He settled back in his chair and blew out a mouthful of smoke. “Is that the way you treat all the men you meet? Force them to arm-wrestle for your favors?” There was no lingering resentment in his voice, only good humor.
“Don’t be daft.” She thought suddenly of Charlie, who had simply taken what he wanted. His kisses had been offhand and passionless—his only thought had been to satisfy his prickle in bed. But Thorne’s kiss… she felt her insides melting, remembering the day they had met. Foolish jade! she thought after a moment. This was not the time to think about kisses from a servant, when she had just shown him she was mistress here. “Shall we talk more of the trip to Whitby?” she said quickly. “We needs flour and salt and butter. A few carrots for the pies. And a new jug of rum for cold nights.”
“And wine, mistress?”
“Pah! Don’t give me none o’ your hang-dog look. You shall have your wine, my pampered princeling.”
“Thank you, Mistress Glory. And didn’t you say we needed more iron rods for the forge?”
“Aye. And more seeds for the garden. The way the lettuce is growing, we shall have salad with our supper soon enough.”
He shook his head in wonder. “Damned if I can get over how fast it grows! Every day when I hoe, I can’t wait to see it.”
She laughed at that. “Bloody hell. We shall turn you into a gardener as well as a blacksmith!”
They lapsed into silence, lulled by the warmth of the fire, the sweet aroma of tobacco smoke, the soothing rum. Gloriana felt her head dropping forward, her eyes closing. I should really go to bed, she thought. I should…
She gasped in surprise, feeling herself lifted and cradled in Thorne’s strong arms. “What are you doin’?” she cried, wriggling in his embrace. “Put me down!”
“Shhh,” he crooned. “You were falling asleep where you sat. I doubt you have the will to stumble up the stairs yourself. Take up that candle to light the way.” He bent low to allow her to reach the candelabra.
She knew she should insist that he put her down, but she felt warm and secure, and oddly comforted to be cossetted like a child. She reached for the candle and allowed him to carry her up the stairs. He kicked open the door to her room and laid her gently at the foot of her bed, taking the candle from her; then he stripped back the coverlet. Kneeling at her feet, he removed her shoes, discreetly untied her garters below her knees and pulled off her stockings. She lay still, enjoying his kind attentions. But when he reached for her bodice and began to untie her stays, she sat up in alarm.
“What are you doin’?”
“You can’t have a decent night’s sleep when your ribs are crushed. Keep still.” He undid the laces, then held up a folded handkerchief that had fallen from her bodice. “What is this?”
She gasped. Her keepsake—Billy’s lock of hair. She snatched it from him and shoved it under her pillow. “That be mine! None o’ your business.”
He shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He lifted her once more and placed her head on the pillow, pulling up the coverlet to her chin. Then, with a wicked grin, he leaned down and planted a soft kiss on her mouth.
She was suddenly wide awake, ready to do battle. How dare the rogue take such liberties?
But he was already backing away toward the door. He gave a humble bow. “Good night, Mistress Glory,” he said, his face a mask of boyish innocence. Then he was gone. She could hear him whistling softly as he descended the stairs. Heard the scrape of the trundle bed as he dragged it before the fire.
The poxy villain! she thought. Smug and proud because he’d had his kiss after all. Well, by thunder, she would see to it that he walked several paces behind her in Whitby tomorrow. The way a proper servant should.
But it was hours before she could sleep, still tasting the sweetness of his mouth on hers.
Chapter Seven
“Lift your bloody feet, you sluggard, and follow along o’ me! We ain’t got all mornin’.” Gloriana glanced back at Thorne and gave him a withering scowl.
Struggling with his armload of packages, Thorne swore under his breath. The great Duke of Thorneleigh indeed! To be treated like a beast of burden. He’d even had to walk behind her on the trip to Whitby, while she rode Black Jack. It was all he could do to keep from throwing down his load and giving up his mad wager. The witch seemed determined to bedevil him today, to play the lordly “mistress.” Bundles piled upon bundles, heavy purchases that seemed chosen merely to increase the weight he was forced to carry. He stumbled on a loose cobblestone on the Whitby street and swore again.
Clearly he had gone too far when he’d kissed her last night. And now he was suffering because of her injured pride. I must be going mad, he thought. More and more she was getting under his skin, like a burr on his saddle when he rode in the woods. He felt torn between the urge to smack her rounded bottom with the flat of his hand, or toss her down and take her on the smithy floor and satisfy his hungers once and for all. And all the while knowing he could do neither, but had to maintain his humble pose, no matter how often she irked him or provoked his growing desire.
“If you please, Mistress Glory,” he said as calmly as he was able, “I saw a basket-seller down the lane.” When she turned, a sour expression on her face, he managed a thin smile. He juggled the awkward packages. “If I could purchase a basket, I could carry all these on my back.”
“Burn and blister me! You be free with my money, bean’t you.”
He ground his teeth together. “Damn it, I’ll pay for it myself.”
She snorted. “And where be you findin’ coins? Under a rock?”
“I have a few coppers of my own.”
“Well…” She glanced down Church Street, crowded with Friday morning market stalls. Flower sellers jostled with onion farmers for a bit of space on the busy street, and an angry sausage maker, his stall festooned with garlands of his wares, shook his fist at an equally angry goose girl, whose creatures had ventured beyond their pen and were trying to snatch at the strings of meat. Among the crowd, Thorne could see an occasional customer or tradesman with a bit of black crepe pinned to a garment—in memory of a lost one from the recent storm, he guessed.
Gloriana shrugged. “If you must, softling,” she sneered, “go and buy your basket. We be needin’ more charcoal for the forge. And there be my man yonder. You get your basket while I talks to him about bringin’ round a new delivery.”
Thorne threaded his way through the throng of people on the narrow lane, dodging a milkmaid with a yoke of pails on her shoulders. He tried to ignore the cold faces that turned toward him, the people who barely made way for him as he passed—he was still a stranger, an outsider in the community. Small towns, he thought with a mental shrug. Perhaps, before he left Whitby, he’d find acceptance. Though why it should matter to him, he couldn’t fathom. Common people, after all.
When he finally reached the basket-seller, he was pleased to be unexpectedly greeted by a friendly smile on the young woman’s face. He took a moment to appraise her charming features and full, rounded breasts, then dumped his packages on the crowded table in front of her. “I need a basket.”
She laughed, allowing her gaze to travel the length of him with a brazenness that surprised him. “That you do, my fine cove,” she said. “Though, if you be the blacksmith for Mistress Cook, as I hear tell, you be strong enough to carry that load.”
He snorted. “Only if I’d studied to be a juggler at a county fair.”
She lifted a basket from a pile on the ground—a strong wicker with heavy leather straps. “I think you have the shoulders for this size. A fine strapping man like you. And only tuppence. At least for a man who knows what he wants.” She favored him with a suggestive smile, clearly meant as an invitation.
He was glad he’d thought to pull a few coins from his shoe before the trip to Whitby. He fished the silver coin from his pocket and handed it to the girl. “Worth the price.” With her eager help, he loaded his packages into the basket and hoisted it to his shoulders, pl
eased at the comfort and convenience it gave him.
She came around from her table and adjusted the straps across his shoulders, her hands lingering on his broad chest. She gazed up at him, pursing her lips in a seductive pout. “There you be. And if you be coming to town soon again, you can find me down the lane in the shop.”
An easy conquest, he thought. But when had it ever been difficult for him? He wondered if he should kiss her right here and now. God knew his body was painfully eager for a woman. He could make the arrangements with Dobson, have her waiting at the inn the next time he visited Whitby.
But the image of Gloriana suddenly danced in his head—her lush body, her beautiful face—and suddenly he knew that he didn’t want just any woman. He wanted her, with a passion that was eating away at him. Which was absurd, of course. Why should his only desire be for a faithless whore? “I don’t come to town often,” he said gently, and watched the girl’s smile fade with disappointment.
He hurried away from the stall and made his way back to Church Street. He heard Gloriana’s shrill voice long before he reached her, arguing with the charcoal man. He quickened his steps.
• • •
Gloriana rolled her eyes in exasperation. Was she never in her life to be treated in a proper manner? “What do you mean, caitiff,” she shrieked, “you can’t deliver the charcoal tomorrow? When I pays you good money, I expects service!”
The man bared his teeth at her. “I told you, Mistress Cook, you’ll have to wait till Monday. I have two other deliveries tomorrow. And a bad back besides.”
“I don’t give no tinker’s damn what ails you! When I asks—” Gloriana stopped in mid-sentence, feeling a strong hand on her arm, tugging her away from the stall. She whirled about and scowled. Thorne! “What do you want, thorn-in-my-side?”
He pulled her away from the crowd and gave her arm an angry shake. “Must you always quarrel to get your way?”
“That man didn’t give me no respect.”
“Any respect,” he hissed. “You screamed at him like a fishwife. Why should he show you respect?”
The man was impossible—correcting her speech, lecturing her as though he was her equal. “What do you know of respect, knave? Kissin’ me last night as though you had a right!”
She expected a sharp reply. Instead, he hung his head, refusing to look her in the eye. “You’re right,” he said softly. “I should never have done that, mistress. I apologize for my lack of respect.” He lifted his head and looked directly at her, his soft gray eyes opening wide, as though a sudden idea had caught him by surprise. “I never thought of it before. No woman should have to give up her favors just because a man wants them. And to take advantage, as I did last night… Forgive me.”
How could she remain angry with him when he seemed genuinely sorry? She managed a small laugh. “Perhaps we both had a bit too much rum last night.”
He smiled his relief. “Indeed. Are we friends again?”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Friends? As much as we can be. Mistress and servant, after all. But as friendly as we can be.”
“I’m agreeable to that.”
She scanned his form, strong and upright with his burden. “That be a fine basket. I should have thought of it myself.” She rummaged in the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a few coins. “How much did it cost?”
“No, no, mistress. You needn’t reimburse… pay me back.”
Reimburse. A nice word. She must remember it. “But I’ll pay for your wine. And the rum, lest we forget.” She pressed a silver bob into his hand.
“Thank you. Now, as to the charcoal… if we’re careful, we can make it last until Monday. Now that I’ve got the knack of it, I can make a few horseshoes without wasting the fire on my mistakes.” He gave her a doubtful smile. “That is, if the man is still willing to deliver.”
“Humph!”
He put a gentle hand on her arm. She could feel the comforting warmth of his flesh through her sleeve. “Go back to him. Make your peace.”
“Go back? Be you… are you mad? When he never showed me no… any respect?”
“Why should he? You can’t demand respect. You expect it, by showing respect in turn. And then you receive it. A true lady doesn’t have to be haughty. She knows her own worth. ’Tis not an accident of birth that gives a woman true nobility. ’Tis the purity of her respect for others.”
His voice was soft and kind—a helpful tutor not a scolding tyrant, as that little worm at Baniard Hall had been. And perhaps he was right. She had always felt so small, so unimportant among her betters—even Charlie, fallen to a lawless life, had been able to bully her most of the time because of his noble birth. She looked helplessly at Thorne. “But what am I to do? To say?”
“To start, don’t always be so defensive.”
“What does that mean?” she asked. His manner was so understanding, she didn’t mind showing her ignorance a bit.
“Ready to quarrel all the time. It isn’t necessary.” He grinned. “Remember, you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.” He stroked the side of her cheek with soft fingers. “And with that beautiful face, it should be easy for you. Expect to be respected. Believe in it. People will see it in your eyes. Hear it in your voice.”
His touch made her shiver. And his words warmed her heart, gave her courage. “Do you truly think so?”
“I do. Go back to him and try again. You can do it.” He stopped her with a hand on her arm as she turned toward the charcoal seller. “And one more thing. Try to lower your tone. Your voice can be quite shrill. Highborn ladies practice speaking in a soft, deep voice. Think of a cat purring.”
She laughed at that. “But cats have claws.”
“Ah, but they only show them when it’s necessary, not for every minor annoyance.”
Encouraged by his confidence in her, she approached the charcoal seller once again. She took a moment to concentrate on lowering her voice and remembering her grammar. Then she smiled and spoke slowly, carefully choosing her every word. “I do ask you to forgive me, sir.” She hoped he’d be pleased with her use of the gentlemanly address. “I was hasty before. Too… defensive. I have spoken to my blacksmith. We would be satisfied with a Monday delivery. You with your bad back, and all.”
He grunted. “A touch of the lumbago is all, even on warm days.”
She remembered her aching muscles after she’d been in the gladiator ring. She clicked her tongue in sympathy. “You b… are a man in pain, more’s the pity. But perhaps a hot pack? And, foolish though it may sound, you might have someone stand on your back whilst you are lyin’ down.” She chuckled. “Not too heavy a cove, you understand!”
“That be very kind of you, mistress. To take notice of my misery.” He scratched his chin. “If I can get my boy to do one of my local deliveries, I think I can manage to get the charcoal to you tomorrow.”
“No, no…”
“No trouble, Mistress Cook. It would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you.” She favored him with a dazzling smile, then turned back to Thorne, scarcely keeping her jaw from dropping in wonderment. “But that was so easy,” she whispered, staring up into his grinning face.
“I knew you could do it. And if we weren’t in a crowded market, I’d kiss you as a reward. But only with your permission,” he added quickly, as she glared at him.
“Only if you wins it by arm-wrestlin’, knave.” Her words were more harsh than she’d meant them to be. She softened her tone by smiling up at him.
“You’re a hard woman, Mistress Cook,” he said, his own smile showing her he hadn’t taken offense.
“Come along, then, and don’t bedevil me, rogue,” she said with a small laugh. “There’s more to buy afore we picks up Black Jack at the stable and heads for home.” She made her way down the street, almost sorry that he had fallen into step a few paces behind her.
“Wait a moment, mistress.” When she turned, he pointed to a large sign over a shop. “Look. That might be the w
ay to get business for the smithy.”
She stared at the sign in bewilderment. “Oglethorpe—Fine Calligraphy and Advertisements” it said. She bit her lip. The only words she could understand were “Fine” and “and.” “If you think so,” she said uncertainly.
He studied her face with searching eyes. “You can’t read, can you?” he said at last.
She felt a hot blush flood her face. “Burn and blister me! ’Course I can.” But when he continued to stare, his gray eyes warm with understanding, she lowered her head in shame. “I… I been learnin’, but some words…”
He lifted her chin with gentle fingers and smiled. “’Tis no crime. I’ve known many a fine man who never learned. And many a well-read London fop who’s as ignorant as a country bumpkin.” He pointed to the sign again. “Master Oglethorpe there can print us handbills advertising… telling about our trade. And, for a few extra pence, I’m sure he could find a young lad to hand them out all over the town. We can talk about what you want to say on them, and I can arrange it with the printer when next I come to Whitby.”
She nodded. “Yes. Thank you. A fine idea.” She lifted her chin boldly, no longer afraid of his scorn. “What does that other word mean? Colli… colli…?”
He laughed. “Calligraphy. It’s simply a high-handed word for fancy writing. Master Oglethorpe can write letters for people, with many loops and curls and such.” His mouth twisted in a wicked smirk. “Say if you were to wish to write a letter to an eager lover…”
She poked him playfully in the chest. “Oh, get on with you, John Thorne. Always teasin’ me. I ain’t about to let you into my bed.”
He bowed humbly, but she could see the glint of mischief in his eyes. “Of course not, mistress. I’m not about to forget my place.”
My Lady Gloriana Page 8