Orville chuckled. Looking back at the coins, he scooted one over an inch. "That's all right." He shot Lucy a sly glance. "No need for him to know."
She felt a hot wave beneath her thick bodice. Orville understood too much. "Please remember the terms of this payment. Our tavern is to have no problems with its license."
"Oh, no. No problems at all." Grinning, Orville pressed down on the separated coin.
Lucy tried not to show her disillusionment. It was increasingly difficult to believe this creature held much influence over his highborn relative.
She stood. No matter. This step had still been necessary. As insurance.
Orville watched her rise. He was smiling. "And when do you bring more?"
Lucy froze in the act of stepping over the bench. She turned.
Orville looked up at her, his free hand toying with the coins.
More? Lucy's heart suddenly hammered in her chest. Schooling her expression to hide her dismay, she said, "This is a...gift. A boon. A token of appreciation for the very small favor that you grant." She pressed her lips together. "There will be no more."
Orville's expectant smile dimmed. "Keeping your license is no small favor."
Lucy's heart hammered harder. He was supposed to have accepted her payment. Aye, he should have felt grateful. Instead, he threatened her.
Orville tapped the edge of a shilling piece on the tabletop.
What to do? wondered Lucy. Promise to pay more? Her gorge rose at the idea of being forced to pay anything.
"I think," Orville said, laying the coin down with a snap. "The same amount, in a sennight."
Lucy's heart stopped altogether. Then she laughed.
Orville did not appear impressed by her levity. He kept on looking at her, expectant.
Lucy smiled. "Emile will not stand for it."
The bald tavernkeeper's smile disappeared. "But you would not tell him."
Lucy's mouth twisted. "Would I not?"
Orville's eyes turned into slits. "You have disobeyed him."
"Perhaps. But he will not break my knees."
Orville heard the warning but continued to stare at her. Searching for a bluff.
Lucy stared back. In truth, she was bluffing. She could never tell Emile about paying Orville, not if she were drawn and quartered.
"Far be it from me," Orville finally drawled, "to force your hand."
Lucy gave a stiff, satisfied nod. "We understand each other, then."
"In a fashion."
Lucy pulled at her sleeve. Her heart began to slow its rapid battering in her chest. "Then you will do as you are told."
Orville's eyes held a bitter gleam. "As long as you hold your unholy spell over your husband, you will get no trouble from me."
Once again Lucy stopped in the act of turning around. She looked at Orville. "I? Hold a spell over Emile?"
The man nodded. "Everyone knows that's how you got him to marry you in the first place. A witchy spell. And now you use the same trick to make him help you with the tavern."
If Orville had struck her open-handed, he could not have shocked Lucy more. Orville knew, which meant that everybody knew. Emile had never wanted to marry her. He had been forced. And once married, more pressure had been required to keep him from haring off. Now they all thought it took a witchy spell to keep him by her side.
Lucy could feel the blood drain from her face. Everyone in the village saw clearly what she'd been so reluctant to acknowledge to herself.
Her person alone could not hold sway over a man, much less a handsome, personable man like Emile.
But in front of Orville, she maintained her composure. "You are wise," she observed, "to recognize my power."
Orville lowered his eyes. Cowed? By her 'spell?'
Smiling stiffly, Lucy turned. It was just as well Orville not realize she held no spell over Emile. No, none at all.
~~~
On his way down the hill, Emile stopped beneath a spreading tree. He closed his eyes, pressed his palms together, and praised whatever saints looked after rogues and scoundrels.
"Hey, Emile! You coming down from the manse?"
Recognizing the voice of the tavern regular, Pip, Emile smiled and opened his eyes. "That I am." He clapped an arm around the shoulders of the man with black spiky hair.
Pip grinned. "I'll bet Lord Charlie was pleased to speak with you."
Emile's smile managed to grow. With his arm around Pip's shoulders, he directed their steps down the hill. "Everyone knew but me."
"That Lord Charlie can't stand Orville?"
Emile nodded. That Lord Charlie had never heard of a malefactor called Emile, also known as the Fox. That even if Lord Charlie had ever heard of such a fellow, he would not make a writ against him. He would not do anything to harm the fellow who was rubbing his brother-in-law's nose to the grindstone.
"Who would have thought," Emile mused, "that Orville once cut a dashing figure?"
Pip pulled his ear. "It was ten years ago Lord Charlie's sister fell for him. His lordship was properly disgusted."
Emile nodded. Cheerily, he kicked a pebble from their path. "His lordship is hoping that now Orville looks to grow poor, she will come back home."
Pip shook his head. "Who knows? It might only make his wife stick closer. A woman's love is a strange thing."
Emile drew his arm from about Pip's shoulders. "Aye, that it is. Say, have you seen Lucy today?"
"Nay, I have not been to town."
Emile put his thumb to his teeth. "I wish to be the one to tell her this." He chuckled. "I cannot wait to see her face."
Pip looked confused. "To tell her what?"
Emile opened his mouth. Indeed, to tell her what? That he did not have to fear being clapped into chains? That he was not going to be hanged for a thief, at least not by this particular magistrate?
Shaking his head, Emile put a smile back on his face. If there was one thing to be learned from this experience, it was that he should seize hold and enjoy this new, settled life of his. He should not start at every passing shadow. He gave Pip a last clap about the shoulders. "Why, to tell her that we have high company at the tavern from now on."
Emile was still smiling as he passed through the center of town. He was smiling right up to the moment the door of the King's Head tavern opened and his wife walked through it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
At first Emile could not believe his eyes. Why would the form and figure of his wife, dressed in a fine brocade, be framed by the doorway of Orville's tavern?
Lucy appeared equally confused, as if she herself did not know what she was doing there. Then, with an upward shift to her chin, she continued out the door. To Emile's amazement, she turned and began walking up the street. Away from him.
A hot flush washed under his clothes. By dodging Goodwife Wall, walking her pigs, and Tom Cake, hauling his firewood, Emile caught up to his wife. Mindful of their audience, he took her arm gently.
Lucy stiffened beneath his touch, but one experimental pull must have told her there would be no breaking her husband's grip.
Brad Baker stepped out of his bakeshop. He tossed a pail full of spoil into the street and then smiled as he spied Emile. "Hey, juggler, good to see you are feeling better."
"Many thanks." Deftly, Emile directed his wife's steps around the steaming puddle. Careful to keep his tone conversational, he asked her, "What were you doing at the King's Head?"
Lucy sniffed. "I went to see Orville."
Emile's teeth clicked together. But he managed to smile for Susan Toody hanging out her wash. "I told you," he said, from between his teeth. "I am taking care of Orville."
Lucy smiled at Susan Toody, too. She waved. "For now."
For now? For now? What did that mean?
He felt a further flush, this one of shame. Surely she didn't know of the narrow miss he'd had with the magistrate. "Did you offer Orville money?"
Lucy turned up her chin some more. "He will give us no more trouble."
Emile laughed without amusement. By giving Orville money, Lucy had only showed him fear. He wondered how far Orville would have been tempted to take advantage. "Did he touch you?"
"No." Lucy sounded disgusted as they continued to walk arm in arm. "He is perfectly harmless. A disgruntled shopkeep. I have handled dozens of his kind in my day."
Emile closed his eyes. Orville had once tried to slice Emile's nose off. The only thing protecting Lucy had been the force of her husband's threats. Fighting down a sick sensation, he opened his eyes. "You are lucky."
Lucy scoffed as they turned a corner. "I am not lucky. I am prudent and shrewd."
Emile smiled. "Indeed. You are right about one thing. Orville will give us no more trouble."
Lucy turned with her brows raised, ready to accept his concession.
Emile's smile waxed. "He will give us no trouble because his brother-in-law, this so-dreaded Justice of the Peace, hates the very sight of him."
Lucy tripped.
Casually, Emile supported her through the little slip.
"How do you know?" she asked.
Emile was gratified by her pallor. "That's my place. To know, to find out. It's why you keep me around."
She sent him a strange look. "Do I?"
It was Emile's turn to miss a step. Once again he had to wonder: did she guess his situation? Did she comprehend the past that caused him to fear the next magistrate who might happen into the tavern? Looking up, he saw they were before the courtyard gate. He let go of Lucy with a frown. "'Do you?' That is a strange question."
Lucy did not explain. Instead she waved a hand. "You did nothing special. Eventually, I would have found out about Orville's relations with his brother-in-law."
Emile pressed his lips together. "Perhaps so, but I found out about it first. You had no need to risk seeing Orville. But you didn't believe me. You didn't believe in me. That I can take care of you."
Giving him a slit-eyed glance, Lucy laid one hand atop the courtyard gate, preparing to open it. "I take care of myself."
Emile stared at her. She took care of herself. Once he had wanted to believe those words could be true. Then he wouldn't have the responsibility of her. But hearing her mouth such a sentiment now was like a sword going through him. He'd been trying. He'd been trying so hard.
"I see," he whispered, his throat feeling tight. Although the sun shone, he saw a winter-chill night. He saw Crockett make a point of throwing into the snow the food Emile had brought him.
Emile laid his hand over Lucy's, preventing her from opening the gate. Determined to push the vision of Crockett from his mind, he squeezed. "The bandits in the forest, the crowd at the tavern—was I not at least useful?"
Lucy managed to lift her chin even higher. "Aye, you are useful. The question is, are you constant?"
"Am I constant?" For how many days had he stayed with this woman—against his own desires but in order to protect her? With his jaw tight, he asked, "Are you mad?"
Her eyes widened. "How dare you ask me that, after you—after you—you only said 'now.'" She lifted her free hand and poked it into his chest. "Oh, no, Emile. I am certainly not mad enough to depend on you!"
They stared into each other's eyes. Emile's hand was laid over Lucy's on the gate, Lucy's finger was pressed against his chest. Her words rang in his ears. But the worst part was the way they clanged against the truth.
It would be mad to depend on him. True, he had stayed with Lucy for seven weeks now—longer than he had been with anyone since Crockett. But he could not deny the fervor with which he had plotted to desert her. He had indeed told her he was with her now alone. Nor could he deny how close he had come, just today, to being forced to decamp.
Deep down, he was a thorough knave.
He remembered a winter night, saw again the roast duck splashing into new snow, heard again the sound of Crockett condemning him. He had no worth. Less than none.
Emile slid his hand from Lucy's.
At the same time, Lucy lowered her finger from his chest. He did not know what she saw in his face, but her expression changed. From anger, she melted into remorse.
"No," she croaked. "That is not what I meant."
Taking a step back, he heard himself chuckle dryly. "I think it is exactly what you meant." If it wasn't, it should have been. He was a complete rogue, wasn't he?
She took a step toward him. "Emile, listen—"
"No, Lucy. Do not try to explain."
"But I must. You do not—"
"Oh, but I do. I do understand. Who could depend on me? What clever and virtuous woman would do anything so mad?" Even though it was all true, he felt a strange anger well up. He'd thought she cared for him anyway. He'd thought she accepted him, even trusted him. He'd thought all that might be his.
Her eyes glittered with some unknown emotion. "You are twisting my words."
"Oh, I do beg your pardon, but methinks that is precisely what you said." With a twisted smile, Emile held his arms to the sides. "And you are quite correct, too. God knows, I am hardly dependable. I am naught but a whoreson bastard, after all. Did your father tell you that? Quite literally, I am a whore's son bastard.
She shook her head wildly. "Emile—"
"No." He held up a hand. "You cannot change what you feel any more than I can change what I am." His anger was a blaze inside of him now as he let his arms drop. "You do not love me." Of course not. His throat threatened to close up on him. But he had so hoped she might!
Her face paled. "I never said that!"
Emile took one step back, and then another. Inside, he was a chaos of rage and helplessness. "Oh, but you will," he whispered. "Eventually, you will say exactly that."
He could not change who he was—not for Crockett, not for Lucy. No matter how much he might want to, he could not. With a dark wink, he turned and walked away.
~~~
The glass of the tavern's front window had become warm where Lucy's forehead rested against it. Her breath misted on the diamond windowpane. Of course, she could see nothing out on the street now that it was so late. All lanterns had been dimmed. But with her knees up and her hands clutched around her ankles, she stared outside anyway.
A sound on the stair whipped her head around. She let out a slow breath when she saw it was only Gawain, standing with one foot on the tavern floor, the other arrested on the step above.
Lucy pressed her lips together. "In sooth, he is going to be sorry when he comes home."
Slowly, Gawain finished coming down the stairs. "Oh, indeed." His voice was sympathetically stern. "And richly he will deserve any punishment he should receive."
By the red glow of the fire's embers, Lucy could not make out Gawain's expression, if it were pitying or sincerely indignant.
Before she could discover which, he said, "I will build up the fire in the kitchen before I go out...to gather more wood."
Was it so late, then? Almost morning?
"Very good," Lucy said, even as a chill struck her. Had Emile stayed out all night?
After Gawain had disappeared into the kitchen, she kept her head turned into the tavern room, away from the merciless window that refused to give her sight of her husband strolling home. She closed her eyes as her own foolish, ill-considered words came back to haunt her.
It would be mad to depend on you.
Lucy opened her eyes. Mouth set, she turned back to the street. Impossible to take those words back. Impossible to erase the expression of pain from Emile's face. She had hit precisely where she had known it would hurt the most.
Lucy squinted out at the dark smudge of street. The sky was beginning to lighten. Dawn was near.
Emile had indeed stayed out all night. Hours after their altercation on the street. Hours after he'd promised she would learn not to love him.
A spike turned inside her heart. Lucy pressed both palms together. She stared into the coming dawn. Only let him come home.
She would never do something so stupid, so ill-tempe
red, again.
Let him come home. She would shower him with love and affection.
Come home. She would become the sweetest—most obedient—wife the world had ever seen. Lucy pressed her palms together harder. She promised.
~~~
With his back molded to the trunk of a tree, Gawain held his breath as Moll swept past. The pale cloud of her skirt wove among the trees in the forest.
The corners of Gawain's lips pulled back into a fierce grin.
So far, Moll had successfully eluded Gawain's attempts to follow her on her morning trek. But she had not expected Gawain to steal ahead this morning, she had not anticipated he might lie in wait for her in the forest itself. He had had to wake before dawn and give Lucy a limp excuse in order to do it, but the effort was about to pay off.
Quiet as a wolf, Gawain came out from behind his tree. Silently, he stalked that pale cloud of skirt. For the first time in his volatile relationship with Moll, Gawain felt he had the advantage.
He was going to discover where the woman went every morning. He was going to discover the identity of her secret lover.
As they travelled, pursued and pursuer, moisture spilled in drops from the trees above. Gawain hissed a quiet blessing as one fat splash hit the back of his neck. He squinted into the trees and then breathed another blessing when he realized he'd lost sight of the pale skirt.
With no further concern for silence, Gawain plunged into the maze of trees. Stumbling over roots and kicking through vines, he made a desperate race for the last place he'd seen her. He had to discover Moll's lover. The secret was eating him alive.
A stone tripped Gawain, and he fell against the trunk of a fat oak tree. It was an accident that kept him from racing right past Moll, who crouched on the other side of the tree.
"I told you," she spat. In her hands she held a long-handled kitchen knife. She pointed it in Gawain's direction. "I told you to stay out of my affairs."
Slowly, Gawain rose. He looked at the knife before shifting his gaze to Moll. "And I told you I would not let you harm yourself in any way."
Moll's eyes spit fire while the tension ringing her mouth told a different story. She was frightened, Gawain realized.
Peering around her shoulder, he saw why. In a cleared meadow stood a modest farmhouse, smoke wisping from the chimney. He had found her little love nest.
Perfect Knave Page 23