Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “Think about it,” he entreated. “Please.”

  “I’ve thought about it.” Joanna stood and brushed off her skirt. “The answer is no.”

  Graeham grabbed her hand as she turned. “Mistress...”

  “Let go of me, serjant.” She tried to wrest her hand from his; he closed both hands around hers, immobilizing her.

  “I just want you to consider—”

  “Letting you use me? I’m sick to death of being manipulated by ambitious men. Let go of me!”

  He tightened his grip, implored her with his eyes to look at him. “I’m sorry I kept the truth from you,” he said, wishing he didn’t have so much to apologize to this woman about, but most of all wishing he didn’t have to continue deluding her.

  “I’m sure you’re sorry now,” she said, “knowing you can never regain my trust. ‘Twill make it that much harder for you to trick me into any more of your clever schemes.”

  Her hand felt silky within his, except for her slightly callused fingertips, and so very warm. He found himself caressing her palm, her fingers, seeking her heat and her irresistible womanly softness.

  “Please,” he murmured. “I need you.”

  She closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling more rapidly now, in time with his.

  “Don’t walk away from me,” he said softly. “I’ve made mistakes. Perhaps I’m still making them—I don’t know. I just...I feel desperate.”

  She opened her eyes, shook her head.

  “I need you,” he said earnestly.

  “I can’t—” Her voice snagged; she was shivering. “I can’t let this happen.” She met his gaze. “I can’t.”

  “Joanna...”

  “I can’t let you use me, serjant,” she said in a trembling voice. “Not for...I can’t. Please let go of my hand.”

  He hesitated, feeling his need grind away at him like an empty belly, never filled. Yes, he needed her, and not just because of Ada le Fever.

  “Please,” she said quietly. “Let me go.”

  He released her hand. She turned and walked into the salle. A moment later he heard her climb the ladder.

  He lay awake that night long past midnight, listening to the muted squeak of her bedropes above him as she tossed and turned, and wondering how everything had managed to get so complicated.

  Chapter 15

  Graeham watched Joanna through the rear window the next day as she labored over the weekly laundry under a sultry noon sun. She’d stripped the sheets off his cot as she did every Sunday morning, bundling them up with his shirts, braies and drawers, her shifts and the rest of the household linens. Hauling them to one of the two big wooden laundry troughs out back, she set them to soak in hot water, caustic soda and wood ashes while she attended Mass at St. Peter’s, on the corner of Wood and Newgate.

  Upon her return, she’d rolled up her sleeves, tied an apron around her hips, put another kettle on to boil, stretched a clothesline from the house to the kitchen, filled the second trough with hot water, and set herself to pounding, rinsing and hanging up the wash—a production that Graeham knew from having watched it three times before would occupy her at least through the early afternoon.

  Did she know he was watching her? Would she care anymore?

  She’d grown cool toward him. Graeham missed her smiles, her little nervous gestures, that heady awareness between them that always left him a little light-headed. He loved that feeling.

  He hated that feeling.

  So damned complicated. “Too damned complicated,” he whispered out loud, watching sweat bead up on Joanna’s face and chest, dampening the edges of the coverchief wrapped around her head and forming a dark patch between her breasts.

  She had on the violet kirtle today, the linen one that laced up snugly in back, conforming all too well to her high, round breasts and slender waist. Its neckline was deep and wide, extending to the curves of her shoulders and revealing the top of her sleeveless undershift, embroidered in white on white. As she bent over the trough, Graeham could see the sweat-sheened upper swells of her breasts. He imagined sliding a hand beneath the layers of linen to cup the damp flesh; it would fit warm and soft and perfect in his hand; her nipple would graze his palm right in the center, where it was ultrasensitive.

  Instantly aroused, Graeham closed his eyes and sank back onto his little pile of pillows to whisper his Latin drill. He had no business imagining such things about Joanna Chapman, especially in the absence of any outlet for his passions. She was unavailable to him. He would never have her.

  And it was for the best.

  In command once more of his unruly body, he picked up Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, found his place with that piece of string he wished he’d never laid eyes on, and read several pages without absorbing a single word.

  Giving up, he returned his attention to the window. Joanna pulled a sodden sheet from the rinsing trough, twisting and folding it to squeeze out the water. A tendril of bronze hair escaped her coverchief to curl rebelliously over her forehead; it looked so haphazardly pretty, Graeham had to smile.

  Behind her, walking up the alley from Milk Street—his expression lighting when he saw Joanna—was a young cleric.

  Or Graeham assumed he was a cleric until he got closer and it became evident that his tunic wasn’t black after all, but a very deep purple, and that his short, sandy hair was untonsured. Nor was he quite as young as he’d appeared at first glance.

  Pausing at the edge of the croft, he wiped his forehead on his sleeve and propped his hands on his hips to watch Joanna, standing with her back to him, wring out the damp sheet. He looked slightly amused and all too interested.

  Graeham’s hackles rose. Grabbing his crutch, he hauled himself to his feet just as the stranger said, “I thought Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest.”

  Joanna wheeled around, almost dropping the damp sheet. “Lord Robert!”

  She knew him. And he was a lord.

  Robert. She had mentioned that name once; it was when she brought the orange home from the Friday fair. Robert—Robert of Ramswick, a friend of Hugh’s—he gave it to me.

  “You look as if you could use some help, my lady.”

  My lady? Graeham sank back onto the cot, his gaze riveted on the couple in the croft.

  “Nay!” Joanna protested as Robert approached her, reaching for the sheet. “You’ll get that fine tunic wet.”

  “‘Twill cool me off—it’s hot as the devil today.” Robert took the sheet from her, shook it out, and slung it over the clothesline. “You ought not to do work like this, Lady Joanna,” he said as he adjusted the damp linen on the line and smoothed it down. “Why don’t you send your laundry out?”

  She dried her hands on her apron and tucked the stray hair back under the coverchief, to Graeham’s disappointment. “I can’t afford to send it out.”

  Graeham admired her candor. The tendril of hair popped out again; he smiled.

  Robert nodded, looking a little dismayed at the notion of “Lady Joanna” being too poor to afford a laundress.

  They regarded each other in ponderous silence.

  “Well,” she said.

  He squinted at the sun. “‘Tis a hot one.”

  “Would you like a drink of water?” she asked.

  He brightened. “Aye. Very much.”

  She fetched a ladle from the kitchen, filled it from the well and handed it to him. He drank it in one tilt, sighed and returned the ladle to her.

  “Some more?” she asked.

  “Nay. That was...fine. I’m...fine.” He nodded.

  She smiled tentatively.

  He returned the smile.

  Graeham clenched his jaw until his teeth throbbed.

  “My lady,” Robert began, taking a step toward her. “I...I’m not quite sure how to go about this. By rights, I should, well, I should speak to your father, negotiate this through him.”

  Joanna’s eyes widened. She glanced toward the window, meeting Graeham�
�s gaze for a mere instant before Robert took her hands, drawing her attention back to him.

  “But I know about your father,” Robert said, “about how things have been between you since...”

  “My lord...”

  “So I asked Hugh to take care of it, but of course, he just laughed at me. He told me I should speak to you directly, so...here I am. I suppose you already know what I want to—”

  “Not here,” she said.

  He looked toward the house. “Inside?”

  “Nay! Not in there. Let’s go for a walk.” Clearly flustered, she fumbled with the knot of her apron. Graeham sympathized with her plight; how could she let him overhear this fellow’s marriage proposal when she was supposed to be a widow? At the same time, something inside him was curling up in anguish. No! he wanted to scream. You can’t marry him! I won’t let you!

  Idiot! As if he could offer for her, would even want to offer for her, considering what he’d be giving up. He should be happy for her. It was a good match for her—superb.

  Be happy for her, he told himself as he watched her walk away with Lord Robert, rolling down her sleeves. He must forget what he wanted and couldn’t have, what he thought he needed but could live without. He must put aside his fevered dreams, his restless longings, disregard that void inside him that she could have filled, and find it within his heart to be happy for her.

  * * *

  Standing alongside Robert in a grassy field at the edge of the Walbrook, which flowed southward through the middle of the walled city, Joanna gazed downstream at three girls of about eight or nine cavorting in the shallow water. They giggled and shrieked as they chased and splashed each other, not caring that their humble kirtles were soaked through.

  “They’re trying to stay cool in the heat,” Joanna observed.

  “Gillian used to do that.” Robert’s smile was shaded with melancholy. “On hot days she would wade into the fish pond in naught but her shift. Her mother would scold her, but I always took her side. I used to do the same thing when I was her age.”

  Gillian had been only ten, and he’d adored her. He pulled her body from the river himself.

  “I’m sorry,” Joanna said, touching his arm. “It must have been...I’m sorry.”

  “I try not to think about it,” he said. “I’ll never get her back.”

  Curious, Joanna thought, that he said “her” and not “them.” But then, his marriage to Joan had been but a union of duty; Gillian had been his firstborn, his flesh and blood.

  “I’ve still got two other daughters to think about,” Robert continued. He took Joanna’s hand. “They need a mother, my lady.”

  They need a mother, not I need a wife.

  “I would be deeply honored,” he said, “if you would consent to marry me.”

  She took a breath. “‘Tis I who am honored, my lord—especially considering...that our stations have grown apart in recent years.”

  “That means naught to me. You’re a lady in every way that counts—more so than those silly young girls my parents have been trotting out.”

  “Ah. Prospective brides?”

  He nodded ruefully. “And not one over fourteen, nor with a whit of sense. I have no intention of giving my children over to the care of another child.”

  Quietly she said, “What of the lady Margaret?”

  He released her hand. “What of her?”

  Choosing her words carefully, Joanna said, “She’s wonderful with your daughters, and they’re obviously very attached to her.”

  Robert shifted his gaze to the three girls romping in the stream. “She’s always loved children.”

  “I was wondering, if you do remarry...if we were to marry...” Joanna hesitated, then forged ahead. “Would Margaret remain at Ramswick?”

  He looked sharply at her. “Nay. ‘Twouldn’t be...” Clearly unsettled, he looked away. “‘Twouldn’t be necessary, for one thing.” ‘Twouldn’t be right. Joanna suspected that’s what he’d been about to say. “The girls would have you to provide for them as a mother would. They wouldn’t need Margaret.”

  “Will she return to her family, then?”

  He shook his head, gazing across at tiny St. Stephen’s Church, built right on the bank of the stream. “We’ve discussed it, she and I. When I marry, she’ll take holy vows.”

  “She’s going to become a nun?”

  He nodded without looking at her; a muscle tensed in his jaw. “A teaching nun, so she can be with children.”

  “I...didn’t realize she was that pious.”

  Robert didn’t answer that, nor did he look at her.

  “Catherine and Beatrix will miss her,” Joanna said.

  “Children adapt—better than we do.” Smiling in a way that looked forced, he took her hand again. “You’re a good woman, Lady Joanna, and I would like you to marry me. I’ll be the best husband to you I can be. I’d never...” He paused, seemingly discomfited. “Hugh told me about your husband. I would never treat you like that.”

  “I know that. ‘Tisn’t in you.”

  “You needn’t give me your answer today,” he said. “I know there’s much to think about. You’ll be uniting yourself not just with me, but with my children—and with Ramswick as well. ‘Tis a farming manor, and I tend to get the earth under my fingernails. I dress in braies and russet shirts, like my villeins, and I’m afraid there’s always a bit of manure on me somewhere.”

  She laughed; it sounded like heaven after Prewitt. “I wouldn’t try to change you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  Perhaps, she reflected, that was one reason he’d chosen her over the vacuous young girls his mother and father had tried to betroth him to. Not that his parents didn’t still wield a powerful influence over him, for it was because of them that he continued to forsake Margaret, but at least he’d decided to select his own bride this time.

  He took her other hand and faced her squarely. “May I kiss you?”

  “Aye.”

  Leaning down, he pressed his lips lightly near the edge of her mouth, but not actually touching it. She felt a little ticklish warmth, the light scrape of his jaw against hers, and nothing else. Her heart didn’t speed, her breath didn’t quicken. She didn’t want more.

  Graeham Fox didn’t even have to touch her to make her hunger for more. She had but to stand near him, and the very air between them crackled, like the atmosphere before a violent storm. The few times they’d been in physical contact, she’d felt the lightning charge of his touch right down into her deepest, most hidden places. When he looked at her, her skin prickled hot beneath her clothes.

  Robert of Ramswick, handsome though he was, and noble of character, did not have the power to make her quiver with longing. Could she learn to love him? Possibly; she liked him immensely. At the very least, she would grow quite fond of him. How could she not? He was as nearly perfect a man as she’d ever known.

  Robert would never use or exploit her—except as a substitute mother for his children, and he’d been frank about that from the beginning. And she couldn’t imagine his ever bringing another woman into their home. He was incapable of such base behavior. She would never have to bear that pain again.

  “I’m bringing the girls into the city on St. John’s Eve to see the Midsummer Watch,” he said. “That’s the four-and-twentieth day of June, ten days from now. Is that enough time for you to make up your mind, do you think?”

  “Aye—you’ll have your answer then.”

  He smiled. “You’ll join us for the festivities, won’t you? You and Hugh?”

  “Aye, I’d like that.”

  “Shall we meet at nones at the cross in front of St. Michael la Querne?”

  “We’ll be there.”

  Chapter 16

  “I’m going marketing,” Joanna told Graeham the next morning, a bald lie. If he can lie straight-face to me, I can do the same, she rationalized, but lying always had made her queasy.

&n
bsp; “What about the shop?” he asked, wiping his razor on his wash rag. It was beyond her how he managed to look so devilishly handsome with his face half-covered with soap lather.

  “I’ll just open it a little later than usual. I don’t get that many customers this early in the morning. As a matter of fact,” she added, fiddling nervously with the handle of her marketing basket, “now that money’s not such a problem, I thought I’d start opening it later every day so that I’d have more time beforehand for my chores and errands.”

  “Makes sense.” He hunkered down to peer into the little propped-up looking glass, raised his chin and skimmed the blade over his throat.

  “Just so you know where I am,” she said, backing out of the storeroom. Shut up, you dunderhead. Just shut up and leave.

  He looked at her without pausing in his shaving, holding her gaze for a moment that seemed just a hair too long. “Thank you.”

  Leaving by the back door, she detoured to the kitchen, in front of which Thomas Harper sat, his empty bowl in his lap, having finished the porridge she’d poured for him earlier.

  “More porridge, Thomas?”

  “Nay, mistress.” He patted his stomach. “‘Twas quite enough. I’m just resting here for a while before I have to get up and start trekking about.”

  “Sit there as long as you like,” she said, ducking into the kitchen. People like Thomas didn’t have too many places to sit, because no one wanted to touch anything that had been touched by a leper, so Joanna had set a barrel out in front of the kitchen that could be his alone. She kept a bucket of fresh water next to it, which Thomas used for drinking and washing.

  In the cool, dim stone kitchen hut Joanna wrapped a hunk of rye bread and a piece of cheese in waxed linen and set them in the bottom of her basket. Ladling some porridge into a small iron pot with a tight-fitting lid, she tucked it in next to the other food. She filled a goatskin flask with well water and put that in, covering the contents of the basket with a napkin.