“I don't mind the labor.”
“I do. And it will damage the planks over time.”
“I won't be here long enough to damage any planks.”
“I know why you do it. All of that scrubbing. To prove that you earn your keep, so—”
“Since the scrubbing is to your benefit, and the keep is your cost, I cannot see why you should mind.”
Except for the glint that entered his eyes, she might have thought he had not heard her interruption. “To prove that you earn your keep, so I will not expect other payment,” he finished.
At least her sore knees had not been acquired in vain. Only she had not expected to speak of it.
“I told you that it would not be like that, Joan. Have I done anything to frighten you, or to make you think that I lied when I said that? Have I treated you with anything except respect?”
“Nay. But…” She caught herself.
Rhys gazed right into her eyes. “But it is always there. That is what you were going to say, isn't it?”
“Aye, always there. Whenever you return and even when you are gone. Like a mist so thick one can catch it in one's hand. You spoke too boldly at the well that first night, and look what it has done. I am not afraid of you, but you make me wary.”
He reached out. Half mesmerized, half shocked, she watched that hand come. A touch. The gentlest caress on her cheek. “This does not just come from me, pretty dove. It never has. Nor from my honesty at the well. You are as wary of yourself as of me. You know that it would be good between us.”
For a moment she could not move. The warmth of his rough palm seemed to hold her in place, and flush into her skin and blood. A luring, enlivening warmth.
She pulled back and rose and walked to the end of the table so it formed a barrier between them.
“Here you are, the first night my brother is not present, being overbold again. If I keep a human shield nearby, it seems that I do with good sense. You insist that you have shown me no disrespect, and then proceed to indeed show it to me.”
“There is no disrespect in a touch of affection.”
“It is not just affection. You said that first day that you are not above seducing me, and I think that is what you think to try tonight.”
“There is no disrespect in wanting a woman, either.”
“There is if she is not interested, if she does not want it.”
He gazed down the length of the table at her. She found his expression unfathomable.
“You keep saying that you are not interested. You are very sure? Because I just saw something in your eyes and felt a tremble beneath my hand that said otherwise.”
“I am very sure.” Except that she wasn't. Something inside her had lurched hungrily at the promise offered in that touch. A false promise, she knew. Hopeless. But her womanhood had responded anyway.
And Rhys knew it.
“Then come sit and finish your meal. If you truly are not interested, you are safe with me.”
He was teasing her. Challenging her. If she retook her place he would touch her again, maybe only once, to test her lack of interest.
The mood between them tightened terribly, enticingly, with his invisible pull and her feeble push. He did it deliberately, like a declaration of power. Only the table's barrier kept her from sliding across the tiles to him.
“So,” he finally said. “At least we do not have to pretend anymore. But if this is so strong that it is always there, in the air that we breathe, I am wondering why you deny it.”
“I explained that. I will not be here long.”
“Aye. You have somewhere to go and something important to do. Another thing that we have in common. Unlike most men, I understand that, since I have known it myself. But it looks like you will not be going soon. Since I do not seek to bind you or stop you, what is it that you fear will happen in my arms in the meantime?”
“Disappointment.”
A very direct look. A slow, sensual smile. A dangerous light in those blue eyes.
“Well, Joan, I promise to do my best.”
She had impulsively spoken a confession, but he had heard a challenge. Just as well. It would humiliate her to explain.
“If I ever want to find out how good your best is, I will let you know.” It took all of her trembling poise to say it.
The light of challenge flickered again in his eyes. He regarded her too warmly, that storminess surging. She half expected him to get up and walk to her and put her rejection to the test.
He didn't. He relaxed back into his chair, and she sensed that the worst had passed.
She began collecting the bowls and tray.
She moved quickly, dreading the arm that might reach out for her.
Dreading it, and waiting for it. Waiting too hopefully, she ruefully admitted. He knew that, too. She could feel that he did.
She turned toward the kitchen with her burden.
“Running away?”
“Aye.”
“I wonder what you would do if I did not let you.”
The notion appealed to half of her, but the other half instantly bared its claws. “I would hate you.”
“That is what I usually decide. When I don't, it is the dead of night and I am dreaming.”
“You imagine me compliant, then?”
The smallest crinkles formed, but the smile was hard and the gaze very direct. “Compliant? That sounds tamed and defeated. Nay, Joan, I imagine you as I have known you. Moaning with pleasure and only wanting more.”
She closed her eyes and shook off the spell he had cast. She turned away from him and strode to the kitchen, trying to appear dignified despite her wobbly legs.
No steps followed. Relief pounded through her, but something else, a thwarted yearning that she could not deny, beat beneath it.
It seemed that avoiding one kind of disappointment meant swallowing a different, more confusing kind.
CHAPTER 9
VENDORS JAMMED the market. Not just food sellers, as was normal for this section of the Cheap. The season for market days and festivals had arrived, and merchants and craftsmen from all over the region would stop in London as they traveled from one fair to the next.
Joan pushed through the crowd, carrying her basket. This was not the market closest to Rhys's house. She had decided to obey his order and not scrub the floors daily anymore. Instead she used the time to venture about the city when she bought provisions. It gave her a chance to visit the shops that sold crockery and tiles, and ask about the craftsmen who provided them.
She slowed as she passed a potter's cart, and gave his wares a sharp examination. Kiln fired. She had noticed several others with such cups and bowls in the markets these last few days.
“These are very fine,” she said, lifting a bowl. Not just kiln fired. He had used a wheel. “You are not from London. Is your home nearby?”
“Kent.”
Kent. Not far away at all. “I see some tiles in your cart. Do you make those, too?”
“They are my brother's. We share a kiln.”
“Will you be here all week?”
The potter shook his head. “There's a fair day down toward Canterbury next week. I'm heading there in two days, to get a good spot. If it's tiles you want, come there. My brother will be with me.”
She studied the potter's greying hair and soft face. He seemed friendly enough. And safe enough. She broached the subject she had already raised with several other craftsmen today. “Do you make all the pots yourself?”
“I've two apprentices, and some workers to prepare the clay, but most of these here are mine.”
“I make pots too. Not on a wheel, but many cannot tell, they are so fine. I am looking for a place to ply my craft. I have worked in a tile yard, too. Perhaps you or your brother need another worker.”
He looked her over curiously. “You expect coin, or just shelter and board?”
“Coin. My craft is very good.”
“Everyone's craft is good, to hear them te
ll it.”
“I can show you. I have some cups that I made. I will be meeting another master tomorrow at the Cathedral to show him my skill. I can meet you, too, if you want. You will find none better than I. It will be a bargain for you, since I work as well and hard as any man, but cost much less.”
“I'll not be standing in a Cathedral bidding over a woman. I take ale at that tavern over there at dawn. Bring these cups of yours before I leave the city, and we'll see what's what.”
She promised to meet him, and picked her way through the crowd. A heady excitement enlivened her step. What luck that she had chanced upon two potters looking for workers today. In a fortnight she would be gone from this city. Considering what had happened at that supper with Rhys, that wouldn't be soon enough, but it would have to do.
She aimed out of the market, making plans. She would leave before Rhys woke, and bring only the best of her cups. If she baked tomorrow's bread tonight, there would be food for him in the morning, and by the time he could question her about her absence, everything would have been settled.
Boots fell into step beside her. A familiar presence warmed her side. Startled, she looked over to find Rhys smiling down at her.
“You are far from home, Joan.”
“The fowl in the neighborhood market were skinny. I decided to visit this one. And I may be far from home, but you are farther from Westminster.”
He relieved her of the basket's burden. “I often come back to the city after dinner. The other masons use the time to sleep, but I do not need it. I am going to a scribe's shop to buy some parchment. Why not come with me? It is an interesting place.”
Since he would carry the basket, she went along. A scribe's shop would be a nice diversion.
It was several lanes off the market street, tucked among other shops that looked very fine. She peered in their windows as she passed. A goldsmith's and a furrier's. Rich fabrics could be seen beyond a mercer's shutters, and she recognized a golden brown head among them. David, Mark's new friend, saw her and hailed a greeting.
“My master lived in this area, so most of these craftsmen are old friends. This scribe passes on some of his parchment. It saves me the trouble of finding it elsewhere, since I do not need much,” Rhys explained as he led the way in.
His friend looked to be a very successful scribe. Most worked at tables in the Cathedral, not in a shop. This one even had an apprentice.
She peered at the scrolls and sheets and the book that the apprentice illuminated with colored inks. Rhys purchased two sheets of creamy parchment. She watched a lot of coin change hands.
Outside the shop he set down the basket and carefully folded the sheets.
“It is very expensive,” she said.
“Aye. My one indulgence. Other men buy jewelled knives or rich furnishings. I buy the stuff of dreams.”
“That is when you aren't wasting your silver on unwilling women.”
He smiled. “I told you, Joan. You are the stuff of dreams, too.” He tucked one of the sheets into the basket. “That one is for you. I will give you a quill and some ink. I expect that you miss your craft.”
“It will be a sinful waste. Quills and ink and drawings are not the stuff of my craft.” Or my dreams.
“It is all design. It is all a manifestation of the same craft. If you make mistakes, you can scrape them off. I will show you how.”
He strolled back down the lane, and paused at the goldsmith's shop. “Now that I think about it, what we really want is in here.”
“Gold? Oh, aye, that is truly the stuff of dreams.”
He crooked his finger and beckoned her to follow him inside.
The only gold visible was a miniature saint being worked by the master at the back of the shop. A small vise held it while he filed along its delicate lines. He welcomed them and continued his labor, but he kept glancing up at her and breaking into boyish smiles at her attention.
“It is hollow,” Rhys said. “It has no back and will be attached to something—a reliquary, I would guess.”
The goldsmith nodded. “Aye, a reliquary for the Blackfriars.”
“To make it hollow, and less wasteful of the gold, he makes a core of clay. Then the saint is molded in wax, then covered with plaster,” Rhys explained. “He heats it all, the wax melts, and the molten gold is poured into the cavity. When it cools and hardens, he breaks away the plaster, lifts it off the clay, and he has his little saint. All precious metals are done that way. It is how church bells are cast.”
“Then I must finish it, which is what I am doing now,” the goldsmith said. “Perhaps someday you will make a bronze statue, Rhys. The Queen is rich enough for it.”
“Even she is not that extravagant. And I do not mold, I carve.” He gestured to Joan. “But my friend here works clay. Perhaps you have some extra that you will sell us.”
She looked at him in surprise, and then at the goldsmith with unabashed hope.
The goldsmith set down his file and debated it. “I don't have much, and there's other figures to do.” He glanced at her and broke into one of his smiles. She smiled back and he flushed. “Oh, aye, I guess I could sell a bit.”
She watched in wonder as some more coins appeared. Rhys took the small clump and dropped it in the basket. It wasn't much, but it would make a statue.
Or two cups. Newly worked undried cups that she could bring to the potters tomorrow, to prove that the skill was truly her own.
“I had better carry this back to the house for you,” Rhys said. “The clay makes it very heavy.”
That was very kind of him. He often was kind. Except when he was buying her indenture. Or threatening to seduce her. Maybe he was being especially nice today to make amends for the other night.
He brought the basket into the kitchen, then left through the hall. She grabbed the clay and carried it out to the table beneath the tree. She sat and peered at the lump, poking it with her fingers. It would be nice to make a statue. She had imagined several the last few weeks that wanted to be formed. Since she could not fire the clay, she could make one, then reuse the clay and make another, over and over.
Nay, it would be best to form the cups. Not so much fun, but more useful at the moment.
Her contemplations utterly absorbed her, and so the nearby steps startled her.
Rhys had not left after all. He set a quill and ink pot on the table.
She looked at them, and at the clay. She thought about the parchment still tucked in the basket. It had been very pleasant today, visiting the shops and walking and chatting.
She pressed the pliable mass and her fingers sank in. It felt so good. “Thank you for this. For helping me find it. I will pay you what it cost.”
“It is a gift. I could not bear being cut off from my craft. I am sure it is the same with you.”
Her heart warmed at his thoughtfulness, but she did not want him giving her gifts. She would find some way to repay him, even if he never knew.
Maybe she would begin a statue at least, and then later in the day reform it into cups.
“Joan, Master James and Master Neil will not be waiting to meet with you. Both men have decided that they do not need a pretty worker after all.”
His quiet words penetrated her euphoria. She stared up in shock. “You saw? You followed me? You spoke with them after—”
He suddenly looked less kindly. “It is well that I did. Not every man who works clay is as pliable as George. If they agreed to meet with you to discuss such a thing, it was not your skill at your craft that they sought to buy.”
“It would be once they saw my craft.”
“Your skill is high, but theirs is higher.”
“Exactly. I could have learned from either of them. I might have had the chance to master the wheel, or to learn to use slips. You had no right to interfere!”
The glint flashed in his eyes. His face turned stony and severe.
All at once she understood. Anger shot through her. “You did not do this to protect me.
You did this because you have decided that you will not let me leave.” She lifted the clay, and threw it back down. “You sought to appease me with this.”
He did not respond, but his hard expression answered plainly enough.
“What did you say to them? With what words did you undo what I had carefully begun?”
“I said that you belong to me.” It came out simply and firmly.
Fury pounded in her head. She felt her jaw clench. “Nay, mason. I belong to me, and never forget it.”
His eyes burned. He lifted her off the bench. His expression made her heart jump. “Aye, you belong to yourself only, Joan, and I never forget it.” He pulled her into his arms. “I never forget anything. I never forget this. Nor do you.” His mouth claimed hers in a forceful, demanding kiss.
It was her breathless confusion that permitted the deep kiss, not her free will. He had caught her unaware, that was all. She frantically told herself that as he plunged her into a chaotic whirl. The strained attraction yanked her in, rendering her helpless.
Biting kisses. Their anger made it heated and contentious, a fevered series of challenges and triumphs and defeats, with the latter entirely hers.
When his mastery was complete, when he had proven to her the power of the desire, he took her face in his hand and looked in her eyes. “Aye, we neither of us forget. I can be in my chamber, and you in the kitchen, and it is there.” His expression was far too knowing. Still severe, still angry. “So tell me, Joan, about how you belong to you alone, and how I have no rights or claims. But first tell me why this frightens you so much that you would risk your safety to escape it.”
Anger flooded her again. Anger at herself, for ever permitting that first kiss under this tree. Resentment of the weakness that had led her to seek sanctuary in a man, any man, let alone one who wanted her in this way. A man about whom she could trust only one thing for certain. That he desired her.
The anger was mostly with herself, but there was some for him, too. For the way he kept cornering her, and asking her to face something that she did not want to look at.
Something dreadful and numbing and hidden. Something shriveled and invisible, but not dead.
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