By Design (13 page)

Rhys felt as though a rope had just been slipped around his neck, and that Mortimer had begun to haul him toward a chasm.

“Wouldn't the King prefer to choose the builder on his own? That is customary.”

“He is too young to know of such things. One builder is the same to him. It will take some time, I think, to build that wall. A good long time, when you will be in the chambers often, doing your craft.”

Aye, often. Frequently enough to become invisible. Seeing who came and went, and hearing the odd word or two that might reveal much more than intended.

And Mortimer would be waiting for all of it. It would become very hard to put him off with little bits of nothing.

He faced another dance now. He might enjoy the one of desire that filled his nights, but he would hate the one of survival that would mark his days.

The burden of that turned his mood surly as he rode back to the house. He wanted no part of this. He had pulled away from politics and intrigues after the rebellion, but like a fool he had let John and others lure him back to help with the ill-fated revolt against Mortimer two years ago. That disaster had thoroughly resolved his disillusionment. The failure of the barons to support Lancaster and Stratford had proven without a doubt that he could not change much in the world, since the most powerful men shifted their loyalties as it suited their gain.

He did not want to be listening for Stratford, and he sure as hell did not want to do it for Mortimer. He desired
only to be left in peace to practice his craft. He wanted to walk the city lanes without looking over his shoulder, and when he reached his home every night he wanted to make love to a pretty tiler with sun-bronzed skin and silken hair and an indomitable spirit.

A spirit that he felt even as he put the horse in the stable and crossed the garden. A spirit that, in his dark mood, struck him as a distracting challenge as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen.

Joan noticed him at once. She was bent over a pot in the hearth and could not see him, but with his footfall she shifted ever so slightly, as if to make room for his presence.

A subtle retreat. The announcement of a boundary. The first step in the dance.

Usually he found her art at the game intriguing.

Tonight it raised the devil in him.

She always knew when he had returned to the house. Even when he came in the front way and she did not hear him, she felt his arrival. This house might be too wide for one person, but as far as she was concerned he filled it very completely.

And so she knew he was at the stable before she heard the sounds there. Sensed him walk toward her through the garden even though she did not turn to look. Felt him at the threshold as surely as if he had touched her shoulder.

It was always thus, and it badly unsettled her, but this evening that presence seemed stronger and less benign than usual.

“Where is Mark?” he asked. “He did not come to care for the horse.”

“I'm sorry, I had forgotten that you took the horse. He met a new friend today. A mercer's apprentice. He is eating supper there.”

He walked across the kitchen toward the hall. She kept her nose to her stirring and instinctively eased to one side to give him more room to pass.

His steps paused. “Stop doing that. You insult me with it, as if you think if I get within ten paces of you I will pin you against the wall and ravish you.”

“I do not—”

“The hell you don't.” He strode out. She listened to him go up to the solar.

Goodness, but his mood was stormy. She wished she had not relented to Mark's request to eat with his friend.

Rhys came back down, and Joan quickly spooned out the soup and carried the bowls into the hall. He stood there drinking the ale that she set had out to wait for him. He had removed his hide tunic and thrown on a sleeveless cloth one instead.

He watched her every move as she set down the soup and walked back to the kitchen for the bread and cheese.

Aye, she should have never let Mark eat elsewhere. This big house suddenly struck her as far too small. Forcing down a peculiar wariness, she carried in the food and took her place.

He sat at the end of the table as always. She tried to edge away a bit without being obvious. It didn't help much. It was just the two of them, knees almost touching, close together. Much closer it seemed than when Mark joined them.

She kept her eyes on her soup and tried to ignore the sense that she sat beside a rumbling storm cloud.

“I have grown fond of your brother, but I am glad that he eats elsewhere tonight,” he finally said. “You tote him around with you in the evening hours and make sure he is always by your side. It is pleasant to take a meal with you like this, without your human shield between us.”

She had not thought her use of Mark had been as obvious as that.

“The floor upstairs is wet,” he said. “It often is in places, but not like today.”

“It was damp today because of the rain, so it did not dry very fast.”

“You do not have to scrub all of the floors every day. It is excessive.”

“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.

C
HAPTER
9

V
ENDORS 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 tell 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.”