“DON'T YOU KISS BACK, JOAN?”
SHE FELT HER FACE BURN. “Nay.”
“Never?”
“Nay.” She wished that did not sound so selfish. Her gaze lowered to where her hands splayed over his bronze chest. “I have never wanted to.”
He lifted her chin so that she had to look at his face again. His expression took her breath away. Intense and knowing. Hard and soft and warm, just like his body. “That is not true. You want to now.”
Maybe she did. Maybe that was what entranced her. She certainly did not want to run away.
Gentle pressure on her head. A strong arm guiding her. Not to his mouth. Lower, until her lips rested on his chest, above her palms.
The slight taste, the scent, made her thoughts blur. All of her senses filled with him. She did not really decide, it just happened. She kissed, and moved her lips and kissed again. A rich pleasure began beating through her like a rapid breath. She moved her hand and kissed again.
ALSO BY MADELINE HUNTER
By Arrangement
By Possession
The Protector
Lord of a Thousand Nights
Stealing Heaven
AND HER NEW SERIES
The Seducer
The Saint
The Charmer
The Sinner
AVAILABLE FROM BANTAM BOOKS
FOR WARREN,
WHO STILL BRINGS ME FLOWERS.
CHAPTER 1
SHE LOOKED LIKE A STATUE of calm dignity placed in a sea of vulgar chaos.
The market roared and splashed all around her motionless body. Peddlers of skins and barrels, of pigs and fish, crowded the small space that she had claimed for her wares. Her ragged gown, of a pale silver hue and displaying remnants of elegant needlework, contrasted starkly with the practical browns and flamboyant colors filling the square. Along with her blond crown and braid, the gown created a column of light tones in a very mottled world. She was all gentle fairness, except for her skin. Bronzed from the sun, it possessed a golden sheen that brightened her blue eyes.
It was the respite of pale serenity that first caught Rhys's attention as he walked through the market in front of the Cathedral. Then the unveiled hair. And the eyes. He had already slowed to see her face more clearly before he noticed her wares.
She did not hawk them. She stood silently behind the crude, upturned wooden box that showed what she sold. Her delicate face remained impassive, as if she did not notice the bodies jostling by, sometimes pressing her—sometimes deliberately. He was not the only man to notice that this tattered dove was very pretty.
He did not recognize her. Most of the vendors were old faces, seen here regularly. She was an alien most likely, and not from the city. She had come for the day to make a few coins.
He felt a little sorry for her. Despite her rigid poise, she struck him as vulnerable, in danger of being broken. He doubted that she was doing well. The box was low, no higher than her knees, and the wares were almost invisible. He had to stroll very near in order to inspect the items set out on it.
Crockery. He had no interest in such things, but he did have an interest in her. He casually lifted the closest cup and a spark of hope lit her cool gaze.
The cup was simple but well made. Surprisingly, it was not ordinary sunbaked terra-cotta. It had been fired, and its shine indicated that it had been glazed.
“The walls are very thin. Do you have a potter's wheel?” he asked while he examined it. And her. She really was very pretty, but up close he could read fatigue in her lax expression, and discouragement in her blue eyes.
“Nay. I just used coils.”
“With great care, though. The shape is very regular.”
His interest attracted others, as was the way with markets. A stout woman, a wealthy merchant's wife from her dress, paused and peered down critically. Something caught her eye. Poking her chubby hand amidst the cups, she lifted a small figure.
He had been so distracted by the potter that he had not noticed the little statues. The merchant's wife held a standing Virgin, maybe a hand's span tall. It had been carefully modeled with swelling drapes, and painstakingly painted with colored glazes.
The woman examined the little figure, running her fingers along the face and back, holding it upright to judge its look. Rhys made his own inspection alongside.
“How much?” the woman asked, sharp-eyed and ready to bargain hard.
“Eight pence.”
“Eight pence!”
“Five, then.”
The woman groaned and sighed and dawdled and debated. Finally the five pence emerged from her purse.
The potter seemed well pleased.
Rhys dipped into the wares, moving some aside. Two other statues were there. A Saint Agnes with her lamb, and a Saint Catherine with her wheel. She might have just repeated the figure and changed the attribute, but she had not done so. Each was unique in pose, and very realistic.
“Do you seek to buy something?”
Her voice had a little edge to it. Her blue eyes regarded him skeptically.
He knew what that look revealed. He had not been the first man to loiter around, pretending to be interested in crockery.
“You craft the statues, too?”
“When I have the time, and the clay.”
“They are all fired.”
“I know a tiler who lets me use his kiln.”
He lifted the Saint Agnes. “What are they for?”
That flustered her. “They are statues.”
“Aye, but what is their purpose? The cups and bowls have a purpose. Everyone needs them. What is this saint for?”
“Devotion.”
“There are churches for that, with much larger statues.”
“Some people might like to have one in their homes,” she said defensively.
“Have you sold many?”
She grimaced, conceding the point. “At most one a day when I come to market.”
“Then you should charge more than five pence.”
She rolled her eyes. “If I sell only one at five pence, I will sell none higher.”
“You will sell just as many, but receive what they are worth, and they will be more valued by those who buy them. These are not practical things. Most will give you nothing, but those who will pay five pence will pay a shilling.” To prove it, he fingered a shilling out of his purse and placed it on the box.
She eyed the coin hungrily, then glanced at him, suspicious again.
Her caution did not insult him. A pretty thing like her, alone in the marketplace, probably received a lot of propositions. “For the statue only. But I must warn you. I am a freemason, and I may steal the pose for a stone saint someday.”
Her gaze raked him with a quick assessment. He knew what she thought. He did not look like a mason today. His dress was too fine for work. A man did not wield a chisel and hammer in a long tunic and tall boots.
Rhys drifted away, carrying Saint Agnes. He looked down at the little figure and laughed at himself. A man who could make stone statues hardly needed to purchase clay ones.
He supposed he had bought it as a form of praise, from one craftsman to another. And as a type of flattery, from a man to a woman. There had been a bit of pity to it, too. He liked the idea that he had made the day a success for her.
He laughed again. A shilling for ten minutes with a pretty woman. Still, even without the statue, he would not have felt cheated.
He ambled across the square to a busy tavern. Ducking below the low swinging sign, he entered its shadowed, cool depths.
He purchased two ales and took them to the table near the unshuttered window. It was hotter here, but he could admire the statue in the light. He placed it on the rough planks, and edged it around with nudges of his
fingertips. She really was very skilled.
He looked out the window. As the crowd flowed he caught glimpses of her. That gown looked very sad. A lady's old finery, probably bought thirdhand. Maybe the bits of embroidery had not been so frayed when she got it.
A thick body slid across the window opening, blocking his view. A face peered in. A blond beard lowered in gape-mouthed surprise to find him looking straight back from a handspan away. The man glanced over his shoulder, then hustled in the door.
He came over frowning, sat on the opposite bench, and shifted it back so his head was not at the window. “What are you thinking of? The whole city can see us here.”
“If they do, they see a builder and a bishop's clerk sharing a table at a crowded tavern. Drink your ale, John, and no one will think twice of our company.”
John wiped his brow with his sleeve. “I had to wait for you a long time. The sun has been roasting me.”
“You are fortunate that I came at all, since I know what you want and have no interest in hearing it. And I am late because I have been at Westminster, awaiting an audience with the Queen. She wants to talk about adding to one of her manor houses, and has had me cooling my heels all day. Let us be quick with this, since I must go back and wait some more.”
John's face fell. “A manor house? You can not think to leave London, surely.”
“I can, and I will if there is work to be had elsewhere.”
“But the plans… your reports…”
“I have nothing to report, not that I agreed to provide such things. But you can tell Bishop Stratford that I have heard nothing. No gossip. No worry. Nothing. As to the plans, I doubt that there are any worth supporting. There are only frightened men talking and hoping, which is something of a relief. The last plan was poorly conceived and ill executed, and it was only by God's grace that my role in it was not discovered.”
The blunt talk made John nervous. He stuck his head out the window to be sure no one lurked against the wall.
Rhys took the opportunity to look for the potter again. She appeared to have another buyer.
John leaned over the table with a serious expression. Rhys deliberately angled away so they would not look like two conspirators plotting treason. Which was what they were, for all intents and purposes.
“I will confide in you,” John said. “Wake is raising an army in France. Lancaster and my bishop are sending him money. By next spring—”
“It will not happen. The barons have made peace with Queen Isabella and her lover Roger Mortimer. This will not be like three years ago, when the country rose up to welcome Isabella's invasion in order to help her depose her husband and crown her son. For one thing, the current king is not the enemy. His mother and her lover are, the same leaders whom we embraced as saviors in that great rebellion.”
“They have become usurpers!”
“As some of us worried that they would. Anyone who knows Roger Mortimer feared his ambition. The barons were supposed to control him, but they have proven weak and divided.”
“Mortimer ignores the council. He even sets himself above the young King and must be brought down.”
“Then it is King Edward's fight.”
“He is a boy—”
“He is eighteen.”
John flushed to the roots of his short, fair hair. “They have bought you. They give you the status of a master builder and let you design a few structures, and like a dog thrown some bones you forget your old loyalties.”
Rhys barely suppressed the urge to reach over and grab John's fleshy neck. “I have forgotten nothing. I risked more than you in that rebellion, clerk—only to see a bad king replaced by a bad queen and her hungry lover. Only to see the unity of the barons shatter at once as they hastened to gain from the change. If you want to know who has been bought, look to the castles of the realm.” He swallowed his anger and looked across the square again. “I grow weary of it, John. I am out of this, and seek only to practice my craft. If the Queen wants me to rebuild a manor house, I will do it.”
John began a low-voiced cajoling. Rhys did not listen. His attention had become distracted by a commotion in the marketplace.
Two groups of youths had come down two lanes at the same time. One, made up of squires in their lords' liveries, displayed the arrogant high spirits of young men who expect the world's deference. The other, a ragtag gang of footloose boys such as plagued the city, showed the surly anger that breeds in men with nothing to do.
The crowd subtly shifted to avoid both groups, but as fate would have it they crossed each other's paths in the middle of the square. Neither gang would walk around the other.
They faced off. Sharp words were exchanged, then shouted insults. Eight rich faces sneered. Seven poor ones snarled.
Rhys ignored John's exhortations and drank his ale. The crowd spread, making room for the drama. There would be a fight, to be sure. A bit of excitement to enliven the afternoon. A spectacle to discuss for the next few days.
That was what marketplaces were for.
He mentally put his money on the city youths, even though they were outnumbered. This would be a street brawl, not a tournament in armor. Besides, it was important to show loyalty to one's own in these things.
“How much?”
Joan examined the man admiring her Saint Catherine. Skinny and pale, with a rabbity face and a richly draped hat, he looked wealthy enough to buy impractical things.
She let him look longer while she contained her excitement. To think that she might sell all three statues today!
He really did seem to like it. “A shilling.”
His gaze snapped to her in surprise.
“It took a week to make, and is fired. You will find no better,” she added quickly, wishing she had not been so rash. Of course that mason had just been flattering her, hoping for something more for his coin. She would lose this sale because she had almost believed what he said about the value of her wares.
“A shilling,” the rabbit mused. “Your husband puts a high price on his skill.”
“The skill is mine.”
He instantly looked at the statue with new eyes. Critical ones. He would imagine that he saw every imperfection that he expected in work done by a woman.
That often happened. She could invent a craftsman husband and tell the buyers lies, but her pride would not let her. The statues were hers. She had made them.
“Five pence,” he offered.
It was what she had gotten for the Virgin. She should be glad for it. But this man's sudden disdain irked her.
“A shilling. It is worth much more, and I will take no less.” She regretted the words as soon as they snapped off her lips. Still, a rebellious part of her felt that this man did not deserve her Saint Catherine and that she would break it to pieces before she let him have it for five pence.
To her surprise, he did not walk off. It astonished her even more when his fingers went to his purse. A shilling landed on her box as he turned away. If he had thrown down only five pence, she would have grabbed it just as quickly. In truth she could not afford the pride that still plagued her.
She tucked the money into her bodice, between her breasts. It joined the moist weight of the other coins there. Almost three shillings today. A fortune, thanks to that tall mason.
She remembered his keen-eyed gaze admiring her cup. And her. For once she hadn't minded that so much, despite his intimidating size. He hadn't leered. Those blue eyes had revealed a man's interest, but not the naked hunger that she knew too well.
And he had truly appreciated her craft. She could tell from the way he touched the wares. That had not been a lie, even if it might have been an excuse.
She had been a little rude to him. She wished that she could thank him now. He had been right about the statues. As a mason, he probably had some experience in how such things were valued. It had been generous of him to tell her.
A nice man. Handsome, too, with a firm jaw and angular face and a well-formed nose. He w
ore his clean dark hair bound at his nape the way laborers did, to keep it off their faces. Kind eyes. Deep blue. The skin at their sides crinkled when he smiled. Little lines had formed there, and at the edges of his mouth. Maybe he smiled a lot.
She discovered that she was smiling now, too. It actually felt strange, but a lovely lightness had entered her heart, and she couldn't stop herself.
Almost three shillings. Maybe … maybe …
Some youths entered the square off a nearby side lane, and she immediately spotted her brother Mark's blond head among them. Thank goodness for that. He had disappeared after setting down her box here at dawn, and she had worried that she would have to carry it back across the river herself.
She tried to catch his eye but he managed not to notice. He stuck with his knot of comrades, looking as though he planned to cross the square and get swallowed by the city again. His friends were trouble. They all wore the hot-eyed, tough expressions of young men looking to fight with the world.
She could not ignore the fact that Mark fit right in. Realizing that blotted the sun right out of her mood. Not only anger and hardness matched him with the others. His garments did, too. Little more than rags, his tunic and hose had already been patched and frayed when she bought them off a servant. She could afford no better. Mark had grown so much these last two years that it had been all she could do to keep him in any clothes at all.
He hated that green tunic. He resented what it meant. Every morning when he dragged it on, her heart ached for him. Day by day she watched his anger grow, and felt the storm building in his soul. When they were together, his silent thunder quaked right through the air, into her.
She watched him aim across the square, and a flutter of panic beat inside her. She was losing him. To this city's alleys, and those bad youths, and the despair wrought by poverty. At fifteen, he was no longer the boy who had trusted his big sister, and his lost faith cut like a knife. He no longer believed her reassurances that things would change for the better. Maybe he guessed that she did not believe them herself half the time.
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