By Design (43 page)

“I did not want you to do the right thing. I wanted you to do the selfish thing, so that I could, too. My heart broke when you left me there. I knew nothing but pain for weeks. I hated you for being strong and good, and for making me go through with it.”

“If it was a mistake for you to return, I am sorry. If seeing your home brought you pain …”

“It was not that which pained me, but that you would let go of me.”

“I have never let go of you. If my judgment in this proved wrong, I have suffered for it as much as you.”

She sighed, and turned and sank down on the bench. “Your judgment was not wrong. It was as you said. I needed to ride through those gates, and see Guy's men
displaced, and watch my brother sit in the lord's chair. I needed to visit my father's grave and tell him it was done, as I had sworn it would be.” She paused, and gazed down at the clay-speckled hands on her lap. “I needed to reclaim my chamber, and … and my bed, and the person I had once been. I needed to close the circle, and complete it. It is good that I went home, I can not deny that.”

He sat beside her, and took her hand in his. The clay had made it very smooth. “Then I am happy for you.”

They sat together in silence, sharing a delicious connection. She placed her other hand over his, so that she enclosed him.

“I visited the tile yard. I had more clay brought in, so that the King's pavers might be finished. It will take some time with the cold weather, but they should be right. It would not be good for the crown's principal builder to leave a project incomplete.”

He had not thought about the tile yard, or the King's project, in all these weeks.

“It would not do for that investment to be lost,” she added.

He had not thought about that either. “I suppose not.”

More silence. There was profound peace in just sitting with her, holding her hand. They had shared the deepest passion, but he had never needed that to love her.

“They have chosen a husband for me.”

The peace shattered. Its falling pieces cut like blades.

“He came to Brecon. I met him. He holds lands near York, and is one of Edward's favorites. It will be a great alliance of families.”

“So soon? Your brother—”

“Addis has been given wardship of my brother, until Mark learns what he must know. Barrowburgh will protect
him, and give the advice and guidance, not me. It is just as well. He does not hear a woman's voice anymore.”

“This lord is a good man, you think?”

“Aye, a good man.”

The depths of his reaction stunned him. A visceral anger split through his mind. He had known she would be given to another, but hearing of it sent flames jumping through his blood.

She had come to tell him this, not to work clay or visit an old lover. When their hands separated this time, it would truly be the final parting.

He gazed at her delicate profile. She could do it. She could do anything if she put her will to it. She had proven herself stronger than the despair wrought by misery and degradation. This fate, decreed by birth and duty, would be a small thing in comparison, and she would flourish in that man's home if she chose to accept him.

A decision formed in him, as solid as rock. It was not one hewn out of good and right, but out of selfish desire and heartfelt need.

He hoped he was right, and that the chains of their love were stronger than those of duty and blood.

He touched her cheek, and turned her face. He prayed that what he planned to do would never bring her unhap-piness.

Sitting with him, holding him, filled Joan with that sense of being protected and vulnerable at the same time. She reveled in the security, but his touch evoked longings that could not be ignored. Not today, after all this time apart. She wanted to be absorbed completely by him, not just loved quietly.

Didn't he know why she had really returned to this house?

She kept hoping that he would kiss her again. She wondered if she would have to be bold about it. Surely he could feel what kept building between them. The press of their hands became imbued with it. The connection changed from comforting to sensual.

His fingertips touched her cheek. He turned her face, and looked into her eyes. Warmth and love gazed at her, but a bit of that steely glint showed too.

“If you are to marry this lord, you should not have come here.”

“There is no harm in visiting a friend.”

“I can never know you just as a friend. You are not Moira, and I will never love you as in kinship.”

“I do not ask you to.”

“It is good that you do not, because speaking of that man has raised the devil in me. But I think that you knew it would.”

Aye, she had known it would. She had counted on jealousy making him less good.

He kissed her. Not like the first one. Not in greeting, or restrained affection.

For weeks she had filled her senses with memories of him. She had waited impatiently for the times alone when she could give herself over to the fantasies. Savor them. Immerse her mind in the spirit of his touch and scent and caress. Her love had become another world to which she escaped every night, and often during the day. It had become more real than the hall and chambers in which she dwelled.

It had been a sad world, though. One full of wistful longing and aching grief. Living in the spirit of love, but never tasting its reality, had kept the pain of their parting alive and sharp.

She tasted love's reality now. She clutched a solid man, not a phantom. She accepted deep kisses, and possessive
caresses, and felt anew what the memories had lost. The physicality of the intimacy undid her. The beauty of it, the realness, made her composure break.

She buried her face in his chest so he would not see, but he knew anyway. He held her tighter, and pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I am making you unhappy.”

Holding in the tears choked her. She could only shake her head. Didn't he know that it was joy that overwhelmed her, not sorrow? Couldn't he tell?

He guided her face up, and brushed away tears with his lips. “I want you to sleep with me tonight. In my arms, and in my bed. I want to wake in the morning and find you naked beside me. You will not deny us this night. I think that it is why you came here. Am I wrong?”

“You are not wrong.” She had come for that, but also for much more. One night, and then another. And another ….

She reached up and ran her fingers over the planes of his face. She had forgotten how just looking at him could make her blood sparkle.

They did not rush it. They held each other, and she relished a contentment that she thought never to know again. Ecstasy could wait for the night and the feather bed. A quieter rapture bound them together on this bench.

“It will be dark soon. We should send word to the palace that you will stay here, or the Queen might have her guard looking for you.”

“She will not, because I never went to the palace and she does not even know that I left home. I have been in this house all week, waiting for you.”

He lifted a bit of her skirt. “It is a court dress. I just assumed that you had come to Westminster.”

“It is all I have, this and others like it from the old days.
Mark would not let me keep my other gowns. He said that they reminded him of the bad years.”

“Does Mark know that you came to visit me? I am surprised that he would permit it.”

“I did not ask his permission. He saw my resolve, and did not try to stop me. He even bid me to ask a favor of England's best mason. Come, I will show you what it is.”

She rose and took his hand and led him out into the early twilight. She had almost forgotten the favor. In truth, it was really a gift. She looked forward to his surprise.

She brought him to the workbench over near the hawthorn tree. Canvas draped the large object propped up on it.

“Close your eyes.”

He eyed the bench curiously, then his lids dropped. She pulled the covering off to reveal not his Saint Ursula, but a shimmering white block of stone.

“Look.”

He did. She saw his shock, but none of the delight that she expected.

“It is marble,” she said.

“I know.”

“Mark's first act once we got home was to move my father's grave. He wants a statue put in the chapel near the floor vault where he now lies. Saint George, in armor, to honor the way father died. Marble, he said, the finest there is, to be carved by the finest mason, which means you. It was not easy finding this block. A bishop had brought it in from Italy for his own tomb.”

“It is a fine stone, Joan.”

His lack of enthusiasm confused her. “Have you never worked marble before?”

“I have. Twice. But I can not carve this statue.”

“Why? It will be magnificent, and you can do as you like. Mark trusts your judgment, and asks for no drawings. He knows that you will have building projects, and that it will take a long while, if that is what concerns you.”

He strolled over to the stone. He touched its surface, running his fingertips down its length. Regret shadowed his expression.

He held up his left palm. The scar from Guy's dagger showed thick and red, slashing from the base of his thumb to that of his smallest finger.

“I cannot carve it for you. I cannot hold the chisel.”

His flat statement stunned her. She took his hand and studied the scar. She felt along its ugly ridge.

“It does not look maimed. The bones are whole.”

“It is not the bones. Something else.”

“You said the surgeon had told you it should be right. You said Addis had suffered much worse, and time had healed him.”

“Both the surgeon and Addis offered hope, but I knew. Even before the healing began, I knew.”

“You knew wrong. It is too soon to despair. You have only to work it again, and use your tools, and with time—”

“God knows that I tried. I borrowed the tools of a mason in my uncle's town and I tried for days. It takes strength to hold a chisel under the force of a hammer, and my hand no longer has it. See. I can not close my fist tightly.”

He could make no more than a claw. He tried to force it. His whole arm tensed from the strain. His efforts broke her heart.

She bent and rested her cheek on his palm. “It was for me that you lost this.”

“As losses go, it was a small one.”

Not small. Huge. The magnitude of it filled her.

“I will be building still. Palaces and churches, as I have dreamed. More has been given than has been taken away.”

She looked up at him and their gazes met. For all his brave words, they both knew the truth. He might build, but he would never carve. With his drawings and geometry he might see the mind, but he would never again know the soul.

She released his hand. She went to the wooden box near the table, and opened it. She lifted the hammer and chisel that it held.

“It will not be so. I will not accept it. You will try and try until your hand is right. You will carve my father's statue.”

“Your resolve will not change this, pretty dove.”

“It will. You will see.” She handed the tools to him. “Take them. You will see.”

Rhys reluctantly took the tools in his hands. His calm expression broke when he felt their weight and forms. “Joan …”

“Please, try. I can not bear that you have lost this part of yourself. It is unfair. Unjust. Surely it was not meant to be.”

He became angry at her insistence. She was afraid that he would throw the tools down and walk away.

“Please. For me.”

His right hand tightened on the handle of the hammer. His left closed on the base of the chisel. Anger burned hotter in his eyes.

“Aye, I will try once more, for you, so that you can see how it is. And after you do, you are never to speak to me of this again.”

He gazed at the stone, and a special intensity slowly replaced the anger. He measured the block, judging its
depths and strength, making his decision. His expression reminded her of that wonderful Sunday when she had watched him carve while she molded.

“Do you see the figure in it?” she asked.

“Aye, your Saint George is in it.”

“So he needs only to be freed.”

He stared down at the tools. Then he lifted the chisel, and placed it obliquely near a corner of the block.

He swung the hammer.

It landed on the other tool.

The chisel slid and flew, landing in the dirt.

Its dull thud hit just as a silent one shook her heart. It was true. His hand did not have the strength to hold it.

A brittle silence filled the garden. He appeared resigned, and resentful. He did not like being made to face this again, in front of her.

A deep sorrow, hidden beneath his strength, leaked through his barriers and flowed toward her.

His efforts to contain it twisted her heart. “It is not fair that you should be the only one to lose, when you had nothing to gain.”

“The world is not always just. You know that better than I. And I gained much. All that I wanted for you. I regret nothing, and will not have you pity me over this.”

Still brave. Always strong. But she knew that he grieved.

She yearned to find some way to comfort him. She wanted to give him back this essential part of his life. Surely there was some way to right this injustice.

She walked around him and picked up the chisel. Its cold metal length rested heavily in her hands.

“Take it again. Place it on the stone, where it should be. I will hold it for you.”

“It does not work that way, darling. When I carve, my two hands become one. It is all a single action, and a single thought.”

“Take it. Do it. You have nothing more to lose but another moment of pride.”

He sighed deeply, and gestured. “Then stand here, and I will put your hands where they should be.”

She stepped in front of him, within the curve of his left arm, and lifted the chisel in both her hands. His palm closed over her grip, and settled the tool on the stone.

“Nay, we cannot do this. If I miss, your hands will be broken.”

“You will not miss.”

He hesitated. She held firmly, refusing to budge.

His hand covered hers more fully, to shield her. She centered all her strength on keeping that tool in place.