He pried the garment from her hand and set it aside. “Let him worry. I wager you have done so often enough when he did not return of a night. Tomorrow he will be so relieved that you are safe that he will obey you for a few days. Do not argue with me. You can not return tonight. It is too late and you need to rest.”
He did not wait for her response. He lifted her in his arms and carried her out of the kitchen.
Darkness, and stairs. She could see nothing, not even him. But she felt his arms through the drape, cradling her shoulders and knees. And she felt his chest and his breath.
He lowered her. Onto a bed. A feather bed. It had been years. … She sank into it. Her body groaned with plea sure. Then it froze as caution snapped her rigid.
A feather bed. Probably his bed.
She began to protest, but boots sounded on the boards. “Go to sleep, Joan.”
She waited until his steps grew distant. He had gone back down the stairs. The hills of feathers supported her like clouds, tempting her sorely.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight. She could see out the window. A patch of sky showed above the pointed roof of a house across the lane. A few stars spotted the blackness. They glimmered and multiplied as she grew drowsy.
Rhys emptied the bath and brushed the wet floor. He hung out the towel and his shirt. Bending to finish the job, he plucked up the gown.
In his mind, he saw her again as she had looked when he entered with the bed linen. She stood before the fire, com pletely naked, her damp tresses hanging like vines over her breasts and back. She had been incredibly lovely, and ut terly still. She had been staring at this gown as if it had sent her into a trance.
He would never forget the expression on her face. Burning anger. Quivering disdain. Not for the foul gown. For something else, in her head and heart.
She had appeared completely lost for a moment when she faced him. So lost that her nakedness had not mattered to him, any more than it did to her. The hard words they had exchanged suddenly meant nothing. He would have taken her in his arms to offer some comfort, if the moment had not passed.
He folded the gown and placed it on the bench. Cloth was very expensive. It might still be of some use to her.
He walked back up to the bedchamber. She should be asleep by now. He doubted that she would stir for many hours.
She lay on her side with the linen wrapped under her arms, draping her in ghostly folds down to her ankles. Her drying hair spread all around her, a halo of gold catching the moonlight. She appeared like a sleeping angel.
He pulled off his boots and stretched out beside her, along the bed's edge. He had work to do in the morning, and could not afford the soreness of sleeping on the floor. She would wake long after him anyway, so sharing a bed would not frighten her. It was big enough for two, and she was dead to the world.
He was not, however. Nor was he dead to her. It took longer than it should for him to fall asleep. Having her be side him seemed oddly normal, considering that she was almost a stranger. Other women had lain there sometimes, women with whom he had greater familiarity. They had always been intrusions of sorts. Distractions, sometimes sought and sometimes not, from other, more important parts of his life. Joan did not disturb the bed like that. She balanced it, as though her weight had been designed to fit the void waiting there.
She turned in her sleep, and huddled against him like a hurt child seeking protection. Her knees pressed into the small of his back and her breath warmed his shoulder.
He did nothing to move her, or himself.
CHAPTER 4
THEY STAYED CLOSE BEHIND THE PRIEST. The carnage that they passed made her want to retch. She kept squeezing Mark's hand to encourage him to be brave. Comforting him was all that kept her composure intact.
They tried in vain to avoid the pools of blood. All around them soldiers were stripping the dead of weapons and clothing. Sickening sounds of celebration rang through the yard. So did the wails of other women and children who had entered the yard to claim their fallen menfolk.
The priest paused and cried out to God. He turned to her, his expression woeful. “Joan, do not—”
“I will see him and say a prayer over him. Stand aside.”
He hesitated, and then moved to reveal the man that he had blocked from view.
Her breath caught. Mark began crying. She embraced him, but did not look away.
Her father lay there, his armor streaked with sticky reds. His helmet was gone, and a defiant expression still masked his face.
A dark canyon slashed his throat and shoulder from where the death blow had cleaved out his life.
His sword was not in his hand, but in its scabbard.
The horror of it numbed her. She had seen death before, but not like this. Her mind dazed as her spirit tried to retreat.
A voice. A call. She barely heard it while she fought to believe this was just a dream.
A touch on her shoulder. The sights and sounds in the yard assaulted her again. She snarled resentment in the direction of the man who touched her.
The priest's hold fell away, but he pointed toward the keep.
She turned. An armored knight stood in front of the door. She recognized him.
Guy Leighton. The victor. The conqueror.
It had been his voice. His call. He gestured now to the priest. And her.
The priest gently took her arm, urging her forward. “God never abandons the weak,” he whispered. “His kingdom is not of this world. All that is here passes.”
She glanced back at her father. The image of him lying there would never pass.
She shook off the priest's hand, and walked forward. Mark found some strength too, and pulled out of her embrace. The commotion in the yard quieted a little, and soldiers parted to form an alley through the destruction.
The victor waited. With his visor down he was all steel and blood, nothing more. He still held his unsheathed sword.
She stopped in front of him.
He gestured to a squire by his side, and the youth reached up and removed the helmet. Not just steel and blood anymore, but a man with eyes fired by hell.
The gaze of those eyes rested on Mark. Her heart started a horrible pounding. There was still death in this knight. He enjoyed the power of killing.
Mark saw it too, but did not break. He straightened, as if daring the man to do it. Perhaps like her he half wished to be spared the misery of remembering this day.
“He is just a boy,” she said. It came out no more than a whisper. “You do not need to do it.”
The hot gaze shifted to her.
A long gaze, with different fires slowly replacing the ones of death. Just as hellish, though. Just as dangerous. She had never been so alone, so unprotected, as she was during his meandering inspection.
He reached out and lifted her chin with the steel of his gauntlet so he could inspect her face more directly.
“Aye. Perhaps I do not need to do it.”
A pain in her shoulder shocked her, and lifted her abruptly out of the depths of sleep. She lurched toward consciousness in a confused, drowsy daze. She vaguely felt the feather bed beneath her. She sensed the body beside her.
Guy Leighton.
The nightmare suddenly grew real and immediate.
A horrible desolation gripped her. A desperate sense of being trapped spread in her chest, becoming so intense that she could not breathe. The suffocation panicked her. Her whole body shook while she struggled for air.
He rose and turned. Her heart groaned in despair and shrank to something very small.
“Joan? Is something wrong? Are you ill?”
The quiet voice penetrated her desperation. The last shadow of sleep broke away. She suddenly saw more sharply, more clearly, as time and place fully asserted themselves.
Not Guy.
Relief drenched her. Wonderful, grateful relief. She might have been dragged on shore after almost drowning, so physical was the sense of salvation.
Of course
not Guy. There was no danger of that. She was free. She and Mark had escaped.
The man looked down at her. Hair framed his face and lights glittered within the dark shadows of his eyes. Not Guy. Rhys. He must have joined her after she fell asleep.
She closed her eyes and went very still, hoping he would think her asleep. She knew that was not really necessary. Rhys would not hurt her. If he had not done so yet, he would not now.
He settled beside her, and fell asleep again.
She should leave this bed, but her relief was so thorough that it left no room for fear. She found his dominating presence very reassuring.
The memory of the nightmare wanted to stay vivid and alive. It kept nipping at her mind and flashing its horror. Surely it would return if she slept.
She instinctively sought the comfort of Rhys's calm strength. She snuggled against it, as though it served as a protection against the old horror intruding. In his sleep he moved his arm until it circled her, giving shelter.
That should have frightened her, but it did not. It made her feel deliciously safe.
The feather bed felt wonderful. Clean and undesecrated. She listened to the regular breathing close to her ear, and its comforting rhythm lulled her back to sleep.
The sounds of the city woke her. They poured in the open window with the bright sunlight. A lovely cool breeze flowed over her body.
Her naked body. She glanced down at the bed linens bunched around her.
She blinked away the sleep and remembered where she was. And she remembered the half-waking nightmare. She felt again the terrible panic before she had realized that the man beside her was Rhys.
She looked around the chamber while she resisted the temptation to drift off again. For a man who owned a wide house, he lived simply. The room only held some clothing chests and a bench.
She sat up. Last night's stiffness had eased somewhat. She could move without much pain now. She tried her back and her neck to see how things were, and gazed down at her nakedness again. She had slept beside him like this.
A stack of cloth at the edge of the bed caught her eye. She reached for it. Garments. Three gowns and a shift. She shook out the top one for inspection. It was a simple green robe with no decoration, but of good quality cloth.
The noise from the lane captured her attention. So did an aching hollow in her stomach. The day was half over. She had to be on her way at once. She had already stayed too long in this house owned by one of Mortimer's servants.
She got up and put on the green gown. It had belonged to a larger woman. One shoulder threatened to slip down her arm. The short lacing at the neck did not help much no matter how tightly she pulled it. Making do as best she could, she lifted the other garments in her arms and left the chamber.
The solar also contained little furniture, just a chair and table and some benches. She peered in a chamber at the other end of it. A small workroom, it held only a table and bench. He did not appear to be a man much interested in objects. She got the sense of a solitary person, concerned with other things besides comforts and typical routines.
She went down to the lower level. No shop faced the lane, but only a large, fresh-looking hall. It filled the space below the three chambers above.
She passed into the kitchen attached at the rear. Spotless. Unused. Chinking sounds came from the garden and she followed them.
She would thank him for his help and leave. Her legs still ached, but they would get her back to the tile yard.
Rhys straddled a bench in the shade of a hawthorn tree. Propped in front of him, on an inclining board of good length, lay a stone woman. He bent over her with hammer and chisel, carefully chipping at the folds of her drapery.
He appeared to be carving a saint. Parts were merely roughed out, but other sections had been almost finished.
It was hard work. Even with the breeze, his bronzed chest showed a sheen of sweat. He wore only hide leggings. One did not risk cloth to rough stone and sharp chisels.
He straightened and inspected while he brushed away chips. She recognized the angled head and measuring gaze. That was how she made her little statues. Thought, and then work. Decisions, and then action.
His kind eyes could grow incredibly intense at times like this, when he contemplated something. Admiring his profile, she realized that his handsome face came from good bones and would not fade with age, unlike the faces of softer men.
He bent and turned a wheel below the bench. The saint inclined higher until it was almost upright. He swung off the bench and lifted a different tool.
He noticed her and paused. His gaze was more direct, and more familiar, than one expected from a new friend. The events of last night, especially of sharing a bed, had changed things. They had created a primal intimacy that he did not appear inclined to ignore.
A memory from the night broke into her head. Of her cuddling beside him. Of him holding her. He remembered, too. It was in his eyes and manner, as if she had granted him certain rights with that embrace.
She had been stupid. Broken and weak and careless. She must leave here. She would fetch her old gown, change into it, hand him back these garments, and go. There was danger in this friendship with a builder to the crown.
He gestured to the tree. “There is ale and cheese here. Come and eat.”
She heard a bit of a command in it, as if he guessed her impulse to bolt. Maybe he saw the fear. Not just the big one that she lived with every day, but also a new, small one. This handsome man with his rock-hewn strength kept giving her sanctuary, but he also made her feel very vulnerable.
The hollow ache in her stomach made the decision for her. There would be nothing to eat at the tile yard. A little more time could not hurt. She walked around him and found a crude table tucked by the garden wall. Simple planks had been set atop stone blocks. Bread and cheese and drink waited under clean cloths.
Rhys continued with the chisel. She liked watching him work. He possessed a different strength from a fighting man, leaner and more defined. Carving stone had created flat slabs and tight ripples.
He paused for a long inspection, then set down his tools. He walked to a well near the far wall and poured water over his head and body. Dripping with little rivulets that meandered down his chest, he came back and sat next to her.
He pulled the tie from his hair and raked his dark hair back with his fingers. Sunlight dappled through the leaves, dancing over the angles of his face and making his blue eyes bright.
The latent mood of last night's events intensified. In the daylight and cool breeze, they seemed dreamy, but very present. His closeness flustered her. She almost jumped out of her skin when he reached over and casually began untangling the knots from her hair.
She poured him some ale. “Which saint will it be?”
“Ursula. It is for the parish church. I said if they bought the stone, I would work it.” He smiled, and those charming crinkles formed. “The priest promised me an indulgence in payment.”
“But no coin, I'll warrant.”
He laughed. “Aye, from a parish church, no coin. Of course.”
“I hope the indulgence is very large.”
“Huge. Between the statue and my virtue last night, I should go straight to heaven.”
She decided to ignore the easy reference to last night, but she knew in her heart that he was not speaking of his Good Samaritan acts.
“It is hard work. My statues are child's play in comparison.”
“They are different, but no easier. I am clumsy with clay. Look.” He reached to a box near the wall and lifted a small, dried clump. It was a model for his saint, but only in the roughest of ways. “I only need the large shapes as a guide. The rest is in my head. Just as well. I can not mold, nor work so small.”
“And I can not imagine chipping off stone that can not be put back. What if you make a mistake?”
“Well, we masons try very hard not to do that.” He pushed the board of cheese at her. “Eat.” He took up the ends of
her hair again, combing with his fingers. He wasn't really touching her, but it felt like he was, and she grew far too conscious of it. He acted as though what had already passed between them made this informality a minor matter.
She should leave. Now. Her soul knew it.
But the cheese tasted wonderful and rich and her stomach felt very empty. She barely resisted gorging down the whole chunk.
“Eat it all,” Rhys commanded gently, as if he could tell.
“You think to fatten me up?”
“I think that you give your brother most of your portions and that eventually it will hurt your health. In a while I will go to a tavern and get some meat. I'll wager that you give your brother all of that when you get it.”
“I am beginning to feel like a stray dog on whom you took pity. A bath, some food, a bit of grooming. If you give me meat, too, I will fill this gown before I leave. Where did you find it? Did you walk down the lane asking charity for me?”
“I have a friend in the ward. She owns an inn nearby and has a generous heart. I visited while you slept this morning. She was glad to share her good fortune.” He looked at the gown sagging from her shoulders. “I knew they would be too big, since Moira is more …”
“Womanly?”
“You are womanly enough, Joan. She is just very … abundant.” He combed his fingers a little higher. Closer.
She touched the other garments that she had placed on the table. “Abundant in her goodness, too. Is she your lover?”
That truly amused him. “If she were, she would hardly give me gowns to clothe a woman who had just slept in my bed.”
She really could have done without his mentioning that. Having it hanging in the air around them was bad enough.
“Just an old friend,” he continued. “Her husband is a lord, and would gladly kill me if I even contemplated more.”
Her husband is a lord. The peace left the garden at once. The cool breeze turned chilly. This was what she feared. Even in kindness, he might endanger her. “Nay. And I can not accept these garments, either. I will put on my old gown before I leave, and you will return them to her.”
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