By Possession (23 page)

“Will you do it?” Thomas Wake asked.

“I will consider it.”

“When will you know? Michael must leave in three days.”

He would give Edward whatever time was left. “I will let you know before then.”

Michael looked dissatisfied with that. Out of the corner of his eye, Addis saw the nameless man rise casually and meander away toward the kitchen.

“Who is he?” he asked Thomas Wake, gesturing to the now empty stool.

“His name is Rhys. A London citizen. He knows the lanes well and moves us about at night. The mayor is with us, but we do not know all the constables and he can get us here and there without torches and such.”

“He has proven helpful in other ways,” Sir Peter added. “He works at Westminster and he has a way of hearing things while going about his craft. There are those who don't notice servants and such and things get said. He heard the king himself swear to kill Isabelle when first he sees her again. Carries a knife in his boot just for that.”

Addis twisted a look at the closed door where Rhys had gamely pursued Moira. “He is a craftsman?”

“He works on the fabric of the new chambers at Westminster. Serves the master builder and does the window tracery.”

Serves the master builder. Carves the window tracery. Addis twisted and glared at the door again.

Damn. The man was a freemason.

Moira contemplated half of a meat pie left from supper, wondering if there was some way to cut it into seven pieces without having the offering look too poor. It was embarrassing to have knights and barons arrive at the house and have nothing with which to show hospitality.

“Is your well water good?” a voice asked. “I have had enough ale for the day.”

She looked up into the blue eyes and friendly smile of the man who had barged through the gate. She bent for a bucket. “Aye, it is good. I will get some for you.”

He took the bucket from her hands with a questioning look. She pointed to the door leading to the garden and returned to her deliberation of the pie.

“You are a kind mistress to let your servant sleep and do her work for her,” he said when he returned. On his own he found a crockery cup and dipped out the water.

“You misunderstand. I too am a servant.”

He propped himself on a stool, as if he planned to stay awhile. He examined her with curious eyes and she wondered how she could ever explain the peculiar, confused life that had brought her here as a bondwoman but also given her the manner that made him think her mistress of the house.

“My name is Rhys. What is yours?”

“Moira.”

“You are new to London.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“I live in this ward. I have not seen you before.”

“I go out to market, little else. I do not like your city much, Master Rhys.” She had no idea if he was a master, but counted on his correcting her if he was not. He looked old enough for it, close to thirty years old.

“It is big and noisy, but full of interesting things. With time maybe it will not frighten you and you can enjoy its pleasures.”

“I do not think that I will have time for that. It is only me and two old servants here, and there is much work to do.” She considered the pie, and then the nice man keeping her company. “Would you like some? There is not enough for everyone.”

“Thank you.”

She cut a large slice and handed it to him. “You could have just asked entry tonight. You did not have to push your way in.”

“I did not want to be seen at the gate overlong. I am sure that Sir Addis will explain to you later that this visit never happened and that those men were never here.” He smiled charmingly. A nice-looking man, she decided, with shoulders and a chest that spoke of physical labor. While he held her she had felt the strength in him. Not a merchant then.

“This house had been all but empty for several years,” he said, glancing around. “There have been those in the ward who sought to buy it, but the old man here said it couldn't be sold.”

“It was neglected. Addis was gone on the Baltic crusade, you see, and then …” She halted and flushed. Rhys had blinked a subtle acknowledgment that she had
not referred to Addis as “my lord” or “Sir Addis,” but in a familiar way. “I have known him since I was a little girl,” she added too quickly.

He rose and came over to her. “Can I have more of the pie? It is very good.”

She gave him another slice, grateful that he had cut off the prattling, confused excuses and explanation that had wanted to tumble out of her mouth.

“If you live in this ward, you must know the tradesmen here,” she said, moving to a stool near his.

“Almost all of them.”

“Then perhaps you can advise me. The stones in the wall and hearth need work, and the stable requires a whole new roof. Can you give me some names of men who would do this for us?”

“Wood is expensive. Probably better to secure the frame and then thatch the roof. I know some boys who will do it for you. As for the wall, it will take a mason. That is my craft, as it happens.”

A mason. “If you move with such men as are in the hall, you must be very established. Such simple work as this …”

“I am established enough, and employed right now at Westminster. But in the evening I have some time before it turns dark. I will come tomorrow and see what needs to be done.” He swallowed the last of the pie. “If Sir Addis only has you and two old servants, he must be short of coin. But a house such as this should not be left in ruin. Tell him that I will do it for supper. Someone here is a good cook.”

“And your wife is not? She will not appreciate your staying away because our meat pies are better.”

He smiled and brushed his hands, then rose. A nice-looking, soft-spoken man. “I have no wife, and I tire of eating in taverns. I will come tomorrow.”

He began to leave but Addis entered first. He appraised Rhys and the mason returned his own measuring examination. A strange silence pulsed that made Moira feel a little ridiculous.

“They are ready to go,” Addis said.

Rhys moved to the door, then hesitated at the threshold. “Sir Addis, a small retinue arrived this day at Westminster. White and scarlet banner, with a gold falcon. I was told it was led by one Simon of Barrowburgh.”

“How large a retinue?”

“Only four knights that I saw. No doubt they came for the tournament.”

“No doubt. Did one of the knights have red hair?”

“Like flames.”

“I thank you for telling me this.”

Rhys shrugged, flashed a warm smile at Moira, and walked out with Addis in his wake.

Addis saw his visitors off and then returned to the kitchen. Moira was wiping the cups and pretended not to notice him.

“Does he know who you are?” he finally asked.

“He asked my name and he knows that I am a servant here.”

“Does he know that you are mine?”

She carried the cups over to the wall shelf. “He will fix the wall and hearth and asks only supper in return.”

“Very generous for a freemason who already assists master builders.”

“Aye, it is generous.”

“You will tell him that I do not need his services.”

She faced him across the kitchen, her back against the wall. “You do need his services. The stones are half down and anyone can enter. If those men came to discuss what I
think they did, you may well need a strong high wall around this property. If Simon followed you here, you most certainly do. I can clean stables and patch plaster, but I cannot mortar stone.”

Three strides brought him over to her. “You will tell him who you are.”

She glared a challenge up at him. “I will tell him that I am a bondwoman, if that is what you mean. He already thinks so anyway, since I am not of London.”

He pressed a hand against the wall near her head and hovered closer, his face a hand span from hers. Something flickered in her eyes. Alertness to their proximity. Fear of it. After seeing her smiling at that mason he didn't give a damn.

“You will tell him that you are
mine
. ”

“I will not. It is not so.”

“It
is
so.” His other hand braced the wall so that he entrapped her. No part of their bodies touched but her warmth easily filled the tiny space between them, alerting his skin, summoning responses that he barely kept in check even without this closeness.

He looked down at her, forcing her gaze to meet his. The interest shown by the mason had provoked a primitive possessiveness and he let her see it. She returned his stare belligerently, as if she dared him to try and make her submit. It inflamed his body and blood with a furious desire and he held on to his control by only a single, thin thread.

Her expression changed, softening. A vague tremor wobbled through her. She suddenly looked fragile and vulnerable. He sensed her own arousal, and her fear of it. It only made him want her more.

“Do you think that I will stand aside and let some man woo you?”

“You speak nonsense. He only wanted some water.”

“He watched your every move. He has already found a way to come back.”

“Even if you are correct, you have no right to interfere.”

“I have every right.”

“You do not!”

He couldn't help himself. He dipped and his lips brushed hers. A gentle caress, no more, but his whole body yelled an affirmation that staggered him. The need to clarify his possession ripped with a slashing determination. “I have every right. You are mine. Your passion is mine. Do you think my forbearance has meant it is not? I only wait for you to accept it.”

“Nay.”

“Nay? Let us test the truth of that. Let us see how indifferent proud Moira has become.”

He kissed her again, tasting and biting and urging her open. She tried to twist away and he held her head in both hands so she could not. Something broke in her, as if a rod of resolve had snapped. With an anguished sound of dying protest she accepted him, parting her lips.

He probed her soft mouth and pulled her to him and clung to her soothing warmth. A submerging flood of needs rolled through him. He cupped his hands over the curves of her buttocks and pulled her against his swollen phallus and took her mouth again in unrestrained exploration.

“Please do not …”

Her whispered protest sighed between the gasping breaths of their fevered kisses. Her passion joined his even while her words denied him, and his hunger ignored the little plea. Holding her limp body in one arm he sought the full softness of her breasts with his hand. Hard peaks pressed his palm. He circled gently and her hips flexed against him. His arousal roared at the familiar rhythm.

Little thought now, and no constraint. He bent and grazed a nipple with his teeth. Her whole body, whole being, stretched in response. His mouth wet the cloth until it adhered to her, a thin obstruction through which he sucked until her lovely low moans sang.

He carried her to the table and sat her on its edge. Her head lolled against his chest while he unlaced the gown's back. Fire glow gleamed off her skin as the fabric fell down to her waist. He pushed her hair back and looked at her.

Beautiful. Lovely. Skin taut over shoulders and inviting breasts. Passion made those clear eyes sparkle with incredible lights. He slid his hands up her dangling legs, bringing the skirt high, and caressed the softness of her exposed thighs. He brushed the curls of her mound and pictured her lying back on this table in the dancing firelight. Bending those knees to accept his body. Clinging to him in pleasure as she had in Whitly, only with him buried inside her.

Accepting him, all of him, and the union still left incomplete by her pride. Wholly his.

He held her breasts and flicked caresses with his thumbs until she closed her eyes and bit her lip against the sensations.

He bowed her back and teased with his tongue while his hand sought her thighs again.

He began easing her down, lifting the skirt yet higher.

She resisted, grabbing on to his arms.

“Then come up to bed, or into the garden.”

She looked up with parted lips and blurring eyes, the image of a woman entranced. Even so, she shook her head.

“Did that merchant leave you in fear of it? There is pleasure in the joining too, Moira. I will not hurt you.”

Her forehead sank against his chest and he held her
with one arm while he caressed close to her intimate warmth with the other hand. Wetness touched his fingers and the scent of it drifted around them like a musky fog.

“It is not that. You know it. Do not pretend that you do not,” she muttered with a wavering voice. “You said in Whitly that you do not seek to seduce me against my will, but you do so now.”

He heard her accusation and admitted its truth, but a part of him angered and darkened at this denial. He wanted her to the point of madness and yet even when besotted with pleasure she held to her damn pride. The hunger coiled dangerously inside him. He stroked the cleft of her mound.

Despite her sharp inhale, her hand stopped his and tried to pushed it away. He pressed his lips to the top of her head and felt her quick heart against his chest. He kept his hand to her, gently exploring and probing the soft folds. Shivers of pleasure spread through her with his touch.

She really could not stop him unless he let her. Afterward she would see the rightness of it. Of them together. She belonged to him, after all. By the time he was done she would not call it force, or even seduction.

His better half reasserted itself, aghast at the path he justified. An ancient one, well trod over the ages by lords and their bondwomen. This was Moira, not some serving wench of no account.

If you do it this way, you will never really have her.

He resented that voice of reason. He glared at the arms strained against him with their weak resistance. He suddenly hated the births and blood and pride and realities that kept them apart. He could sweep them all away and make a new reality. She could not stop him and didn't really want to. She would accept it.

Two minds and two souls battled inside him, and the
urge to own and possess and hold her forever began to win.

She lifted her head and moist, clear eyes looked right into his. A regretful, quavering smile turned up her mouth with an expression that said she had no concerns about which way he would go. Her trust reminded him forcefully of who she was, and what she meant to him, and what he really wanted from her. The danger began uncoiling.