Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

  He brushed a lock of hair off her forehead, striving for a gentle, nonjudgmental tone. After all, was he not also guilty of infidelity to his betrothed? "I know he asked you to marry him, Joanna."

  Her eyes lit with comprehension. "That day he came here while I was doing laundry. You overheard..."

  "Enough to know what he was about." He embraced her tightly, possessively, and nuzzled her fragrant hair. "I hate to think of you as his wife—as any man’s wife but—" But mine? He squeezed his eyes shut against the impossibility of their situation and the pain he knew would come eventually. "I’m happy for you that you’ll be wed to a man of such high rank. That is, I want to be happy for you. I’m trying to be happy for you, but—"

  "I’m not betrothed, Graeham." She twisted around so that she was lying on her stomach, her legs entwined with his, her breasts resting on his chest, soft and heavy, and looked him in the eye. "Not to Robert, nor anyone else."

  "But didn’t he ask you—"

  "Aye. I turned him down."

  "Truly?" As gratifying as this news was, it was also somewhat perplexing—even astounding. Robert of Ramswick was young, handsome, and judging from his willingness to take little Alice into his home as a ward, a very good man indeed, a man worthy of Joanna. On top of it all, he was a landed lord. Marriage to him could have rescued Joanna from the poverty into which she was slipping all too quickly. "Why did you turn him down?"

  "Aside from the fact that I’m not in love with him?"

  "That wouldn’t have stopped you from entering into such a favorable marriage." One thing Graeham had learned about Joanna Chapman was that she was a pragmatic woman, a woman who did what had to be done, who stiffened her backbone and persevered. It was one of the qualities— the many qualities—he admired about her.

  "Nay—that wouldn’t have stopped me," she admitted. "But as it happens, Robert is in love with his cousin. He only asked for my hand because he needed a mother for his children, and he thought it would kill his parents if he married Margaret. I’m happy to report that he came to his senses." She smiled in a way that made her look like a self-satisfied little girl. "They were formally betrothed in a ceremony in Ramswick’s chapel a few days ago. Hugh went. They’re to be wed in the early part of August."

  "What of Lord Robert’s parents?"

  "Robert was right, they objected to the marriage, but they didn’t have any luck talking him out of it. Hugh says they attended the betrothal ceremony—still very much alive—so I suspect they just need time to get used to the idea." She frowned. "How could you have thought I was betrothed to Robert after...what happened downstairs?"

  "I...suppose I thought you were too...swept away by passion to be thinking of him."

  She smiled a bit sardonically. "In my opinion, passion is something one must give oneself permission to be swept away by."

  He shook his head, grinning. "Sometimes I think you’re too pragmatic."

  "No, really. I wanted you tonight, desperately. I’ve wanted you ever since you came to live here."

  "Really?" Graeham said, absurdly gladdened that the passion that had consumed him day and night for the past six weeks had not been unrequited.

  "But no matter how deeply I desired you," she said soberly, "I would never have acted on that desire had I accepted Robert’s proposal of marriage. Infidelity to your betrothed is still adultery. The Church says so, and it’s what I feel in my heart. It’s betrayal. It’s wrong."

  Graeham felt a little pinch of guilt deep in his stomach. He’d always loathed the idea of infidelity—not so much because of the Church’s condemnation of it, but because of the circumstances of his birth. Once he spoke the words, "With this ring I thee wed, and with my body I thee honor," he would honor with his body only the woman who wore his ring, forsaking all others.

  He supposed he’d always intended to be faithful to his betrothed even before they exchanged vows at the church door. Certainly he had. It was the right thing, the honorable thing, and he was an honorable man. Yet he’d spared not a thought for Phillipa when he tore Joanna’s wrapper open and took her on the floor of her salle.

  Of course, there were mitigating circumstances. He’d never met Phillipa. He had no feelings for her, no sense of devotion or attachment that made it seem like betrayal to bed someone else. And, too, their betrothal was as yet informal; no contract had been drawn up, no betrothal ceremony conducted. Yet were those not mere formalities? He and Phillipa were promised to each other. In the eyes of both of them, they were already betrothed.

  Making love to Joanna was, indeed, a form of infidelity, in spirit if nothing else. Graeham did feel a twinge of guilt, but no real shame, no sense that he’d sinned in any meaningful way. How could he feel remorseful to have shared his body, his soul, with a woman he loved so deeply, so...

  "Oh, God." He couldn’t love her, mustn’t love her, yet of course, he did. How could he not? Part of him rejoiced to have found a soulmate; another part—the part that craved a proper home and family and the land to make it possible—felt a sense of dread at this new turn of events.

  This could not end well, he and Joanna. The only way he could be with her would be to reject Phillipa’s hand in marriage and the Oxfordshire estate that came with it, withdraw from Lord Gui’s service and return to England. He’d be a landless soldier with no overlord, no money, no prospects. He would have Joanna—if a woman like her was willing to settle for a penniless cur with no property of his own—but he would lose his hopes, his dreams, his very future.

  "What’s wrong, Graeham?" Bracing herself on an elbow, Joanna tenderly stroked his face, her breasts lightly brushing his chest.

  He closed his eyes, still so deeply moved just to hear his name on her lips at long last...awed to finally be able to take her in his arms and unite his body with hers. "Nothing’s wrong," he lied. "Just keep touching me and everything will be all right."

  She shifted just slightly, which brought the silken curve of her hip in contact with his quiescent manhood. As she kissed and caressed him, her subtle movements against him rekindled his former arousal. He stiffened, rose. Joanna felt it and sat over him, straddling his lap and guiding him to her damp little entrance. She sighed, her head thrown back, as she lowered herself onto him in increments, her womanly chamber stretching gradually to accommodate him.

  She looked so golden and enchanting and provocative making love to him this way—but it was dangerous. "You should let me be on top," he said. "Otherwise I won’t be able to pull out."

  "I’ll take care of that," she said. "You tell me when."

  "What a capable woman you are," he said, threading his fingers through her hair to pull her down for a kiss. "How did I ever get along without you?"

  "Are you happy?" she asked as she tupped him, the bedropes squeaking with each slow, luxurious stroke, her body undulating gracefully atop his, her hair cloaking both of them like a silken mantle.

  Once it had been his "presumptuous question." Now it was hers. He smiled, caressing her back, her hips, her firm round bottom as it rose and fell, coaxing him closer and closer to an ecstatic crisis of the senses. "Aye. Deliriously happy. Are you?"

  "Oh, yes. God, yes. If I could stay like this forever, here, with you, just like this, no past, no future, just the two of us, I think I’d be happy forever."

  "So would I," Graeham said, wishing with all his heart that it could be so and wondering for the thousandth time how everything had gotten so wonderfully, terrifyingly complicated.

  Chapter 22

  * * *

  "THERE’S SOMETHING I’D like to ask you, Ada," Joanna said as she spooned the last of the porridge she’d brought into her new friend’s mouth the next morning. "You may think it a bit odd."

  Ada swallowed with difficulty, coughed and said, "What is it?"

  "It’s about your husband."

  "Rolf?"

  Joanna nodded as she tucked the empty porridge pot back in her basket. She was loath to tell Ada too much right now, when there was no
thing the ailing woman could do about it but lie in this bed and fret. Earlier, before Joanna had left for her daily visit to the le Fever house, she’d paid a young boy a penny to deliver Graeham’s note about the planned murder to the sheriff who lived closest to West Cheap.

  "I can’t tell you anything about Rolf," Ada said. "I haven’t seen him since before Lent."

  "I know. But when he was still visiting you up here, did he...seem like himself? Was he acting unusual at all?"

  Ada stared tiredly at nothing for a moment and then shook her head. "He always acted unusual, to my way of thinking. I’ve never understood him. Why?"

  Joanna shrugged and fiddled with the basket, tucking the napkin back over it with exaggerated care. "I suppose I just think it’s odd that you haven’t seen your own husband in four months." Thinking of Graeham, she added, "I’d hate to go that long without seeing my husband." They’d been up all night, whispering together and making love; many times they resolved to go to sleep, but then one of them would say something that got them talking again, and as they talked, he would slowly caress her with those gentle, clever hands, and she would end up reaching for him...They never did get any sleep, and this morning Joanna was as tired—and happy—as she’d ever been.

  "I thought you did used to go that long," Ada said, "when Master Prewitt was abroad. You told me just last week that you didn’t miss him at all."

  "Ah."

  "Ah," Ada repeated with a gently mocking little smile. "I feel the same way about Rolf."

  The two women laughed together companionably, but it seemed to take the wind out of Ada; her head fell back listlessly onto the pillow. It pained Joanna to watch someone she’d grown to care for waste away like this.

  "Some water?" Joanna offered.

  Ada shook her head weakly. "Too hard to swallow. Would you read me some Psalms?"

  "I’d be happy to."

  Joanna read for longer than usual, apprehensive about leaving Ada alone in this house, knowing what she now knew, even though Ada wasn’t in any immediate danger; it was still quite early in the morning, and the adulterated tonic was presumably to be administered later this afternoon. Nevertheless, Joanna had resolved to return and keep watch over Ada after she spoke to the sheriff.

  As Joanna read, Ada’s eyes drifted closed; so did Joanna’s. The only thing that kept her awake was anxiety over Ada. She kept glancing nervously at the sleeping woman’s chest to make sure it continued to rise and fall; it did.

  When she returned the psalter to its little shelf, Ada opened her eyes. "There was something," she said in a soft, muddled tone.

  Joanna sat back down and took Ada’s hand, which felt terribly small and cold and fragile. "Go back to sleep."

  "There was something Rolf did," Ada said, enunciating the words slowly, "that I thought was unusual. ‘Twas spring— after Easter, but before Pentecost, I think."

  "About a month and a half ago," Joanna said. "I thought you hadn’t seen your husband since before Lent."

  "I haven’t. But one day—’twas in the afternoon—Aethel came up here in quite a state. She said that Rolf had ordered me to dress for a journey, and Aethel was to pack my things. He said someone would be coming for me."

  This was the day Graeham came to take her away and was attacked in the alley, Joanna realized.

  "Aethel helped me to get dressed," Ada said, "and she put all my things into traveling bags. I was bewildered at first, but then it occurred to me that perhaps my father had summoned me home. I was so excited to be leaving this house. Even though I was ill and I knew the journey would be hard on me, I was thrilled to be going home. I sat over there at the window that overlooks the street, and waited." The spark in her eyes dimmed. "But no one ever came."

  Tempted though Joanna was to fill in the missing details for Ada, she knew this wasn’t the time. And, too, this revelation was inciting disturbing new questions in Joanna’s mind.

  "I waited until the bells of curfew were rung, and then I waited some more, looking out at the dark street," Ada said sadly. "Finally Aethel convinced me to get undressed and go to bed. I never did find out what happened that day."

  Ada was shivering; she was cold again. Yawning, Joanna tucked the blanket around her. "I must go now, but I’ll be back later this morning."

  "You’re coming back?" Ada looked pleased; she must get lonely.

  "Aye—just to keep you company. Get your rest. And remember—don’t eat anything that’s brought to you, or drink anything, or—"

  "So you’ve told me a dozen times this morning," Ada said with an indulgent smile.

  "And if someone brings you your tonic—Olive or your husband or anyone, even Aethel—"

  "I know. I’m not to take it." Ada’s brow knitted. "What has you so troubled, Joanna? What’s wrong?"

  Joanna brushed some stray hairs off of Ada’s cheek. "I’ll tell you later, when everything’s resolved. You’re tired now."

  Ada nodded and closed her eyes.

  "Sleep," Joanna said as she turned to leave. "I’ll be back as soon as I can."

  When she returned home, she found Graeham in the shop stall talking to a bearish fellow with silver-threaded black hair whom he introduced as Nyle Orlege, an undersheriff dispatched by the sheriff in response to their note.

  "Good morrow, mistress," said the gruff-voiced Nyle, who got right to the point. "If the serjant has explained it correctly, a woman’s life may be in danger."

  "That’s right."

  The undersheriff scratched the graying stubble on his oversized jaw. Iron manacles and chains hung on one side of his belt, a gigantic sheathed knife on the other. "And you two think it’s the husband and his doxy that are poisoning her."

  "I hate to think of Olive as being involved in this," Joanna said, "but I admit it doesn’t look good. She’s not evil, though, just young and impressionable."

  "She seems to be entirely within Rolf le Fever’s power," Graeham said, touching Joanna’s arm comfortingly. "He coerced her."

  "Probably," Joanna added.

  Graeham regarded her with a look of puzzlement.

  "Probably?" The undersheriff turned to Graeham. "You seemed pretty sure of things in your note—came right out and accused the man of attempted murder."

  "Is there something I don’t know?" Graeham asked Joanna.

  "Perhaps," she said. "It might mean nothing, but it struck me as odd." She told the men what Ada had revealed about the mysterious journey she’d been readied for that had never taken place. "If le Fever had been in the process of poisoning his wife to death, he would hardly have wanted her to leave with Graeham. ‘Twould have made more sense to finish the job and be done with her for good."

  "Aye, but assuming he did want to finish her off," Nyle said, "he very well may have hired those churls to ambush the serjant so he couldn’t interfere—and he’d get the fifty marks, to boot."

  "Yes," Graeham said, "but then why did he prepare his wife for a journey? You’re right, Joanna. The pieces don’t add up."

  "Well, it’s my job to make them add up," declared the undersheriff. "But I’ve got to proceed with caution, you understand. Rolf le Fever is an important man in this city. Can’t be making wild accusations with no proof."

  Graeham picked up the two bundles of herbs from the table and handed them to Nyle. "Surely any good apothecary can identify those and tell us whether they’re poisonous."

  "Undoubtedly," Nyle said, "and if they are, that implicates the girl, but there still won’t be any proof that le Fever put her up to it. What I’ve got to do—what we’ve got to do, because you two are the accusers, so I want you there—is to go across the street and question this Olive. A confession would go far toward making my job easy, and if we can get her to reveal le Fever’s role in this, all the better." He opened the door and led the way out. "Come along, then."

  "Can you make it across the street, do you think?" Joanna asked Graeham as he limped on his crutch toward the door. He wore his heavy riding boots, she saw; it was
the first time he’d had them on in the six weeks he’d been here.

  "I made it up that ladder, didn’t I?" With a glance outside to make sure the undersheriff had his back to them, he leaned down and kissed her, quickly but thoroughly. "As Brother Simon used to say, to him that will, ways are not wanting."

  Graeham’s will may have been strong, but by the time he finally made it across Wood Street—with Joanna supporting him on one side and his crutch on the other, Nyle Orlege was already inside the apothecary shop, interviewing a cowed and wide-eyed Olive.

  "Mistress Joanna!" the girl exclaimed when she and Graeham appeared. "This man says he’s an undersheriff. He says he might have to arrest me. Do you know—" Her gaze lit on Graeham, recognition flicker¬ing in her eyes, still swollen from last night’s bout of crying.

  "Do you remember me?" he asked.

  "I...I think so. Weren’t you at Master Rolf’s a while back?"

  "That’s right."

  "You were going to take Mistress Ada away."

  "I say, can I please get a headache powder?" asked a squirrel-faced little man standing outside the window.

  "Shop’s closed." Reaching through the opening, Nyle pulled away the support poles, causing the upper shutter to slam slut. He raised the lower shutter and latched them, plunging the shop stall into eerie semidarkness.

  Olive wrapped her arms around herself, her panicky gaze taking in the three of them. "What’s this all about? I haven’t done anything."

  "We know you didn’t want to, Olive," Joanna said.

  "Didn’t want to what?"

  Nyle held up the two bunches of dried herbs. "Do you recognize these?"

  Olive’s milky complexion grew even paler. "Oh, God." She backed away from them. "Oh, God." Clutching her stomach, she said, "I feel sick. I’m going to be sick."

  Joanna moved to the girl’s side and sat her on a low wooden stool. "Put your head down. That’s right. Take deep breaths."

  "I didn’t want to," Olive moaned, sinking her head into her trembling hands. "He said there was no other way."