By Design

“
DON'T YOU KISS BACK, JOAN
?”

SHE FELT HER FACE BURN. “Nay.”

“Never?”

“Nay.” She wished that did not sound so selfish. Her gaze lowered to where her hands splayed over his bronze chest. “I have never wanted to.”

He lifted her chin so that she had to look at his face again. His expression took her breath away. Intense and knowing. Hard and soft and warm, just like his body. “That is not true. You want to now.”

Maybe she did. Maybe that was what entranced her. She certainly did not want to run away.

Gentle pressure on her head. A strong arm guiding her. Not to his mouth. Lower, until her lips rested on his chest, above her palms.

The slight taste, the scent, made her thoughts blur. All of her senses filled with him. She did not really decide, it just happened. She kissed, and moved her lips and kissed again. A rich pleasure began beating through her like a rapid breath. She moved her hand and kissed again.

A
LSO BY
M
ADELINE
H
UNTER

By Arrangement

By Possession

The Protector

Lord of a Thousand Nights

Stealing Heaven

AND HER NEW SERIES

The Seducer

The Saint

The Charmer

The Sinner

AVAILABLE FROM BANTAM BOOKS

FOR WARREN,

WHO STILL BRINGS ME FLOWERS.

C
HAPTER
1

S
HE LOOKED LIKE A STATUE
of calm dignity placed in a sea of vulgar chaos.

The market roared and splashed all around her motionless body. Peddlers of skins and barrels, of pigs and fish, crowded the small space that she had claimed for her wares. Her ragged gown, of a pale silver hue and displaying remnants of elegant needlework, contrasted starkly with the practical browns and flamboyant colors filling the square. Along with her blond crown and braid, the gown created a column of light tones in a very mottled world. She was all gentle fairness, except for her skin. Bronzed from the sun, it possessed a golden sheen that brightened her blue eyes.

It was the respite of pale serenity that first caught Rhys's attention as he walked through the market in front of the Cathedral. Then the unveiled hair. And the eyes. He had already slowed to see her face more clearly before he noticed her wares.

She did not hawk them. She stood silently behind the
crude, upturned wooden box that showed what she sold. Her delicate face remained impassive, as if she did not notice the bodies jostling by, sometimes pressing her—sometimes deliberately. He was not the only man to notice that this tattered dove was very pretty.

He did not recognize her. Most of the vendors were old faces, seen here regularly. She was an alien most likely, and not from the city. She had come for the day to make a few coins.

He felt a little sorry for her. Despite her rigid poise, she struck him as vulnerable, in danger of being broken. He doubted that she was doing well. The box was low, no higher than her knees, and the wares were almost invisible. He had to stroll very near in order to inspect the items set out on it.

Crockery. He had no interest in such things, but he did have an interest in her. He casually lifted the closest cup and a spark of hope lit her cool gaze.

The cup was simple but well made. Surprisingly, it was not ordinary sunbaked terra-cotta. It had been fired, and its shine indicated that it had been glazed.

“The walls are very thin. Do you have a potter's wheel?” he asked while he examined it. And her. She really was very pretty, but up close he could read fatigue in her lax expression, and discouragement in her blue eyes.

“Nay. I just used coils.”

“With great care, though. The shape is very regular.”

His interest attracted others, as was the way with markets. A stout woman, a wealthy merchant's wife from her dress, paused and peered down critically. Something caught her eye. Poking her chubby hand amidst the cups, she lifted a small figure.

He had been so distracted by the potter that he had not noticed the little statues. The merchant's wife held a standing Virgin, maybe a hand's span tall. It had been carefully
modeled with swelling drapes, and painstakingly painted with colored glazes.

The woman examined the little figure, running her fingers along the face and back, holding it upright to judge its look. Rhys made his own inspection alongside.

“How much?” the woman asked, sharp-eyed and ready to bargain hard.

“Eight pence.”

“Eight pence!”

“Five, then.”

The woman groaned and sighed and dawdled and debated. Finally the five pence emerged from her purse.

The potter seemed well pleased.

Rhys dipped into the wares, moving some aside. Two other statues were there. A Saint Agnes with her lamb, and a Saint Catherine with her wheel. She might have just repeated the figure and changed the attribute, but she had not done so. Each was unique in pose, and very realistic.

“Do you seek to buy something?”

Her voice had a little edge to it. Her blue eyes regarded him skeptically.

He knew what that look revealed. He had not been the first man to loiter around, pretending to be interested in crockery.

“You craft the statues, too?”

“When I have the time, and the clay.”

“They are all fired.”

“I know a tiler who lets me use his kiln.”

He lifted the Saint Agnes. “What are they for?”

That flustered her. “They are statues.”

“Aye, but what is their purpose? The cups and bowls have a purpose. Everyone needs them. What is this saint for?”

“Devotion.”

“There are churches for that, with much larger statues.”

“Some people might like to have one in their homes,” she said defensively.

“Have you sold many?”

She grimaced, conceding the point. “At most one a day when I come to market.”

“Then you should charge more than five pence.”

She rolled her eyes. “If I sell only one at five pence, I will sell none higher.”

“You will sell just as many, but receive what they are worth, and they will be more valued by those who buy them. These are not practical things. Most will give you nothing, but those who will pay five pence will pay a shilling.” To prove it, he fingered a shilling out of his purse and placed it on the box.

She eyed the coin hungrily, then glanced at him, suspicious again.

Her caution did not insult him. A pretty thing like her, alone in the marketplace, probably received a lot of propositions. “For the statue only. But I must warn you. I am a freemason, and I may steal the pose for a stone saint someday.”

Her gaze raked him with a quick assessment. He knew what she thought. He did not look like a mason today. His dress was too fine for work. A man did not wield a chisel and hammer in a long tunic and tall boots.

Rhys drifted away, carrying Saint Agnes. He looked down at the little figure and laughed at himself. A man who could make stone statues hardly needed to purchase clay ones.

He supposed he had bought it as a form of praise, from one craftsman to another. And as a type of flattery, from a man to a woman. There had been a bit of pity to it, too. He liked the idea that he had made the day a success for her.

He laughed again. A shilling for ten minutes with a pretty woman. Still, even without the statue, he would not have felt cheated.

He ambled across the square to a busy tavern. Ducking below the low swinging sign, he entered its shadowed, cool depths.

He purchased two ales and took them to the table near the unshuttered window. It was hotter here, but he could admire the statue in the light. He placed it on the rough planks, and edged it around with nudges of his fingertips. She really was very skilled.

He looked out the window. As the crowd flowed he caught glimpses of her. That gown looked very sad. A lady's old finery, probably bought thirdhand. Maybe the bits of embroidery had not been so frayed when she got it.

A thick body slid across the window opening, blocking his view. A face peered in. A blond beard lowered in gape-mouthed surprise to find him looking straight back from a handspan away. The man glanced over his shoulder, then hustled in the door.

He came over frowning, sat on the opposite bench, and shifted it back so his head was not at the window. “What are you thinking of? The whole city can see us here.”

“If they do, they see a builder and a bishop's clerk sharing a table at a crowded tavern. Drink your ale, John, and no one will think twice of our company.”

John wiped his brow with his sleeve. “I had to wait for you a long time. The sun has been roasting me.”

“You are fortunate that I came at all, since I know what you want and have no interest in hearing it. And I am late because I have been at Westminster, awaiting an audience with the Queen. She wants to talk about adding to one of her manor houses, and has had me cooling my heels all
day. Let us be quick with this, since I must go back and wait some more.”

John's face fell. “A manor house? You can not think to leave London, surely.”

“I can, and I will if there is work to be had elsewhere.”

“But the plans… your reports…”

“I have nothing to report, not that I agreed to provide such things. But you can tell Bishop Stratford that I have heard nothing. No gossip. No worry. Nothing. As to the plans, I doubt that there are any worth supporting. There are only frightened men talking and hoping, which is something of a relief. The last plan was poorly conceived and ill executed, and it was only by God's grace that my role in it was not discovered.”