Silken Threads (19 page)

Could life be made tolerable if they
continued living together? Perhaps. After all, he would be abroad
more often than not. But his visits home would be unendurable.

The sobering truth was that many women were
forced to endure the unendurable when it came to marriage. No
wonder so many widows had an air of contentment about them. If men
knew how attractive many of their wives found the prospect of life
without them, they might become nervous.

Joanna smiled at the crucifix above the
altar as a possibility began forming in her mind. More than a
possibility
—
a resolve. Whispering a quick prayer of thanks
for the Lord’s guidance, she left the church, finding that night
had fallen. Mindful of her newfound resolve, when she came upon a
cutler’s shop in East Cheap, she spent all the money in her purse
on a dagger in a tooled scabbard, which she hung on her girdle.

On arriving home, she discovered Prewitt
sitting at the table in the salle in his shirtsleeves, his back to
her, a ewer of wine in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder.
“It’s past suppertime. Where have you been?”

Joanna fisted her hands in the skirt of her
kirtle. “Is she gone?”

“Aye.” He lifted his legs over the bench and
sat facing her. Those striking brown eyes that had always
captivated her so now lit with malicious humor. “But before she
left, I worked up quite an appetite.” Nodding toward the capon on
the table behind him, he said, “Cook that, and be quick about
it.”

In the beginning, Prewitt had been adoring,
almost worshipful; then apathetic. This new, brazen hostility made
her scalp tickle with foreboding.

Licking her dry lips, Joanna said, “When you
proposed to me, you swore you’d always be faithful.”

Prewitt smiled as if at a dim-witted child
and swallowed down some of his wine. “I tend to spout all manner of
mawkish drivel when I’m in the throes of passion.”

“You never felt passion for me.”

Lounging back against the table, he said
wearily, “Men aren’t subject to the same sorts of romantic
infatuations as women. We have drives that are altogether
more...elementary. If you weren’t so young and pampered and
witless, you’d know that.”

Joanna had never felt the sixteen-year
difference in their ages more keenly, for if he thought of her as a
witless child, it was only because she’d behaved like
one
—
until now. She forced herself to walk right up to him,
chin high. “You didn’t marry me to serve any drive other than your
cold ambition. I’m not so witless that I haven’t figured that
out.”

He reached behind him for the ewer and
poured some more wine into his cup. “Are we going to have supper or
not?”

Joanna drew in a steadying breath. “I’m not
going to make supper for you anymore, Prewitt. Or breakfast or
dinner.”

His eyes widened. “You damn well will.”

“And you can’t sleep with me in the solar
anymore,” she added, struggling to keep her voice even. “From now
on, you’ll sleep in the storeroom.”

“The
storeroom.
” He laughed harshly;
there was a hysterical edge to it. “You insolent little bitch. Who
do you think you are, ordering me out of my own bedchamber?”

“It’s my bedchamber,” she said quietly,
cursing the strain in her voice. “This house belongs to me.”

“You’re my wife,” he gritted out between his
teeth, the wine cup trembling in his hand. “You belong to me.
You’re required by law to bend to my will. I damn well will sleep
in the solar if I’m so inclined. And I will fuck you morning, noon
and night if I’m so inclined. And in between, if I choose to fuck
someone else, I will fuck her when and where I please, and you have
naught to say about it.”

“This is my house,” Joanna repeated
shakily.

“Over which I exercise complete authority.
If I decide to oust you from here and keep it for myself, I can. Or
perhaps I won’t keep it. Perhaps I’ll rent it out instead.” He
raised the cup to his lips again, looking around the salle as if
appraising it. “After all, I spend most of my time
abroad
—
what need have I of a house like this? Or even the
shop
—
I can sell my silks out of the market hall, as I did
before. I’d make quite a tidy profit. Don’t know why I haven’t
thought of it before.”

“Because it isn’t your house to rent out.”
She took another bold step toward him. “It’s mine. You have some
control over it, but you’re not allowed to dispose of it without my
consent, and you can’t make me leave here, either
—
Hugh
told me so.”

“Husbands dispose of their wives’ property
all the time without their consent.”

“Aye, but if the husband dies, the wife can
get her property back. It’s the law.”

“I’m young and healthy.”

With a feigned display of composure, she
said, “Young, healthy men have mishaps all the time.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Perhaps I would.”

“You goddamned spoiled little bitch.”
Prewitt flung his cup aside, wine spraying into the rushes. He
seized her by the waist, slammed her to her knees in front of him.
“How dare you?”

Joanna’s head whipped to the side as he
slapped her. Her cheek burned.
Don’t cry. Keep your head.
She tried to get up, but he dug his hands into her shoulders to
immobilize her. His legs pressed against her on either side; she
felt trapped.

“You think you’re still Lady Joanna of
Wexford, don’t you, you coddled, impudent
—
”

“Let go of me.” She tried to pull his hands
off her shoulders, but he was too strong.

“Well, you’re mine now, milady.” Prewitt
tore her veil off and grabbed a fistful of her loosened hair.
“Mine.”
He squeezed her breast hard; she cried out.

Still clutching her painfully by her hair,
he pulled his shirt up and started untying the drawstring of his
silken chausses, snug over his erection. Joanna knew what he
wanted. She’d done this for him before, at his insistence, not
particularly enjoying it, but considering it an act of love.

This would be no act of love.

“You’re mine to do with as I please,” he
said breathlessly, drawing her head down toward his lap. Joanna
smelled Halfrida’s musky scent on him, and the bile rose in her
throat. “And right now,” he said, “it pleases me to give you
something better to do with your mouth than threaten me.”

Joanna slid her new dagger out of its sheath
and aimed it at her husband’s groin. “Take your hands off me,
Prewitt.” Meeting his astonished gaze, she added, “You wouldn’t
want a mishap.”

He released her and sat back, eyeing the
steel blade with wide-eyed outrage, his erection rapidly waning.
“Where the bloody hell did you get that? Get it away from
there!”

“As you wish.” Joanna rose to her feet,
removing the blade from his groin and resting its tip lightly
against his throat. She leaned in just a bit, forcing him to bend
backward over the table. “The more I think about widowhood,” she
said conversationally, “the more I like the idea of it.”

His eyes rolled white, like those of a
spooked horse. Suddenly his expression transformed, rage sweeping
in like a storm cloud to banish his fear. “You bitch.”

He rammed a fist into her belly, dropping
her to the floor. The dagger flew from her hand. For a panicky
moment she couldn’t breathe, but then her wind
—
and her
resolve
—
returned. Fighting pain and nausea, she fumbled in
the rushes and found the dagger. She scrambled to her feet,
gasping, her hair in her face, one arm wrapped around her
middle.

He sneered at the weapon quivering in her
hand. “You’re sorely mistaken if you think that protects you. I’m
half again your size, and I can defend myself as well as any
man.”

“I daresay you can.” She smiled. “When
you’re awake.”

His eyes slowly widened as he absorbed her
meaning.

“If you even think about making me leave
here,” she said, “I suggest you sleep lightly at night.”

In the end, Prewitt not only abandoned any
idea of casting Joanna away, but chose to sleep in the storeroom.
For five years, whenever he was in London, he shared her home, but
kept largely to himself. They ate separately and rarely spoke. Many
nights he never came home, which was fine with Joanna. Their
relationship became one of commerce, and was actually quite
mutually beneficial; he shipped the silks to London, she sold them,
and they both lived off the modest proceeds.

Joanna could have carried on like that for
many more years. But then had come that package from Genoa, wrapped
tightly in crimson silk
—
how strangely
appropriate
—
and sealed with the insignia of the city
government. Prewitt was dead. God knew she didn’t miss him, but she
missed his damned silks. Until Graeham had arrived, with his four
shillings, she’d been at her wits’ end, wondering how she’d manage
to keep her home...

Until Graeham had arrived.

Joanna recalled the sordid and all too
familiar little scene she’d encountered last night after she’d come
downstairs thinking he might need help. She still was a witless
child, at least when it came to men.
We have drives that are
altogether more elementary.

Joanna hated for Graeham to remind her of
Prewitt, but when it came to sex, it seemed men
—
most men,
anyway
—
were insatiable and indiscriminating. If a woman
was convenient and a man felt he could get away with it, he’d use
her to assuage his lust and not think twice about it.

Use her...
Shivering, Joanna wrapped
her arms around herself.
Never again.

Hugh seemed to think marriage to the right
sort of man would solve all her problems. He had a point in that a
man of means wouldn’t be using her for her family name, as Prewitt
had. And not all married men strayed; some took their vows to
heart. Hugh had told her that Robert had been a faithful husband to
Joan. The right husband could save her from penury and ease her
aching loneliness. The right one. Not another charming silk
merchant.

Nor a certain equally charming but unlanded
serjant, with his earnest blue eyes and reckless curiosity.

Are you happy?

No, not him. Certainly not him.

* * *

“Hugh
—
is that you?”

Hugh turned from the fine destrier he was
admiring to find Robert of Ramswick grinning at him. “Rob!”

The men greeted each other with slaps on the
back. In his black, unadorned tunic, Robert looked rather like a
fresh-faced young deacon. He’d never been one to advertise his
wealth.

“I thought I might find you with the beasts
of war.” Robert glanced around. “The lady Joanna, is she...”

“Right over there.” Hugh pointed through the
crowd toward his sister, sitting on a tree stump, her chin in her
hand, her eyes closed. One sleeve was still rolled around her arm;
the other dangled in the grass. Her linen veil was askew, one of
the pins that secured it having come loose. And on top of it all,
she was in her stocking feet.

Robert shaded his eyes as he studied her.
Chuckling, he said, “She was that way as a girl, wasn’t she?
Something always a bit undone.”

All Robert knew of Joanna since he’d last
seen her years ago was that she’d married a silk trader who’d died.
He professed not to care that Joanna had married beneath her. His
primary concern was finding a good mother for his children.

It seemed odd to think of Robert as a
widower with two daughters. Although he was three years Hugh’s
senior, his boyish face and close-cropped sandy hair made him look
younger. And, too, there was a rather appealing unworldliness about
him, with his devotion to the land and deep-rooted sense of right
and wrong. In many ways, he was Hugh’s complete opposite; strange
that they’d become such fast friends.

“I thought you were going to bring your
girls,” Hugh said, looking about. “Where are they?”

“Over there somewhere.” Robert pointed
toward the food vendors, whose booths were next to those of the
foreign merchants. “Margaret’s buying them some sweetmeats.”

Hugh frowned. “Your cousin Margaret?”

“Aye. She came to Ramswick to take care of
the girls after Joan and Gillian died. I thought you knew.”

“Nay
—
she wasn’t there when I came
to visit you.”

“She’d taken the girls to London that day.
Well
—
are you going to reintroduce me to your lovely
sister?”

Hugh brought Robert over to Joanna. “Are you
awake, sister?” he asked with a tug on one of her braids.

Without opening her eyes, she muttered,
“Bugger off.”

Jesus have mercy.

Robert said, “‘Twould be a grievous
disappointment to me if you made us bugger off, my lady.”

Her eyes flew open. “Oh! L-Lord Robert?”

He bowed. “A pleasure to make your
acquaintance again, Lady Joanna.”

She bolted to her feet, hastily smoothing
down her gown and rearranging her veil. On the pretext of helping
her, Hugh slid the other pin out and snatched the point-less thing
off her head.

“Hugh!” She reached for it, but he stuffed
it in his purse.

“‘Tis a sin to cover hair as beautiful as
yours.”

“A mortal sin, my lady,” agreed Robert.

Joanna glared beneath her lashes at her
brother as she slid her feet back into her slippers.

“Papa! Papa!” A tow-headed little girl in a
billowing white kirtle came running up to Robert, arms
outstretched.

He swept her up, grinning. “This is my
daughter, Catherine. Catherine, say hello to Sir Hugh and Lady
Joanna.”

The child, who was perhaps five, turned and
pressed her face into the crook of her father’s neck.

Robert made a sound halfway between a groan
and a chuckle. “What sticky confection have you painted your face
with, then?”