Graeham leaned against the back door for a moment to catch his breath and get his bearings, then fumbled in the dark for the bolt, lifted it out of its slot and pushed the door open. By the light of the almost full moon, he saw the white cat, Petronilla, watching him impassively from the thatched roof of the kitchen hut. Shaking now from his exertions, he staggered into the little privy shed and somehow managed to empty his bladder without tumbling into the pit.
He had to rest his weight against a wall of the shed to get his drawers retied, and then he lurched back through the door, managing not to stumble at the drop-off to the sunken floor. But as he was pulling the door closed behind him, the cat darted inside, a blur of white fur that collided with his legs. He pitched forward, splints and sledge-hammer clattering as he fell. There were no rushes back here to cushion his fall. Pain exploded in his leg; he cried out once, then hissed a stream of invective at the cat as she bolted away.
He lay panting on the hallway floor, waiting for the pain to subside enough for him to move, when he heard a squeak of wood. There came another squeak, and another; feet descending a ladder.
"Serjant? Are you all right?"
Still facedown, he pushed himself up on his elbows, groaning as pain shuddered through him. God, please don’t let me have ruined my leg. I don’t want to lose it.
"Serjant?" He heard her footsteps in the rushes, and the leather curtain to the storeroom being drawn back. "Serjant?"
"I’m here," he said unsteadily, and collapsed onto the floor again, wishing she didn’t have to find him like this. "In the hall."
The footsteps neared, and then he heard her sandy, just-awakened voice, much closer. "What are you doing back here?" There was no light in the hallway to see her by; she was but a nebulous shape in the enveloping darkness.
"I fell," he ground out, "coming back from the privy."
"The privy! You got up and walked? Are you mad?"
He felt her hands in the dark, reaching out tentatively to gauge his position. Her fingertips, warm and pleasantly work-roughened, skimmed his face, a shoulder, an arm—her touch so featherlight that he might almost have imagined it.
Something brushed cool and sleek against Graeham’s side as she crawled between him and the wall to his left. Silk. She was wearing something made of silk—a night shift or wrapper, he supposed. It surprised him for a moment that a woman in such modest circumstances would own silken night clothes, but then he remembered that she was, after all, the wife of a silk merchant.
Graeham felt her airy touch on his back and his good leg, gentle and inquisitive as she took stock of his position. Trails of warmth lingered wherever her fingers brushed. He closed his eyes to savor the sensation, thinking ruefully that perhaps it had been too long since he’d lain with a woman.
"We must get you into the storeroom," she said. "Can you roll onto your back, do you think? Away from me, taking your weight on your uninjured leg."
"Aye." Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself onto his back while she carefully shifted his splinted leg.
He felt the liquid whisper of silk as she hovered over him, and a ticklish softness against his chest that could only be her hair. She must sleep with it loose.
"Can you sit up?" she asked.
He tried to, but grunted and fell back. "My ribs...I don’t think that fall did them any good."
"I’ll help you." She moved closer, gliding an arm around his neck. Her hair tumbled around him, slick and heavy where it fell onto his shoulders and chest, and infused with a sweet green scent that made him think of a meadow gone to seed.
Bracing one hand on the floor, Graeham went to curl an arm around her. He misjudged her position, and his hand brushed a weighty softness beneath the silk that could only be a breast. Her indrawn breath was barely audible; she stilled. He retracted his hand, but slowly, slowly, his fingertips lingering over the supple curve of flesh as they withdrew. His heart thudded hard against the bandage wrapped around his chest.
Would she get up and leave? She didn’t.
Should he send her away? He didn’t want to.
Presently she took his hand and guided it over her shoulder, draped in the satin ripples of her hair. "Hold on to me." He held his breath while she pulled him slowly into a sitting position. "Did that hurt?"
Everything hurt. There was nothing but hurt. He slumped forward as the breath left him in a harsh gust, his forehead touching hers. "I’m all right. Just give me a moment."
He felt the heat of her body through the smooth, thin silk and it struck him that it was the middle of the night and they were virtual strangers, embracing each other here in this dark, confined place like lovers.
Perhaps it struck her, too, for she drew away from him and rose. "I’m going to help you to stand."
"I’ve got a sledge somewhere that I’ve been using as a cane."
"You’re better off holding on to me." Hooking her hands beneath his arms, she urged him slowly to his feet. "Are you all right?"
"Aye."
"Put your arm around me, and hold on to the wall with your other hand."
They made their way slowly and haltingly into the storeroom, clutching each other, as she murmured encouragement. When they got to the cot, she lowered him gradually, trembling with the effort of supporting his weight.
He positioned his splinted leg with both hands and fell back onto the pillow, chest heaving.
"Do you think you did any more damage to yourself with that fall?" she asked.
"By God, I hope not."
"Let me get the lamp. I’ll be right back."
She retreated to the salle, leaving the leather curtain open. He watched her, a spectral figure in the moonlight, as she struck a little fire iron repeatedly against a piece of flint, trying to light the charred rush sticking out of the lump of fat in the dish.
A servant should be doing that for her. The thought coalesced spontaneously out of Graeham’s wine-soaked, pain-addled musings, but he knew why it had come to him. The bits and pieces of Joanna Chapman simply did not add up. There was a refined quality to her speech, for one thing, that was more typical of a noblewoman than a merchant’s wife. And despite her air of practicality and competence—not traits that Graeham normally associated with wellborn ladies —she comported herself with a gentility that spoke of breeding. And then there was her brother, Hugh of Wexford, with his aristocratic bearing and fine sword.
A spark ignited the rush; Mistress Chapman blew softly on it to encourage the flame. Cradling the lamp in her hand, she carried it toward the storeroom. By its yellowish light, Graeham saw her clearly for the first time since she’d come downstairs. The sight mesmerized him.
She was luminous...entirely, breathtakingly luminous. Not just her hair, which hung to her thighs in sinuous waves of bronze and gold, and not just her gleaming wrapper of white silk. She glowed—her face, her throat, her hands—like alabaster lit from within.
Of course, he’d known she was a comely woman, even dressed as she’d been earlier, in her matronly head covering and dreary tunic. She had the kind of soft-edged, meltingly pretty face men found themselves gazing at without realizing it. Her eyes were a deep, liquid brown beneath dramatically arched brows, her lips full and seductively pink. Her chin, like her brother’s, was distinguished by the merest hint of a cleft, as if a sculptor had touched the wet clay just once, lightly, and left it at that.
Yes, he’d known she was comely. But now, blanketed by that lustrous hair and draped in a whisper of white silk, she was beautiful in a way that was almost excruciating to behold.
If he were Prewitt Chapman, he would spend a good deal more time in London, and a great deal less abroad.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she set the oil lamp on the chest next to it and gathered her great mass of hair behind her, all the while pointedly looking away from him. To his chagrin, he realized he’d been staring at her, all but awe-struck. He dropped his gaze as she leaned forward to inspect his leg, her silken wrapper stretching enticingly
over her breasts. They were no larger than average, but lush and round, with high, taut little nipples.
Arousal flared in his loins. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and mentally recited his Latin drill, loath to grow hard beneath his drawers with her ministering to him this way. Joanna Chapman wasn’t one of Lord Gui’s wanton little laundresses. She was a wedded woman; moreover, one who’d been kind to him and deserved to be treated with a modicum of chivalry, not as a vessel for his lust. And he was, after all, betrothed —or soon would be—to another woman.
Graeham had best rein in his carnal appetites until his wedding to the lady Phillipa, which Lord Gui had assured him would take place in Paris within a fortnight of his bringing Ada home. Phillipa had consented to the match provided that she be permitted to continue her studies, a condition none of her erstwhile suitors had conceded to, finding logic and philosophy unseemly pursuits for a woman. Graeham, mindful of St. Jerome’s counsel not to look at the teeth of a gift horse, and never having had any quarrel with the education of women, had agreed readily. In turn, Lord Gui, eager to please his beloved daughter, had chosen to award Graeham the sprawling Oxfordshire estate for its proximity to Oxford’s emerging studium generale.
All his life, Graeham had wanted one simple thing, something even the poorest villein could lay claim to—a home and family of his own. Soon he would have that, and more. He would have the ideal wife—beautiful, learned and agreeable—and a grand estate in one of the most bucolic regions in all of England. After five-and-twenty years of being the interloper, the tolerated outsider, he would finally belong somewhere —and to someone. At long last, he would be content. Perhaps even happy.
Nothing must interfere with the success of his mission and the claiming of his reward.
Nothing.
"Are you all right, serjant?"
Graeham opened his eyes to find Joanna Chapman looking up at him, one hand on his splinted leg.
"You’re clenching your fists," she said, pulling the blanket up to his waist. She turned her attention to his swaddled ribs, which she gently patted and stroked, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her hands looked strong and elegant at the same time. He imagined those long, nimble fingers slipping beneath the blanket, untying his drawers...A helpless little moan rose in his chest.
"Am I causing you pain?" she asked.
A mirthless chuckle shook his chest. "Of a sort."
"I’m sorry." She rested a hand gently on his shoulder. "I’m quite sure that fall was agonizing, and I couldn’t swear it did no harm—I’m not a surgeon. But if it did, I see no evidence of it."
"That’s some comfort. Thank you."
"You’ll sleep better if it’s darker in here." She stood and reached across the pallet to close the window shutters against the bright moonlight, sliding a wooden pin across to latch them in place. Her wrapper shifted as she moved, caressing a lissome curve of waist and hip and leg. That ugly blue tunic had disguised both her slenderness and her deliciously feminine contours. Moving to the head of the pallet, she shuttered the window that looked out on the alley.
When she bent over to lift the lamp off the chest, one side of her wrapper gapped open slightly, revealing a pearly slope of inner breast. Clearly she had nothing on underneath; he realized she must sleep naked.
"Is there anything else you need?" she asked.
God, yes. "I think not."
"If anything occurs to you," she said as she crossed to the leather curtain, "just call up to me. I’ll hear you." She pulled the curtain closed.
"Mistress Joanna."
There came a pause, and then the curtain reopened. She looked in almost warily. "Aye?"
Words normally came to him without effort, but not tonight. "Thank you. I...’Twas kind of you to...take me in this way. I know I’ve been a great deal of trouble—"
"Not at all."
He grinned skeptically. "You’d be fast asleep upstairs right now if it weren’t for me." He pictured her naked in bed, that luxuriant hair spread out around her, and felt desire rekindle within him. "You’re a...very unselfish woman, to let me impose on you this way."
"‘Tisn’t any great challenge to be unselfish for just one night. Hugh will take you to St. Bartholemew’s tomorrow, and then you’ll be the sisters’ responsibility."
"Tomorrow?"
"Aye, in the morning."
"Ah."
"Is that not what you wanted?" she asked. "I thought—"
"Aye," he said quickly. "It’s what I want." It was what he should want. It was what was best.
"They’ve got the hospital there."
"Yes, I know. I’m happy to be going there."
She opened her mouth to speak, and frowned. Finally she said, "Very well. Good night, serjant."
"Good night, mistress."
Chapter 5
* * *
"SERJANT?" CAME A soft whisper from the other side of the leather curtain the next morning. "Are you awake?"
"Aye. Come in."
The curtain parted and Joanna Chapman entered, cradling a large wash basin in one arm and carrying a steaming bucket in the other. She wore a brown kirtle even more shapeless than yesterday’s blue one, and her hair was again concealed, this time beneath a veil draped over her head and tied on one side. How sad, Graeham reflected, that a woman must hide such spectacular hair simply because she’d taken marriage vows.
She said, "I thought you might like to wash up a bit before Hugh comes to take you back to St. Bartholemew’s."
"Thank you—I most certainly would." Graeham sat up slowly, teeth clenched.
She set the bucket on the floor and the wash bowl on the chest next to his bed. In the bowl he saw a dish of soft yellow soap, a wash rag and a towel. She arranged these on the chest and half-filled the bowl with warm water, leaving more in the bucket.Averting her gaze, she said, "Do you...need help or..."
"I can manage fine on my own, thanks."
She unlatched the window shutters and threw them open; morning sunlight flooded the little chamber. "Are you hungry? I’ve started a pot of porridge. I’ve no ale to offer you, but the water from the well is pure."
"I don’t normally break my fast till midday. Thanks all the same."
She nodded without looking at him, clearly ill at ease. Perhaps their nocturnal encounter had disturbed her as well. "How do your injuries feel this morning?"
"Better. They only really hurt when I move."
"Try not to move too much. Hugh’s bringing a cart to take you to St. Bartholemew’s, so you’ll be able to lie—"
"A cart!"
"Aye. ‘Twas either that or a litter, and I gather he thought a cart would be easier to obtain."
"I’m not bouncing through the streets of London in a cart, like some murdering churl on his way to Tyburn Hill to be hanged."
"You can’t very well sit astride a horse."
"I damn well...pardon me, mistress. I most certainly can. And will."
"You’re an exasperating man, serjant."
He nodded, smiling. "Point taken. But I’m not getting in any cart."
"You may discuss the matter with Hugh when he gets here." As she turned to leave, her gaze lit on the jake, which he’d tucked under the bed. "Does that need emptying?"
"Nay. I...went out and used the privy a little while a—"
"Again? After what happened last night?"
"I was careful."
"How did you support yourself? That sledge is still by the back door."
"There’s a broom over there." He nodded toward the corner. "I used that."
She shook her head, outrage turning her brown eyes to gold. "Exasperating and maddeningly stubborn."
"So I’ve been told. Don’t worry, mistress." His voice grew subdued. "You haven’t that much longer to put up with me."
She met his gaze squarely for the first time that morning, her expression pensive, perhaps even a little melancholy.
"God’s tooth!" came a man’s furious roar from outside. "You haven�
��t got him saddled yet? I told you I was late! What have you been doing out here?"
Looking out the little rear window, Graeham saw Rolf le Fever in his stable yard, dressing down a hulking, redheaded fellow who was buckling a saddle onto the back of a black horse. Graeham didn’t know which was gaudier, le Fever’s multicolored tunic or the absurd saddle, which had been plated with hammered silver and studded with gems; the bridles appeared to be gilded, and rows of tiny gold bells hung from the breast strap.
"Beg pardon, Master Rolf, but—"
"You should bloody well beg my pardon! Get him saddled up so I can get out of here!"
"That’s the master of the new Mercers’ Guild," said Mistress Joanna. "Rolf le Fever."
Graeham turned to find her peering out the window with her arms crossed, watching le Fever’s little performance as if it were a street play.
"Is that so?" he said.
She nodded. "He lives right behind me, so I get to listen in on his fits of pique several times a day, whether I care to or not. Luckily for me, he spends most mornings at the silk traders’ market hall, so the hours between terce and nones are generally quite peaceful."
"That must be where he’s off to now."
"Nay, he walks to the market hall. It’s right around the corner on Newgate Street."
After draping the seat of the saddle with a quilted brown satin baudré that hung nearly to the ground, the red-haired brute assisted his master in mounting.
"Who’s the other fellow?" Graeham asked.
"His manservant, the poor, long-suffering Byram."
Graeham looked at her sharply. "Byram?"
"Aye."
The manservant watched le Fever ride off and retreated into the house. "That fellow’s name is Byram? Are you certain?"
"He’s been serving le Fever for the entire six years I’ve been living here. I think I know his name." Her brows drew together. "Why?"
"Nothing, just..." Are you Byram? Graeham had asked the bald-headed cur who’d lured him into the alley. That’s right... "Is it possible there are two Byrams working for le Fever?"
She cocked her head as if she hadn’t heard him right. "Two Byrams."
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