not soften her heart. Pity mixed with the hatred and fear, but did not assuage them. He was lost, and she could not save him, even if what was left of his humanity wondered if she could.

His arm slipped around her, and he guided her away from the portal. “You should not be seen here. It is Mortimer's place. Come with me.”

She held down the shiver of dread so he would not feel it rack her frame. She forced her feet to move. She let him lead her through the palace.

For Mark and Rhys and herself, she went with him.

She could not do it. As soon as they entered Guy's chamber, she realized it. Not for anything, not even to survive to finish this day's work.

It was a well-appointed chamber. Mortimer valued the man he had put in it.

She could not look at him. Memories invaded her head, but not of him. A different face and a different touch and a peace soaked with caring filled her thoughts and heart.

Guy had once taken from her all that was good. He had destroyed everything that made her who she was. She could not let him do it again. She would not give up what she had claimed for herself last night. She would not let the freedom be shackled again by that numbing shame, not even as a ploy to achieve the great goal.

He took her hand and drew her toward the richly draped bed. She dug in her heels.

“Nay. I did not come here for that. Not yet. I only
wanted to speak with you, and let you know how glad I am that we will be together again.”

Her words rang through the silence. She heard the panic in them. She cursed herself for revealing that.

Guy liked her resistance. He always had. The contest had begun. His delight in the inevitable victory, assured by his command over life and death, made him smile.

His fingers tightened, like a reminder of how easily he could crush all she held dear. “Of course it is why you came. Our bargain was never sealed with words.”

She yanked her hand free and backed up, holding the basket to her stomach like a shield. “Take the words this time, and wait one day more.”

She had dared to refuse him only once, long ago, and had paid dearly for the insult. He advanced on her with an expression that said that she would do so now again.

She moved away but he kept coming. Slowly, horribly. She glanced frantically around the chamber, searching for a way to get free, looking for the dodge that would thwart him.

There was none. She was trapped. Cornered. She had avoided his cruelty in the past with submission, but she could not do that today. The womanhood reborn in Rhys's arms would not accept a new death so easily.

Finally there was nowhere else to move. Her back hit the wall and he stood an arm's span away.

“I warn you, do not touch me. It will not be as you think. Not now. Not yet.”

“Of course it will, if I command it. I am glad that you have tried to toy with me, sweet Joan. I considered hiding my anger at the insult of your betrayal, but I will not have to now. It will give me great pleasure to break your pride again, as I did when we first met.”

He reached for her. She shrank against the wall and plunged her hand into her basket.

His grip closed on her neck.

Hers closed on the handle of a kitchen knife.

Rhys awoke abruptly and knew immediately that something was wrong. He lay motionlessly with his eyes still closed, hoping his other senses would reassure him.

His skin detected the void by his side, and his heart took on a slow, heavy rhythm. The scent of their lovemaking surrounded him, but no others intruded. No bread baking down below. No leeks frying for soup or pottage. The house was soundless, too. Empty. The melody of her breathing was long gone from this bed.

He forced himself to look, and to move. He got up and pulled on some clothes. While he did so, he noticed how vacant the chamber suddenly seemed. Not just because she was not in it. All of her belongings, every item, had been removed.

He went down to the kitchen, his boots making very loud steps in the silence. No signs of the usual morning ritual waited for him there. No ale or domestic mess. No water warming. No Joan peering in the oven. Nothing.

The garments that she had slipped off last night had disappeared. He pictured them in their heap at her feet, like the froth of the sea giving birth to a goddess. He saw her again, both bold and shy, deciding for them both how it would be.

Other images invaded his head. Wonderful ones, of her free passion and breathless abandon. He felt her body again, heard her words of love tumble into him between her begging cries.

Joan's absence pressed on him as tangibly as her presence ever had. He held down the outrage trying to take control of him. He paced out to the garden, to be sure. He
searched the workbench, and the ground around it, for the tools he had found last night.

They were gone, like everything else. Staring at that bench, he finally accepted the truth of it.

He experienced a few breaths of utter, unnatural calm. And then his head split with livid resentment.

She had actually done it. She had made it whole, given all of herself and taken all of him, and then walked away. She had let him know paradise, and then had thrust them both back into purgatory. Only it would be worse now, since he knew for sure what he had lost.

He remembered their last lovemaking. He had interpreted her embrace as acceptance. He had told her that she had to stay, and he had thought that she agreed. Every kiss, every touch that they had shared had seemed to speak a promise of tomorrow. Not forever, but some time at least. More than one night, damn it.

He paced furiously, incapable of keeping his body at rest. He wanted to hit something. He would gladly tear the tree up by its roots if it would ease the heat in his head.

She was out there, God knew where, running and afraid. She had put her terror aside for a few hours, she had tasted freedom, but now the past enchained her again. Hadn't she understood him last night when he had said that he would deal with the man?

He strode back into the kitchen, immersed in chaotic, conflicting emotions. Anger at her and worry for her. Heart-ripping love and mind-scathing bitterness. Stark resignation and hot determination. They all crashed together and mixed and merged, leading him to one crystallized decision.

Joan would not accept his help, but this was bigger than she was. She might not let him protect her, but he was not powerless to do so anyway. He did not need her permission to finish this.

She ran from Guy Leighton, but that man stood on another's shoulders, and it was time for that support to fall. Rhys had sworn to it, and only protecting Joan would have diverted him from the cause. Since she had refused him that honor—
that right, damn it
—he would set in motion the plan that Addis and Edward would complete.

He washed and shaved and prepared himself to attend on the great man. He rehearsed the words with which he would convince Mortimer to leave Westminster. He would make the usurper fear for his safety, and thus make him more vulnerable.

The whole time that he forced his thoughts to the matter, images of Joan, of last night, of what he had briefly held and just as quickly lost, hovered in the back of his mind.

He headed outside again, to get the horse saddled. At the threshold he paused, and looked back to the kitchen. He had expected her laughter and scent to haunt the house after she left, but nothing of her remained. Nothing at all.

She had taken everything with her. Every item, and even her ghost. There was no evidence remaining to prove that she had shared his life these weeks.

In her fear, the severing had been complete. And brave. And ruthless.

Rhys found Mortimer in his garden, eating fruit beneath the canopy.

He accepted the berries offered him, and drank some wine. He made Mortimer ask what he had learned, and then let him suspect that he held something back. In response to pointed questions, the information emerged bit by bit, almost apologetically. He made light of it, and spoke of vague rumors and overheard bits and pieces. He
offered his own opinion that it was all much ado about nothing.

By the time Rhys took his leave, Roger Mortimer, the Earl of March, the Queen's lover and the most powerful man in the realm, was very worried. His stupid spy had just confirmed his own suspicions. The dense mason simply did not comprehend the significance of what had just been related.

Rhys aimed for the nearest palace door. Once in the building, he considered his next move.

His part in this was done. The rest would be work for the King and his knights. He did not even have to report on this meeting. When Mortimer left Westminster, Addis would know what to do.

They did not need him anymore. No one did.

Which left him free to follow his blood. And right now his blood wanted to punish a man who had almost destroyed a helpless woman.

Not Mortimer. Addis was right, and an assassin's hand should not resolve that. But somewhere in this palace another man waited, anticipating the sick pleasure that came from forcing the weak into degradation.

Joan had run away, but flight would not ensure her safety this time.

Rhys began searching for a handsome, predatory face. The fires of justice burned in him as they had not done in years. It might be the last act of his life, but he would make sure that Guy Leighton could not hunt down the children of Marcus de Brecon.

He asked a passing servant where to find Guy Leighton. The woman directed him to the chamber given over to Mortimer's guest.

There was no guarantee that the man would be there, but he went anyway. It did not matter where he found him. The privacy of a chamber would be useful, but if he had to
confront him in the middle of the palace practice yard, he would do it.

A scratch on the door brought no response. He was about to look elsewhere when the vaguest sound came from within, barely penetrating the thick wood below his fingers.

He gently pushed the door ajar. Heavy breathing, marked by tiny desperate sounds, leaked out to him.

He pushed harder. The door swung wide to reveal a scene of horror.

Blood, red and fresh. A growing pool of it, spreading from Guy's body, edging toward Moira's basket.

A woman, looking down with blank, wide eyes.

He stepped in and closed the door quickly. Joan did not respond to the sound. She just kept staring at Guy's motionless body and closed eyes. Her face had gone so white that it looked more dead than her enemy's. Her arms hung rigidly, angled away from her body as though she balanced precariously. Breaths pumped out of her, carrying those tiny, gasping cries.

Blood stained her hand, and her brown gown.

She had decided to become her own champion.

She noticed that she was not alone, and turned astonished eyes to him.

And then he saw how her wimple sagged low on her neck, revealing red marks on her skin where someone had gripped her. He would have killed the man then, if Joan had not already seen to it.

“He is dead,” she whispered.

“Aye, it appears that he is. Let the devil have him.” To hell with Guy Leighton. Nothing mattered but saving her from discovery, and there wasn't much time. He strode to a clothing chest and yanked it open and threw items out until he found a cloak. “You have to get away from here. Did anyone see you come?”

She did not answer. She just stared.

Questions would have to wait for later. He threw the cloak around her to hide the bloodstained gown, and slid the basket on her arm. “Come with me now.”

She tore her gaze away. She let him lead her to the door.

Clutching her in a close embrace, he walked her through the chambers and passageways. He chose a longer route than necessary to avoid the busy parts of the palace. He made for a stairway and a portal close to the stables.

A group of household guards approached them, heading toward the royal apartments. Rhys pulled Joan into a corner, and shielded her with his body while he pressed a kiss on her cold lips. The guards sauntered by, and shouted lewd encouragement to the lovers.

He felt the life come back to her with his kiss. Her body pulsed beneath his. Warmth replaced chill, and her pale face flushed. She grew alert to what he was doing, and pulled herself out of her shock.

He gently caressed her neck. “He hurt you.”

“I would not let him … Not again. Not now. Not after …” She blinked hard. “I had a knife. It is beneath him. I cut his arm, but it did not stop him. Then it went into his side, but I do not remember how.”

He pulled out of the corner and sped her forward on their escape. A fear bigger than he had ever known gripped him. Not for himself, but for her—for what would happen if he did not get her away before some squire or servant entered that chamber, and raised the cry.

“Is that why you came here? Why you left?”

“I came here to kill Mortimer, not him.”

Jesus. He almost thanked God that Guy had found her, and forced her hand in a private chamber. If she had attacked Mortimer, she would be dead already.

“I should finish that now, and be done with all of it,” Joan whispered vaguely.

“The hell you will. Keep walking, woman, or I will carry you.”

Her lips thinned. A spark of rebellion tried to catch fire, but it died, and only sad discouragement looked up at him. “I can not, anyway. I don't have a weapon anymore, and now you have been seen with me. I do not think I am brave enough in any case. It is much harder than I thought.”

His heart went out to her. Guy certainly deserved killing, and she had only defended herself. But, aye, it was much harder than she had thought.