Guy examined her as he would a docile horse that had unexpectedly shown some spirit. “Nay, I think that I will enjoy you this way. It will be exciting to have your hatred out in the open. We will meet at the Temple the day next at tierce, and leave at once from there.”
“You must come alone, ready to ride.”
“I did not journey here alone, and my men must return with me, but you have nothing to fear from them. Your brother and you will be under my protection as before.”
He finally eased away. She swallowed a deep sigh of relief when he ceased touching her.
His gaze locked with hers, and too much passed in those violet eyes. The sick bond of the past, and what awaited in the future. Something else flickered in them, too. Tiny lights of anger and suspicion and jealousy. She knew what would happen if those little flames found fuel.
“The dark-haired man seen with you at the fair. What was his name?”
Her heart pounded horribly. She flattened her palms on the cool stone at her back to steady herself. “I do not know. He was a stranger to me.”
“I hope that you speak the truth. I trust he has not been stealing what is mine.”
“Nay. You ruined me for other men.”
His vanity liked hearing that. She doubted that he understood how she meant it, and just how thoroughly she had been ruined.
Guy stepped closer again, and took her face in his hands. “Do not think of thwarting me, Joan. The last betrayal was one too many, and I will not be so generous the next time. Be sure you are at the Temple as agreed, or I will hunt your brother down and kill him like a dog. Wherever you go, I will find you, and I will punish whoever helps you.”
She knew that. Only it would happen no matter what she did. If she brought Mark to the Temple, he would die, and then, after a brief hell in Guy's bed, she would too, for she knew too much. If he learned about Rhys … Jesus, if he learned about Rhys…
Aye, she understood him very well. She had nothing to lose in defying him.
He pressed a kiss on her. She barely managed not to gag. He dipped in a courtly bow of farewell.
“Two days hence, sweet Joan. Do not fail to be at the Temple.”
Joan sank against the wall, and desolation engulfed her. She closed her burning eyes and gripped the cool stone along her back. Some mason had hewn those blocks, and set them squarely, and they would stand through time unless another mason pulled them down.
She wished that life could be so solid and secure. Her own always seemed to be built of straw. Ugly tempests kept roaring through, blowing away the tiny structures of her happiness before she ever had a chance to make them her home.
She did not fight the discouragement. She did not try to hold in the tears that trickled down her cheeks. Mourning what had just been lost would not weaken her because, even as the emotions gripped her, she felt others waiting for their turn. Anger and resolve and fierce determination hovered on the edges of her sadness. She allowed herself to wallow for a few moments in misery, before she gathered those harsh weapons and marched forward to protect the men she loved.
The poignant heartache drowned her like a dark, endless sea. Despite the pain, she found it soothing compared to what she knew would come next. She must have leaned against the cathedral for an hour, so timeless was her immersion. Finally she forced herself to the surface, and the sunlight, and the reality that waited.
She opened her eyes. A man's intense, questioning gaze looked right back. Her heart leapt to her throat. Rhys stood at her table, holding the reins of his horse, blocking the market with the wagon.
Seeing his suspicious expression, she knew that no hour had passed, but only a few moments. He had been there while Guy spoke to her. He had seen it all. He had watched the touches and kiss, and now he was deciding what to make of it.
Rhys chose to believe an explanation that favored her. A glint of hard fury sparked as he turned to watch the receding form of a golden-haired knight dressed in green. Never taking his eyes off Guy's back, he bent and tied the reins to the table. He began striding after the man he assumed had offended her.
She ran, knowing that she flew toward heartbreak. She had hoped to find a lie that would not hurt him, but that would not be possible now. She could not let him confront Guy, no matter what the cost to her pride. She could not let Guy guess who the dark-haired man at the market had been.
She grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. “Do not. He is a knight, and he wears his sword.”
Rhys tried to shake her off. “Let him draw his damn sword, for all I care.”
She clung desperately. “Do not get yourself killed because of a fool's courage.”
“You are so sure I can not best him? I know what I am about. I do not let any man insult you like that, and he will know it soon.”
“Are you so certain that you saw insult?”
“His hands were all over you.”
“Did you hear me cry out? Was I fighting him?”
Rhys turned to stone. He looked down at her, and something new burned in his expression. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying that I will not let you fight him just because you chanced upon something I did not expect you to see.”
She would have gladly died ten deaths to avoid seeing the disbelief that broke in him. She watched him try to convince himself she had not meant what he had heard. A breathless yearning saturated her heart, and she silently begged him to see her lie even though he would not be safe unless he believed her.
They stood there while the market milled around them, two unmoving forms, speaking only with their eyes. He waited for her to give the sign that he had misunderstood. She forced a display of indifference, though she wanted to throw her arms around him and explain the horrible, precarious truth.
She suffered it, for his sake and Mark's. She kept the anguish deep inside her and watched disillusionment slowly slice his trust into shreds.
A passing man jostled them both. Rhys stepped back and glanced around. “We are becoming a spectacle. Let us pack up your wares and go to the palace.”
“I do not want to go to the palace.” Guy might be there, so she could not risk going, especially with Rhys. Nor was there any point in measuring floors anymore, even if Rhys did not know that yet.
“It must be done soon.”
“Aye, but not today. I want to return to the house. If you have business elsewhere, I will walk.”
“Nay, we will go back together, and you can explain yourself there,” he said tightly, taking her arm and pushing her toward the wagon and table.
He helped her wrap the statues and dismantle the table. His wonderful, gifted hands worked quickly, and his handsome, kind face remained impassive. Except his eyes. It was all in them for her to see, disheartening her so much that she wondered if she could go through with it.
The silent wagon ride lasted long enough for his disappointment to turn to anger. She felt his mood transform beside her. She could almost hear his mind conclude that she had been playing him for a fool. She sensed his soul taking distinct, determined steps away from hers.
It broke her heart. She wanted so badly to pour out the truth and spare them both the ugliness that was coming. Instead she would have to layer lie upon lie until she constructed a wall of deception that might protect him from her danger.
Only her fear for him kept her resolve intact, and her misery hidden. Better to have him bitter than dead. If she told him the truth, if she admitted who Guy really was, he would not do the sensible thing and help her to flee. He would go meet that devil, and his goodness would be no match for evil.
She left him in the alley to care for the horse and went to wait in the kitchen. Sitting by the window, she tried to plan how she would get Mark away, but her mind would not cooperate. Her head ached from her efforts to hold in her sorrow. It wanted to break out of her, and she longed to vent the pain.
Rhys came to her slowly, walking through the garden as though he did not welcome this any more than she did
. He passed the bench with its shrouded saint, and paused to glance under the hawthorn tree. That almost undid her. Her eyes filmed as innocent memories wrenched her heart.
Forget when you can and remember when you must. She steeled herself and held in the grief. It was time to remember.
He came in and looked at her, and she knew at once that he still waited to hear that he had misunderstood. Despite his anger and her bluntness, he still believed in her.
He was going to force her to say things that would make him despise her.
“Who was he?”
“A knight named Sir Guy. A famous champion. He has come to meet me in the market several times now. He claims to have fallen in love.”
“He appeared little more than a youth. No more than two and twenty.”
“Prowess with weapons is often greatest then.”
“Did something happen to make you think that you needed his friendship? Did something frighten you, and you did not count on my protection being enough?”
“Nay, he is famous for his skill at arms. I have told you that I am looking for such a man.”
“You told me that you planned to pay with coin, not by permitting what I saw.”
“That could take years, and Sir Guy does not want coin from me, anyway.”
“Nay, he does not, pretty dove. That was clear.” He crossed his arms over his chest, as though seeking to contain the anger that had begun flaring in his gaze. “I do not believe that you can do that. I do not think you can bring yourself to it.”
“I thought not either, but I find that his attentions do not affect me badly at all. It appears that things are different now.”
It sickened her to say it. It infuriated him to hear it. His eyes blazed and she knew that he wanted to hit her. He would not, though. She knew that, too.
“I am glad that I could be of service, Joan. It is good that you found me so useful as you rediscovered your womanhood. I am relieved to have helped you prepare yourself for your great goal.”
Even in her desperation, she could not let him reduce it to that. “I did not sleep with you for that reason.”
“And I did not touch you so that when you were whole you could give yourself to another man. I see now why you would not risk that with me. If it went badly, you might not be able to do it later with another. That would set back your plans a long while, wouldn't it?”
His scathing tone cut through her. She had to avert her eyes to hold onto her composure. Her heart pounded painfully from the effort, and from blocking the fleeting memory of those sunny moments before Guy had appeared when she had decided that she would risk it with Rhys. Today, as soon as they returned to this house, she had looked forward to giving herself to him.
Only now here they were, speaking for the last time, and all she could offer him was insult and hurt.
“You speak of truly selling yourself this time. You know that, don't you?”
“Aye.”
He looked away in dismay. And disgust. “Perhaps if I had offered to kill for you we would have both found more contentment.”
“I never wanted that from you.”
“Nay. You need a professional killer, don't you? One so jaded that he will barter death for pleasure. This will not happen the way you plan. An honorable knight will not accept such a bargain. The ones who will can not be trusted to do the deed.”
“This one can be, I think.”
“It will never happen. No man will stand against someone in league with Mortimer.”
“Some men have. This one will.”
“If he does, if he wins, what do you gain? Revenge? Nothing more, that is certain. Not your father's property, and not your old life back. Another will replace him, and nothing will change. He is but the agent. Mortimer is the power. Your quest is a childish dream. The girl who ran from the horrors of war may not have understood just how impractical a dream it was, but you are a woman now.”
His ruthless logic tore at the foundations of something older than her trust in him. He attacked more than her honesty with his words, and threw more than her betrayal in her face.
“Childish dream it may be, but it has sustained me. It is all that I had to keep me alive for three years. Maybe I will only know revenge, but that will be something, at least.”
The anger left him suddenly. He gave her a long, penetrating gaze. He must have found what he searched for, because resignation slid over him.
He headed to the garden door. “The past enslaves you even more than I had guessed. Go and find your champion. I can see that I have finished my purpose in your life. Offer yourself to him. If it will free you of this, I almost pray that he accepts the bargain. I had hoped you would give this up, but I can see that you never will.”
He was leaving. Walking away, out of her life. She rose, and almost ran to grab him. She wanted to cry that he was wrong, that her heart had not been enchained by the past.
Except that it had been.
She needed to explain before they parted forever. She wanted him to understand. “For three years, the goal of some justice was all that I had. If I had given it up, I would have relinquished all that I ever was. What would I have held on to then?”
He barely glanced at her. But in the brief meeting of their gazes, she saw a disappointment so deep that it stunned her.
“Me. You could have held on to me.”
He strode to the garden portal, never looking back. He did not pause to glance at the hawthorn tree this time.
CHAPTER 19
RHYS BLINDLY STRODE through the city, stoking his fury with visions of the knight touching and kissing Joan. Her bland admission that she intended to trade her favors for a champion's services kept shouting in his head, drowning out the sounds of his rational sense.
He knew that he was reacting like some untried boy, and that only made it worse. He resented like hell that he had let her get close enough to affect him like this. Blood dangerously rumbling and curses silently chanting, he stalked the streets and lanes, bumping into people and hoping some man would bump back so he could start the fight itching to burst out of him.
Joan had seen him for the fool he was. She had played to his sympathies and given as little as necessary to get as much as she could in return. She had held him off with one hand while she beckoned knights with the other, and planned to trade like a merchant that which she claimed unable to offer him. She had probably even lied about what had happened to her. She was nothing but a scheming, ruthless, heartless whore.
The rabid insult caught him up short. His obscuring anger broke a little, just enough for him to see the image of Joan that his hurt pride was carving. It stood in his mind in wanton glory, a combination of temptress and tease. It bore little resemblance to the woman whom he knew.
He remembered her anguish in the garden, and her shyness in his bed. Nay, she had not lied about that part.
The grudging admission offered no relief. It only complicated something that he wanted to keep simple. He wanted—needed—to think the worst. But more memories intruded, sweet and poignant ones that interfered with his efforts to let his affection turn to hate.
Still seething, still resentful, he walked on with new purpose. He made his way to the Cathedral, and to the spot where he had stood when he saw Joan in the shadow of its wall. Reliving the betrayal would surely defeat his weakness for her.
He let the memory emerge, but it came slowly, devoid of the shock he had felt, and clearer now than the reality had been.
He realized what he had actually observed there. Joan in her brown gown, pressed against the wall, her face blocked by the shoulders of a man. Her acceptance of caresses and a kiss. But no obvious welcome of those attentions. No returning embrace. She stood rigidly with pride—or maybe fear.
His mind's eye saw her beside him in the wagon and then at the house. Withdrawn, contained, stony with dignity and devoid of regret. Calm. Too calm, considering what she admitted. Face impassive and eyes so opaque that he could not read her th
oughts.
He had seen her indifference as a greater repudiation than her pursuit of a knight, but maybe it had really been a defense.
Had she truly accepted that man's touch? Or had she lied, to keep a mason from fighting with a sword-wielding knight?
He did not want to believe the former possibility, but he did not find the latter any more comforting. He did not welcome the idea that she had destroyed what existed between them because she did not believe that he could protect himself. Or her.
He might swallow the insult if it meant that she cared for him. Maybe she did, but not enough. Not everything that she said in their argument had been uttered with indifference. When she had spoken of her goal sustaining her, and of trusting her hold on nothing else, familiar flames of resolve had lit her eyes.
It was not the beginning of the argument that had sliced the deepest, but the end.
He continued his walk with calmer thoughts. He wondered about that golden-haired knight. Perhaps he really was a great champion. Maybe he had even fallen in love with Joan, and would see it through for her. Then again, he might be a boastful coward who lured women with his beauty and his promises.
Hoping it was the latter, so that he would have an excuse to beat the man bloody, he aimed his steps in the direction of someone who might know about young Sir Guy.
A servant brought Rhys to the garden where Moira sat in the grass, weaving a basket. It had been her craft when she was poor, and she still practiced it for her pleasure.
She looked up and greeted him with a serene smile that fell a little when he drew closer. The anger still rumbled in him, and he guessed that she could see his mood.
Moira gestured for him to sit beside her on the ground, as he had often done years ago, when he came to this house wooing the good-hearted basket maker. He rarely looked back to those days, or wondered what might have been with her, but he came close to doing so now. Moira was fresh and honest, and as open a person as he had ever known. He found that very appealing at the moment.
“I am glad that you are here,” she said. “I was going to send a servant to you soon. We are leaving the city this afternoon, and I wanted to see you before we left.”
By Design Page 20