Silken Threads (26 page)

“What manner of abuse? Beatings?”

“Apparently not
—
not bad ones, at
any rate. He insults her, threatens her.”

“Threatens her?”

“Says things that could be perceived as
threats,” Graeham hedged.

“And what, pray,” Joanna asked with grim
humor, “has he done that would set him apart from the general run
of husbands?”

“You already know what a debaucher he is. It
seems he’s had numerous liaisons with other women.”

“I’m still waiting.”

He was stabbed to death last summer by
some Italian whose wife he’d been diddling,
Leoda had said of
Prewitt Chapman. Graeham suspected that the marriage for which
Joanna had sacrificed so much had been a grievous disappointment to
her.

“Rolf le Fever flaunts these trysts within
Mistress Ada’s hearing,” Graeham said. “It seems he takes special
pride in seducing the wives of important men, and he’s not as
discreet as he might be. I myself saw him bring a woman up to his
bedchamber and...disport himself with her while his wife was asleep
upstairs. From the way this woman was dressed, I’d say she was a
matron of high rank.”

“What did she look like?”

“Very blond hair, almost white. Rather
generously proportioned.”

“Pockmarks?”

“Aye.”

“That’s Elizabeth Huxley, the wife of the
alderman for our ward. John Huxley is not a man to trifle with. If
he knew about this, he’d take measures.”

“Would he have le Fever killed, do you
think?”

“Or at the very least, gelded,” she said.
“Le Fever must know this
—
he’s no fool.”

“Men tend to lose perspective in matters of
the heart.”

“Women lose perspective in matters of the
heart,” she said dryly. “Men are enslaved to the whims of another
organ entirely.”

He nodded to acknowledge her point, while
trying not to smile. Given her mood, he’d best conduct himself
soberly.

“Who is this kinsman who sent you here?” she
asked.

“I’m not at liberty to reveal that.”

Joanna dropped the thimble into the basket,
her jaw set.

“He asked me to bring her back to Paris,”
Graeham said. “And I intend to find a way to do that, despite my
leg. That’s...as much as you need to know.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “And ‘tis your place,
I suppose, to determine what I need to know about schemes being
perpetrated from within my own home.”

“I’m not perpetrating anything, mistress.
I’m trying to rescue an ailing woman from a miserable
marriage.”

“Why?”

“It’s as I’ve said,” he answered
impatiently. “Her husband mistreats her, she’s ill...and who knows
but that he may intend her some real harm.”

“Nay. Why are you really doing this? Why did
you come all the way to London on this mission for some mysterious
kinsman? And why is it so important to you?”

He just stared at her, wishing she weren’t
so damned insightful.

“What do you stand to gain,” she asked, “by
bringing Ada le Fever back to Paris?”

He shrugged, looking away from her. “Do I
need to gain anything by it, other than the satisfaction of having
helped a woman in need?”

“Are you so chivalrous, then, that you’d go
to all this effort for no reward at all?”

“Perhaps I am.” To reveal his upcoming
marriage and the land that went with it would compromise Lord Gui’s
anonymity. That wasn’t the only reason he was loath to tell her
about Phillipa, but it was the reason he clung to, the one he told
himself was important enough to justify the fabric of lies he
continued to weave around himself and Joanna Chapman.

She lied to me by not revealing her
husband’s death. She’s lying still.
But that was a simple lie,
and a benign one
—
wise, even. Graeham’s lies were
complicated and rooted in self-interest. There was a profound
difference.

“Your motives may be selfless,” she said,
“but I doubt it. You’ve a personal interest in this mission.
Otherwise, it wouldn’t be so critical to you that you’d sacrifice
your honor for its success.”

“Sacrifice my honor!”

“You came into my home,” she said quietly,
“and deceived me.”

“Mistress...”

“And, worst of all, used me. This grand idea
of yours, this plan for me to seek commissions from the merchants’
wives, it was all a ploy to get me into Rolf le Fever’s house so I
could spy for you, wasn’t it?”

Graeham grappled for words; why was his
tongue so clumsy in her presence?

“I was your agent,” she said. “Your
unsuspecting pawn. I was to take stock of the situation in that
house and report back to you. Only I had no idea this was my true
purpose. I daresay it must have amused you when I agreed so readily
to do your bidding.”

“‘Twasn’t that way, mistress.”

“Do you deny that you sent me over there to
act as your eyes and ears? That you
used
me, exploited me,
without my knowledge or permission?”

He dragged both hands through his hair.
“‘Twas the only way.” In frustration he added, “It still is. I know
you hate me for having misled you
—
”

“Lied to me.”

“Lied to you,” he corrected, dismayed that
she didn’t deny hating him. “And I don’t blame you. But I still
need you. I need you to go back there
—
”

Her jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t do it for me,” he said. “Do it for
her
—
for Ada le Fever. Help to rescue her from that insect
she’s married to.”

“You’re smooth, serjant, but not that
smooth.”

“Mistress
—
”

“First you lie to me. Then you have the gall
to make pronouncements about how much I need to know. Now you
actually expect me to go back to that house
—
”

“Don’t you care at all what becomes of that
woman? Le Fever once told her he wished he could be rid of her. For
all we know, he may have plans to do just that.”

“Loathsome though Rolf le Fever may be,
there’s no reason to think he intends any harm toward his wife. He
doesn’t care enough about her to harm her. He hasn’t even seen her
in over three months. She languishes in her solar while he dallies
with the local matrons. If he wanted to remarry, I could see him
thinking about...doing away with her. But as it is...” She
shrugged. “I won’t do it. I won’t go back.”

“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.

* * *

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.