The Pleasures of Sin (18 page)

His eyes took on a twinkle and she relaxed some. She would face this new development head on and leave the future to the fates. Unless they tore up the floor planks, no one would find
The King’s Mistresses
while they were in the town. Somehow she would find a way to give the two miniatures of Montgomery and herself to Giffard while Montgomery was not looking.

“Perhaps a man simply does not like being a laughingstock,” Montgomery countered, passing by a row of shop buildings. “I have experience with that of late.”

She swallowed. The course of the conversation flowed too closely to their own issues. Licking her lips, she gave him an over-bright smile, and held her arm to allow the afternoon sun to glint across the wrist manacle. “Women either, my lord.”

He regarded her for a second, then unfastened his cloak and swung it around her shoulders.

She blinked, surprised at his action. The garment hung to her ankles and completely covered the network of chains. It was a small mercy, but she was glad she would not have to march through town like a prisoner of the crown.

“Mayhap the king is being excessively sensitive and he should let the past go,” she said, wrapping the cloak around her body.

“’Tis not always wise to let bygones be bygones.” An edge of darkness formed in Montgomery’s tone, and Brenna wondered what demons lay beneath his steely demeanor.

They walked on for a bit.

Once they were down the road just a short ways, the town began crowding around them. They passed beneath a faded sign that was painted with a depiction of a shoe and another with rolls in a basket. The scent of baking bread wafted into the street. More and more people passed speaking a splattering of Welsh, English, French, and other languages she did not recognize.

Houses and shop buildings lined the road, some even leaning against the outer walls of the castle.

“The future of England is best served with justice and a fair trial for everyone,” Brenna said, motioning at all the different types of people. “Punishment seems quite dire simply because the artist had the proportions wrong. Anyone could have been mistaken about the royal member.”

Montgomery laughed. Laughed! “His majesty was not pleased a’tall to have become the laughingstock of the court. Whispered about in ladies’ chambers and jokes made in the stews.”

A man driving a cart full of hay made a wide berth around them. A woman hollered from a second story window and Brenna jumped aside just before a chamberpot full of waste came raining down into the busy street.

Brenna wrinkled her nose. There were advantages to being locked in a tower and not having to deal with so many people. And no doubt it was the safety of her chamber that had made her think she could release the miniatures of the king with no consequences.

She turned down a street and headed to the town’s cathedral—a large ornate building that poked up into the skyline.

“And now the rumor that two more exist in the series has made them quite a popular source of gossip,” he continued. He was looking around at the various shop buildings and carts clattering down the cobbled streets, but his arm flinched in her hand—or was that just her imagination? “The word in the stews is that the other two would be worth upwards of five thousand pounds.”

Her head snapped up and she nearly tripped on a pebble. “Five thousand pounds!”

He lifted a brow at her gasp and steered her around a puddle in the road. “What do you know of these paintings, Brenna?”

Brenna willed herself to keep walking toward the cathedral, toward Brother Giffard, instead of racing straightaway back to her chamber and burning the artwork in the hearth. No doubt the king was angry beyond measure. Having the underworld of London willing to pay five thousand pounds for a portrait of a misshapen royal member would send him into fits of wanting kingly revenge. Her folly would be her ruin. She must destroy the last two afore they were discovered. Either that or sell them off as quickly as possible, take the gold and flee.

“My lady,” Montgomery said, “you are looking green again. Mayhap we should stop for a tankard of ale.”

“Yea, my lord. A cup of ale.” ’Twas always best to quench one’s thirst afore being tarred and feathered and thrown into the king’s dungeon.

James gazed intently at Brenna, who was wringing her fingers into her new silk skirt, and tried to fathom what lay beneath her mysterious green eyes. The king had sent him a private missive wanting an update on the miniatures and thus far he had naught.

She was hiding something.

But what?

Did she know the artist?

Was she the artist?

He had searched every cavity of her tower chamber. He’d questioned her sisters and every servant in the keep. There was no evidence of illicit art—no motivation for her to paint such scenes either.

Suspecting her was untenable.

Still, he determined to get to the bottom of the erotic miniatures. The chains on her wrists and ankles gave little clanking noises as they passed down the busy street of the town’s main merchant row and headed toward the cathedral.

His neck prickled with unease. Something did not feel right about this trek into town.

He stopped in the midst of the road and turned her toward him, tipping up her chin. “Brenna, did you paint the miniatures of the king?”

“Of all the horrid things!” Outrage flashed in her eyes and for an instant he thought she would try to slap him as she had in the chapel.

He snatched her wrist to prevent such a motion. “Peace, Brenna. You are not a true suspect.”

“Well,” she huffed. “I should think not! I was supposed to be a bloody nun until you came along and forced me to marry you.”

He nearly laughed at her use of “bloody” and “nun” in the same sentence. If she was faking her outrage, she was damn good at it. Still, she was a woman who needed to be taken in hand. She’d fooled him too many times. “Careful, love, your bargain involved curbing your tongue as a respectful wife should.”

She lifted her chin, but bit back any other retorts.

“Give me the wooden tube.”

Her nostrils flared, but she handed him the tube. “You will find naught there.”

He pried the lid off and peered inside at the painting curled within the dark space. He wiggled his fingers around to determine the subject: an angel flying off to heaven carrying a soul. Another of the birth of Christ.

Of course, even if she had painted the portraits, and he had no convincing reason to believe that she had, she would not bring
The King’s Mistresses
to the cathedral.

Realizing naught but strife would be gained by continuing to question her, he handed the tube back, and headed down the lane that led to the opening of the church’s grounds.

She smiled at him, her gaze veiled. Was there a hint of victory in her eyes?

It would definitely do them good to spend time with each other so she could adjust to having him as lord. This battle betwixt them was not one he could afford to lose.

The cathedral stood in front of them: a massive structure with ornate architecture. A beautiful park, contained by a high stone wall, surrounded it. Several shrubs were in bloom and the grass and trees were closely clipped and well watered.

Spread around the grounds were various other buildings: a library, several administrative buildings along with various garden sheds and the kitchens. The place was almost a village unto itself.

Brenna saw Brother Giffard across the grounds, sitting beneath a spreading oak tree to the left of the main hall where the men who lived here stayed. He wore his customary brown robes and appeared to be writing on a tablet. Her heart sped as she racked her mind to come up with some excuse to speak with him by herself.

Looking up, Giffard saw them and rose to his feet. As was his custom, he wore no shoes. His bare soles stepped lightly across the grass as he approached and she averted her eyes from the fur atop his toes.

“Brenna, my child,” Giffard said, holding out his hands as he drew near. “How good of you to come. And Lord Montgomery, it is nice to meet you at last.” He beamed at both of them as if he had not a care in the world or that the purpose of this visit wasn’t to give him erotic miniatures and plan her escape. He motioned them toward one of the buildings near the kitchens. “Won’t you come and join us for the evening meal?”

Brenna said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that Giffard was so versed in sliding easily in and out of conversations with the nobility. His shoulders were relaxed and his mannerism loose. The appearance of Montgomery with her clearly had not flustered him in the least. As they walked to the hall with Giffard chatting amicably about nothing of consequence, Montgomery visibly relaxed. Her heart rate calmed.

At the feasting hall, trestle tables lined the walls and some of the church’s workers directed them to a place to eat.

Brenna grew more and more agitated as the meal wore on. Her whole purpose for coming to the cathedral had been thwarted by Montgomery’s presence. For certes, Damien would have been chatting with some of the younger men by now, boasting and teasing them about their dull life at the church and she would have had a chance to slip the miniatures to Giffard. But Montgomery sat close by her side, not allowing her even a second to breathe.

At last the trenchers were cleared, the trestle tables were wiped down and Giffard grew quiet, as if he too was at a loss.

“I brought paintings to show to Bishop Humphrey,” Brenna said, taking the tube from where it lay beneath her feet. She may as well finish up the charade of having her work hung here in one of the buildings so they could return to Windrose.

With luck, she could take out the religious works and not disturb the erotic ones. She fiddled with the tube’s cap and the rolled-up canvas inside. Drawing out the painting of the angel carrying a soul up towards the heavens, she smoothed it out on the table before them.

“It’s truly magnificent, my child,” Giffard praised, nodding his tonsured head. “I have spoken to Bishop Humphrey about having some new pieces to hang here in the feasting hall. I was sorry he did not join us for the meal.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he had told the bishop that the paintings were hers, but, of course, he likely had not since all of this was a ruse for her to speak with Giffard about the miniatures. And her escape, which—she stifled a sigh—seemed very far away at the moment. Montgomery’s leg pressed against hers as he leaned forward and gazed at the painting.

After a time, a man wearing sleek black robes slid up next to them. He had a long, narrow face and a pinched expression as if someone had squeezed his head between two millstones.

The pious and judgemental Bishop Humphrey.

Her nemesis.

Quickly, she tucked her hands and arms into her cloak not wanting him to see the manacles or what her lot in life had become.

Sneering at the canvas, he cleared his throat. “We have no place for your art here at Windrose Cathedral, Lady Brenna. Go back to your castle and be a wife to your new husband.”

Brenna stiffened, her old animosity rising thickly to the surface. Bishop Humphrey had been her nemesis for years with his insistence that women should not be painters.

“I have come here with my husband’s blessing, as you can see,” she said, nodding toward Montgomery who, she noted, had also stiffened.

“A word alone with you, Lord Montgomery,” Bishop Humphrey said.

Ah! Brenna’s heart leapt. At last she would be able to have an instant alone with Giffard.

No doubt Humphrey planned to give her husband a complete lecture on the place of women. That could take hours. She ran her finger down one of the chains; her husband needed no such lessons.

“Of course.” Montgomery rose, his hand trailed toward
l’occhio del diavolo
tucked into his belt. Light from a stained glass window cast dazzling blue and green sparkles over her husband’s wide shoulders. He gave Brenna a “stay-here” glance before moving off to one corner of the room with Bishop Humphrey.

“Lean toward me as if we were discussing something philosophical,” she whispered at Giffard.

Quickly she uncapped the wooden artist tube again and fished out the two miniatures, using her cloak and the trestle table to hide what she was doing. She pressed it into Brother Giffard’s hand.

“Hide them well,” she admonished.

With a hasty slight of hand, the small canvas disappeared into his robe. No doubt a move he had perfected from years of practice.

“Only two?”

“’Tis all I could manage.”

He glanced over at the bishop and Montgomery who were deep in conversation. “Have you had any luck in obtaining the key to your bonds?”

“Nay, naught. But he releases me each night for a time.” She did not mention why, but her cheeks burned at the memory and, for certes, when Giffard saw the painting he would know exactly the reason.

“There is a ship leaving six weeks hence. Mayhap that will give me time to sell your work and obtain passage.”

“For both me and my sisters,” she insisted.

“Hmm.” He drummed his fingertips on the table. “’Twill cost a great deal of gold for three noblewomen. Depends on the value of the work and if it will fetch that much.”

“It’s good,” she muttered, turning the tube’s cap over in her fingers.

His brown robe fluttered as he shrugged. “We’ll see. The market can be tricky. And ’tis only two paintings.”

“I can get you the other two of
The King’s Mistresses
,” she whispered, remembering what Montgomery had told her about the price they would fetch in London.

Giffard’s eyes widened.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder and she jumped. She looked up to see Montgomery standing before her and Bishop Humphrey storming from the chamber.

Had her husband heard their discussion? Her heart raced.

“Roll your work, Brenna. We head home.”

She gave one last look at Giffard who sprawled out across the bench, nonchalant as always. To look at him, one would have thought they were discussing the recipes of mince pies.

By the time they reached Windrose, exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Brenna. After the cacophony of the city, they returned to the voices of men, women, dogs, cats, pigs, boys and girls of the keep. They swirled around her like a wild storm pulling her this way and that, keeping her from her one purpose of verifying
The King’s Mistresses
were safe.

Wearily, she climbed to her tower room with Damien in tow. Montgomery had left her to see to the progress on the new roof that was being built on the kitchens. She ran her finger around the manacle on her wrist, determining to do what it took to get free. The sun had set and tallow candles were lit in the hall. Their acrid smoke tinged the air.

In a few moments’ time, Montgomery would join her in her room. He would release the chains as he always did. And he would bring her body to that beautiful, crashing peak where she forgot that she had been bound all the day long.

The conflicting emotions were too much. With luck, she would have a few moments to take her paintbrush to canvas and soothe the turbulence rocking in her mind.

Damien, stroking his facial hair, nodded at her as she made her way into the hallowed quiet of her chamber and closed the door behind her.

Alone in the blessed, blessed quiet.

She glanced out the window, wanting with some desperation to simply sit in the embrasure and stare out at the darkening sky.

But first, she needed to see about
The King’s Mistresses
. She had told Giffard she would bring them to him, but mayhap the smarter course was to destroy them.

Hurrying to her painting desk, she scooted it outward so she could crawl behind it and pry up the loose floor plank. She knelt, reached into the opening and dug through the parchments.

The half-finished gladiator was there.

Another self-portrait.

Several others.

No paintings of the king and his mistresses.

They would be at the bottom of the pile. She rifled through them again.

Naught.

A sinking notion gurgled in her chest.

Gone!

’Twas gone!

She could neither take them to Brother Giffard nor destroy them. Nausea waved over her.

She searched again for good measure, her fingers frantic. She creased one of the parchments. A knot formed in her throat.

She replaced the floor plank and all its materials.

Straightening, she took a deep breath and pushed the desk back into its place.

Nay. She must be mistaken. Most likely, she’d placed the portraits elsewhere. Her fingers trembled. That did not seem possible. Montgomery would have already found them.

Opening and closing the two rough drawers on her table-desk, she began her search. She felt over and under the variety of items in each drawer. Quills, ink, vials of pigment.

Naught.

Had
Montgomery already found them?

Nay. For certes, he would have done more than merely ask her about them if he had.

Then where? And who had taken them?

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she restarted the search in a more systematic way, taking each item from the drawers before putting them back, then moving around the room searching every trunk and every corner.

Bloody hell. Her heart pounded as she wrapped up the search. They must be in the bedchamber. They must.

Panic worked into her throat. She tried to think of the last time she’d seen them.

“Have you lost something, my lady?”

She lurched and whirled at the sound of her husband’s voice. Devil take it! How had he entered so quietly? “What are you doing here?” she gasped.

A twinkle formed in his indigo eyes. “I sleep here…among other things.”

Her hand flew reflexively to her throat as he closed the distance between them. She stepped back as he leaned down, his face nearly touching hers.

“Why are you so jumpy?” he asked.

“I’m not jumpy! You–you just shouldn’t walk around like some sort of spy.” Had he seen her push the desk back over the loose floor planks?

A nervous flutter formed in her stomach. If he found the painting of the gladiator and the half-finished one of herself, more questions would be forthcoming.

He strode to the bed and leaned against the edge of the mattress. The curtains shivered. “Come to bed, Brenna. ’Tis been a busy day.”