by Ruth Kaufman
At that moment, Joanna glowed. Her eyes, her expression, her words captivated him. Adrian could no longer resist her allure. In an instant he drew her into his embrace.
He kissed her, hard and hot.
Joanna opened her mouth against the urging of his. She tasted better than his favorite cherry pottage. Adrian plunged his hands into her hair. The thick, curling masses he’d so longed to touch felt as soft and smelled as pleasing as he’d imagined.
She leaned into him, her breasts against his chest, the softness of her thighs flush against his hardening groin. He clutched her closer, awash in yearning.
Adrian pulled away, struggling to catch his breath. “Joanna. We— I—”
Stunned by the force of his desire for her, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t bring himself to discuss what they’d just done. Doing so would breach their recently signed agreement.
So he left without another word. And cursed himself for acting the coward.
Two days later, he returned to Joanna’s studio.
“Who’s there?” she asked when he knocked.
Good. She was being careful about who gained admittance.
“Adrian,” he said.
The door remained closed. Wasn’t she going to let him in? He was just about to call her name when the door opened.
Her face was still and composed, not warm and welcoming. “Yes?”
“I apologize for my abrupt departure the other day.”
She didn’t step aside so he could enter.
“All I can say is this business of getting married is unfamiliar. I’m here to confirm the time of our wedding.”
She let him in. “Very well.”
Warmth from the studio filled him and the sight of her chipped at the barrier he’d erected.
He lingered after they finalized the details, not wanting to leave her just yet. Against his will he found himself interested in her current project, a depiction of St. Edward the Confessor with a flowered border. The quality of her work, of course, is what he cared about. Not the slight blush in her cheek. Not the way she moved, not the expectant look in her eyes.
Did she think constantly of being in his arms, as he thought of holding her again?
He wouldn’t revisit the welcome feel of her body or imagine the wonders he knew her clothing concealed. He was bound to support her glass-painting. That had to be why he wanted to stay. He admitted he also wanted to know more about his betrothed. But he’d restricted their relationship. At least her work was an acceptable topic to discuss. He could learn about her through her daily tasks.
What if she wanted to know more about him? She couldn’t ask. Her part of the bargain, her safe topic, was providing an heir. Most unlikely she’d want to talk about that. What else did that leave, the weather? Food?
“What’s the tool you’re using? It looks dangerous,” he said.
“This is a dividing iron. You’re right, it could be dangerous. I heat the tip to crack the glass.” She held up a different tool with a hook at each end. “And this is a grozing iron, which helps me chip the glass into the shape I want.”
“What makes glass different colors?”
“Ash and sand are the main ingredients for what we call white glass, which is actually clear. But if there’s iron oxide in the mix, you can get a green tinge. Some glass is colored by oxides in the materials and how long they’re heated. Oxides are added. As you might expect, cobalt makes blue glass. English glass isn’t the best, but glass made elsewhere is more expensive.”
When his estates were restored, he’d buy her whatever kind of glass she wanted.
“After I draw the design, called a cartoon, I can use colored glass or add color by painting each piece, sometimes on both sides.”
“Where do you buy paint?”
“I mix my own. Then I fire the pieces in my furnace.”
Impressive. He made his way around her studio, looking at her tools and bins of glass. Thinking of her touching them and changing them into something beautiful.
The swish of skirts told him Joanna followed. A hint of rose told him she was near. Near enough to kiss again if he turned and took her in his—
“I hope you’ll help me delineate the limits of our agreement, which I’ve memorized,” she said. “One condition reads, ‘conversations of a personal nature will be kept to a minimum.’ But I’ve noticed that you favor your left wrist and would like to know how you injured it. Is that too personal?”
So the agreement filled her mind as much as it did his. He’d made that restriction to avoid inquiries he didn’t wish to answer…why he’d disappear for random periods, maybe even run from the room. Fortunately, recent visions had come upon him when he was alone. He couldn’t involve her.
He wasn’t sure he liked that Joanna tested the limits so soon. Or that he’d had to establish them in the first place.
Adrian rubbed his wrist. This he could talk about. “It grows stronger, but hasn’t returned to normal despite nearly five months of healing. I broke it in July, at Northampton.”
“The battle the Yorkists won…where King Henry was taken prisoner?” Joanna asked, her attention on St. Edward.
He nodded.
“Which side were you on?”
“I fight under Warwick’s banner.”
She looked up at him. “Against the king?”
He couldn’t tell if she disapproved or was merely curious. Surely living in York, she too supported the Yorkists in their quest for reform. Not only had Henry VI proved a weak king, many believed the Duke of York was the rightful heir to the throne.
“For my overlord,” he answered. “His family and mine have been allies for generations. Warwick tried to negotiate before the fighting at Northampton. But the king’s commander, the Duke of Buckingham, said Warwick would die if he came into the king’s presence. We might have lost if one of the king’s men hadn’t betrayed the king to help us. Since then, King Henry and the Duke of York have reconciled.”
“Again. That I heard…leading to the Act of Accord saying York will be King Henry’s heir. But what about Henry’s young son? There can only be one king, the anointed one…Henry. Thus, Edward, the prince, should be the next king.”
So his betrothed supported King Henry, despite living in York’s own city. He never considered that their political views would differ. And didn’t like that they did. “Unless you believe the king has usurped York’s rightful place, as I do. Our country is as divided on the issue as are we.”
He completed his short tour of her workspace and leaned against her counter. She perched on a stool.
After an awkward silence, Joanna said, “We were talking about your wrist. How did you break it?”
He was glad she’d returned to a less volatile subject. “The ground was slick from incessant rain. The poor weather helped us because it prevented the king from using his artillery. But the mud hindered us. I slipped while climbing into the king’s camp.”
He flexed his hand. If he’d been fortunate enough to have had a vision about himself, he might’ve avoided injury. Fortunately, he’d had no visions of that battle. One of the few he could fight as a normal man, without knowing the outcome and who would live or die. Without agonizing over whether he could or should share his knowledge and worry about what might happen if he did and his fellow soldiers wanted to know how he knew.
His head ached with memories of that day and other battles he’d fought in service of his country. Every time it looked as though peace might thrive between the Yorkists and the king, something pulled them apart. Because Warwick was one of York’s main supporters, Adrian was often in the thick of things. Part of his duty, but another distraction from his own goals.
“Do you think there will be more fighting?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. I know so. And soon.
Joanna was surprisingly quiet again. No more questions, no commentary on the war. Her skin was paler than he’d seen it, her eyes huge and green as the glass on her table.
&n
bsp; “Joanna, what troubles you?”
“You’ll leave if there is more fighting.”
“That depends,” he began.
He realized what was bothering her. She depended on him to protect her and feared what might happen while he was away. Her reliance made him feel more powerful than victory in battle.
“Already I see a flaw in our agreement. There’s no provision for absences. How do we uphold it if you’re not here? If you die in battle?”
He couldn’t tell her why it was unlikely he’d be joining Warwick for any fighting in the near future.
“Let’s not worry about that until we come to it,” he said, disheartened.
She nodded and returned to her work, but he sensed her unease. Already his secrets came between them.
Chapter 8
A wedding should be a special day, with feasting and revelry. But so far, Joanna’s was nothing like the weddings she’d been to or heard about.
There’d been no procession to the church, because there weren’t enough witnesses. Only Margery and a few favored clients were in attendance. Adrian hadn’t invited anyone and wouldn’t explain why, which irked her. Of course she couldn’t ask.
She lacked coin for new finery, though she stood in the church next to Adrian in her best gown, which Margery had hastily embellished with a few ribbons. He looked so handsome in the black tunic he’d worn when they first met.
Three saints in a window her father had designed seemed to mock her. If he’d been alive, none of this would’ve come to pass. Well, it had, and she should start making the best of it.
“Are there any known impediments to this marriage?” asked the priest.
“No,” she and Adrian answered.
They shared a smile, which eased her fears.
At the priest’s prompting, Adrian said in his deep voice she could listen to for hours, “I take thee Joanna to my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, ’til death do us part, if Holy Church it will ordain, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Joanna’s consent was similar, though she also had to say she’d be meek and obedient. Yet another advantage given to men. Her voice sounded clear and confident despite her racing heart.
The priest blessed a gold band Adrian handed to him, then placed it on her right hand. Though thin, it felt out of place on her finger.
Now for the kiss. Adrian leaned forward for a brief meeting of lips, nothing more. Disappointing. Maybe he was saving his kisses for later. When they were alone.
Afterward came not a wedding banquet, but a small supper of mutton tart, almond pudding and fresh ale at her favorite inn, The Swan. Amidst laughing patrons, Joanna felt numb.
“And I’m very much looking forward to visiting my friend Lady Isobel next week,” Margery said. “She has the most adorable dog who just had even more adorable puppies. They’re so tiny, with such sweet little tongues and paws. I wish I could have one, but of course we don’t have a garden….”
For once Joanna was glad her half-sister had so much to say as they enjoyed the meal. Being a wife was too new, too unsettling.
When her half-sister finally paused to take a sip of ale, Adrian leaned close.
“I’ll come to you tonight,” he whispered.
Good thing she didn’t choke on her mouthful of mutton tart.
That night, Joanna perched on the edge of the narrow bed in Adrian’s room, twisting the faded coverlet in her chilled fingers.
The concept was difficult to absorb, but she was now a wife. Soon she and Adrian would consummate their marriage. Her ear and the side of her neck still tingled from his warm breath when he told her he’d come to her.
Though she yearned to touch him, kiss him again, nervousness mingled with desire. Would he behave as any husband with a new bride? Or would the constrictions of their agreement stifle any hope of passion, relegating any intimacy of their joining to mere necessity?
Margery’s off-key humming intruded into her thoughts. Her half-sister moved briskly about the narrow room, placing a small bouquet of dried flowers in various locations and rearranging the stems over and over. She looked lovely as ever in her best gown of imported wool.
“Margery, what have I done? Marrying a man I hardly know, committing myself under God?” Joanna asked.
“Of the choices you faced, you’ve surely made the best one,” Margery said.
“Yes. I wanted this,” Joanna reminded herself. She took a deep breath and let it out, but anxiety remained. “I still don’t know why a man of noble birth would want to marry me. Surely there’s some lady who’d want him. Or is he less desirable because of the stories that once circulated about his father?”
“Perhaps his lack of funds hinder him. Even nobles prefer to marry someone who can increase their wealth and stature,” Margery offered.
“What if I’m not elegant or refined enough? Think of the women he must be used to.”
“Whatever his reasons, he married you. Though not in the most festive of ways.” Margery clamped her lips together, but Joanna knew what she meant to say.
“The wedding meal was delicious, though. I’ve not tasted mutton tart as good. Now you can begin your new life,” Margery fidgeted with the flowers as though the safety of the world depended on their arrangement. “Joanna, we must talk. You need to know some things. Do you know what a man does when he…? You see, a man has a…. He puts his….”
Joanna felt herself flushing. Her life was her work. She’d barely considered any intimacies with a man beyond kissing, which had thus far proved most interesting. “No, I don’t know. How do you? Have you already…?”
Margery kept her back turned. “Not exactly. But I wanted to find out beforehand, so I asked a married friend or two. Not an easy topic to discuss.”
Did Margery feel as awkward as she did? Embarrassed and nervous, not an auspicious way to begin a marriage. Did other brides feel this way? Margery joined her on the bed and took her hands.
“How I wish your mother or mine was here to have this conversation,” she said. “You see, when married people share a bed….” She continued in a rush, “A man has a male part called a penis. A cock. It gets hard, and then he can put it in—”
“How does it get hard?”
“I’m not exactly sure. Then he puts it inside you.”
“How?”
“He’ll know,” Margery answered. “And the act can hurt the first time, and sometimes after that.”
“If ‘the act’ hurts, how do women bear doing it more than once?”
“They want more babies, of course,” Margery said. “Then once he’s in, he moves around until he’s done.”
“Done with what?” Joanna asked, awash with naiveté. How could a woman her age not know such things? Why were women kept in the dark about such an important topic?
“Men feel pleasure, and then they’re done.” Margery walked back to her flowers, moving the blossoms back and forth. Bits of colorful petals dropped to the ground, dislodged by her repeated agitation.
“How long does it take?”
“I’m not sure. If he wants to kiss and touch you, maybe a long time. That I do know. Kissing can be very nice, with the right man. But then again, kissing can be very wet and sloppy. Did you know they use their tongues?”
Joanna remembered the night she and Adrian had signed the agreement, when she’d thought he was about to kiss her. How she had wanted him to. Then when he had, she’d not wanted him to stop.
“Yes, I know. We’ve only kissed that way once, but I liked it.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the yearning she’d felt, the tingling in her most private place. “Do women feel pleasure too?”
“Some, I think.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Act as though you enjoy it?” Margery surmised. “I wish I knew more. But soon you can tell me all about lovemaking.”
“’Tis so very discomfiting to talk
about. But I’ll try.”
“Oh, Joanna.” Margery crossed to Joanna and enveloped her in a quick hug. “Congratulations,” she said with a teary smile, and left Joanna alone.
Though she knew Margery had been trying to cheer her, Joanna’s heart sank.
“Thereto I plight thee my troth,” she’d vowed.
For the rest of her life.
But what should she expect from her partner by contract? She must’ve imagined that suspended moment in her studio when he’d looked at her with such intensity, the way she thought a man would look at a woman he desired. The anticipation she’d felt was real.
Now she waited for her husband. How odd that appellation seemed. Husband. She wiped her hands on her wedding gown of blue wool, much as she had the day of Adrian’s sitting, hoping to remove the dampness before he arrived. She didn’t want him to know how nervous she was. Not only about the impending loss of her virginity, but the beginning of their life together. She wanted their marriage to start off well. But the sand melted through the hourglass after Margery left, the candles burned ever lower.
Despite her intent to wait for Adrian, she fell asleep. A soft knock on the door woke her. As she sat up, he opened it, pausing at the threshold. Firelight from the small brazier illuminated him. He still wore the black, short tunic with full sleeves and tight woolen hose he’d worn at the wedding. The same garments he’d had on the day she met him. The jacket, with a stamped diamond pattern on black velvet, outlined his broad shoulders, while the belt delineated his waist. The hose revealed his muscular thighs and the curve of his calves.
Joanna’s mouth went dry, from a mixture of nerves, desire and curiosity about her handsome husband. Reading his thoughts was impossible. Did he find her attractive in the least? He’d once said she was beautiful. Did he want, even the tiniest bit, to make love to her, or did he only want his heir? Whether he desired her or not shouldn’t matter in this marriage of convenience, but it did.