Follow Your Heart

by Ruth Kaufman

  John moved closer, leering at her, trapping her against her design table with his bulky arms. He smelled of ale and stale sweat. She felt the pressure of her cut out glass pieces through her gown as he pushed her onto the table.

  “Mistress Peyntor.” He sneered and leaned closer. “The woman glass-painter. Thinks she’s better than the rest of us. I’ll show you. It’ll be so easy to ruin you.”

  Anger penetrated fear. How dare he treat her this way? His sour breath invaded her nostrils as she fought to move.

  “How many clients have taken their orders elsewhere since your father died, because you are a female? Because your work isn’t as good as your father’s. Like All Saints Church—”

  “Let me up,” she demanded. “That’s not true. Why are you doing this? You know how hard I’ve worked and how far the workshop has come.” She struggled for air under John’s suffocating weight. “And you know even while my father was alive, I did much of the designing and painting. I’ve been a master in my own right for years.” She shoved ineffectively at his barrel chest. “Let me go.”

  “You have worked hard, hard as a female can,” John admitted. “Not enough. With a man to manage things while you keep to the painting, we can do much more.” He loomed over her, his beard-stubbled face inches from her own. “You’re slipping, Joanna. What of the window you ruined…the commission for Edward of Wykeham?”

  The painful memory slashed through her, as real as when the disaster occurred. “I don’t know how that window broke.”

  “I do,” he said with a self-satisfied smirk. “You’ve taken to drinking. Out of despair that you might lose the shop to William if you don’t earn enough coin in time.” He laughed. “Everyone at the guild knows what was in your father’s will.”

  Joanna gasped. “’Twas you. You destroyed that window! It doesn’t matter. No one will believe such lies about me.”

  “Lies, are they? By the time I’m through, they’ll be truths. If you don’t do as I say, I’ll destroy you, piece by piece.”

  John reached behind her. He held up a section of white glass, the Madonna’s head, and threw it to the ground.

  She flinched as the glass shattered.

  “Just like that.”

  Again she tried to free herself. John bore down. Her back ached from being crushed against the table. Fear slithered through her veins. Her employee, whom she’d trusted, had been plotting against her. How could she repair the damage he’d done?

  “Whatever you say, it’ll be your word against mine. Most of my clients don’t know you well. They’d never trust you instead of me,” she said.

  “You are smart, for a woman. But I’m smarter. I’ve a way to get to your clients. I’ve already begun,” he warned, a smug expression on his face. “Look there—take it.”

  He nodded toward his waist, keeping Joanna pinned between his arms. She couldn’t break free, but she could grasp the rolled parchment protruding from his wide leather belt. Her fingers trembled as she examined the document.

  “No….” she breathed, tears forming as she read the notice of cancellation. “How can this be? I’m behind schedule on Sir Reginald’s window, but he said a short delay wouldn’t be a problem….”

  “Remember yesterday at the Mermaid Tavern? Sir Reginald was there. He saw you drinking. Didn’t take much to make him think you’re spending more time with a pitcher of ale in your hand than a paint brush of late.”

  “I had half a cup of ale! You had at least three.”

  “That’s what you say. Now that Sir Reginald believes you’ve become a drunkard, he’ll serve as a reference to warn others of your unreliable ways. Such a shame.” John shook his head with false concern.

  Joanna forced herself to remain calm, but her mind raced. Margery might’ve gone to get help. Just who she’d find, Joanna didn’t know. Again she wished she had a man to protect her from her brother. John would never have dared act this way if she had a husband.

  She had to get away. With a mighty tug, she freed her left hand. Her fingers scrabbled across her table. Charcoal. No. Piece of glass. Not sharp enough. A closing nail….

  She couldn’t reach it. Tamping down frustration, Joanna tried another approach.

  “What do you want from me?”

  He leaned closer, pressing her still harder against the table. “You know. I want you to marry me.” He stroked her hair, the gentle motions a contrast to his hostile attitude. “Now you’ll have no choice but to be my bride. I get what I want. There’s no one to help you. William’s on my side, Margery’s just another woman. You have no one else. No one cares what happens to you.”

  His words hurt because they were true. No one did care.

  “Perhaps there’s some truth in what you say. I’ll need a week or two to consider your proposal.” She forced the words out with effort enough to wring a wet gown dry. “For the moment, we must get back to work. Let me up.”

  John’s hands on her hair made her feel as though dozens of ants crawled on her scalp. She shook her head, but his fingers tightened. Squeezed.

  “No work until you say yes.”

  His breath, his furrowed brow, his tone, everything about him repulsed her. But to free herself, to have time to plan and seek aid, she had to tell him what he wanted to hear. She’d say “Yes,” though the lie would curdle on her tongue.

  “I don’t want to marry you!” Joanna spat instead, instantly regretting her outburst. She was supposed to be mollifying John, not antagonizing him. “If you drive away clients there’ll be no workshop to run, whether I marry you or not.”

  Had she been too engrossed in her work to see what was happening around her? Could she have prevented his rebellion?

  “Easily fixed,” he said with smug satisfaction. “I’ll say with my guidance you’re much recovered and returned to your industrious self. Even I can’t find fault with your talent. I could never create the windows you do.”

  The reasoning for this mad plan came to her in a flash. “If I lose the workshop to William, you’ll be nothing but his employee. If I maintain control and you marry me, everything I own will be yours, too.”

  She couldn’t go on, she was that sickened. Like the master glazier who once offered for her, John wanted to marry her only to control her and everything she stood for. Theirs would be a marriage of sheer domination, without a single pleasant aspect. Without a single benefit to her.

  No matter her problems, she wouldn’t be coerced into a travesty of marriage with John.

  “You’d try to force me to do things your way. I won’t. I will fight for my workshop until I take my last breath,” she vowed. “If I die, then where will you be?”

  “You’re not listening, Joanna. Pay attention.” He grabbed her face with a meaty hand and squeezed her cheeks hard. “You will marry me. As soon as possible.”

  John bent lower, his face inches from hers. His body pressed against her, crushing her. “You will marry me because I won’t let you out of my sight until you do.”

  Chapter 3

  Three afternoons alone with Mistress Peyntor. A perfect amount of time for a pleasant flirtation with only slight risk, Adrian decided. Opportunities to converse with women, especially interesting and intelligent ones, came all too rarely. He’d make the most of this, then savor the memories. That would be that.

  He walked down the paved street in search of her workshop. The red-tiled roof crowded close together with its neighbors, with the upper story hanging over the lower, seeming to reach for the house across the narrow street.

  Adrian knocked. No answer. He opened the door slowly, then poked his head in. A man had Joanna bent backward over a large white table and was kissing her greedily.

  She deserved a passionate husband or lover. Yet the sight of her in another man’s embrace irked him. Why did he care? Joanna meant nothing to him.

  He should leave. But he couldn’t help but admire Joanna’s unbound hair. An unusual vivid red, it spilled about her in dozens of curls. Her companion clut
ched a thick handful. Adrian itched to feel the softness. With an inward sigh of longing for what could never be, he backed away. This was none of his business.

  Joanna cried out. She wriggled and shoved. The man stood abruptly, grabbing his lip.

  “Bitch!” he hissed. He shook her, sending her curls bouncing in all directions.

  “John, stop!” Joanna screamed.

  Joanna wasn’t enjoying a lover’s embrace. She was in trouble.

  The need to protect her surged through Adrian’s veins. He rushed forward.

  “You bit me!” John smacked her in the face.

  Too late.

  Joanna flew off the table, sweeping pieces of colored glass with her, and knocked over a smaller table crowded with pots of paint. She collapsed to the floor with a crash, black paint splattering and glass shattering all over her and against the wall. She didn’t move.

  Catching sight of Adrian, John roared, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Who the hell are you?” Adrian yelled back. He wanted to see to Joanna, but had to get past his opponent first. John, though not quite as tall, was far broader.

  “I am her betrothed. What goes on here is none of your business,” John said.

  Betrothed? Joanna didn’t belong with a lout like this. The thought of her with a man who hit her made him ill, but he couldn’t justify intervening. Betrothal was almost as good as being married. If a man beat his woman, there was little even a concerned relative could do to help.

  An anguished moan from Joanna sent them both hurrying toward her. She sat up, her hand touching her cheek, which bled from a small cut. A smear of black paint mingled with blood on her pale skin. She looked up at John, green eyes huge with fear. Then she saw Adrian. A deep sigh evidenced her relief and the worry lines faded from her forehead.

  Ignoring the larger man, she turned to Adrian. “I’m glad you were early.”

  “Who the hell are you?” John demanded.

  “A friend,” Adrian answered, keeping his gaze on Joanna.

  He extended his hand to help her to her feet. Hers felt small and fragile in his. Though anger at John’s treatment of Joanna seethed, he matched her calm tone. “I’m never late, nor am I fond of those who are.”

  Glass fragments dropped from Joanna’s skirts onto the wood floor. She trembled as she stood. He fought the desire to comfort her. She walked to the counter, crunching bits of glass beneath her feet, then picked up a jar filled with brushes. As if ignoring the facts that she’d been swatted like an insect and her cheek was bleeding. How could she be so at ease? She must be furious.

  Adrian wanted to clobber John.

  “She doesn’t need you. Get out,” John demanded.

  Adrian stepped between them. “Or?”

  “Or this!”

  John took a swing at him. Though Adrian raised his arm in defense and deflected the brunt of the blow, John’s massive fist connected with his eye.

  The pain infuriated him. He swung back, hitting John in the stomach.

  “Ooof.” John doubled over.

  Adrian smiled.

  “Shall we get started?” Joanna asked from behind him. She walked behind her counter and gathered parchment and brushes.

  He couldn’t comprehend her composure. Most women he knew would’ve fainted or would be in hysterics by now. Maybe she acted as though men fighting in her workshop was a common occurrence because she didn’t want John to know he’d upset her.

  That he understood. Never let the enemy see your fear.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your betrothed?” he asked.

  An unladylike snort was his answer. “Is that what he said? John is not my betrothed, nor does he work for me any longer.” She came around the counter, regarding John with as much disdain as a duchess might use to stare down an underling. “You’re dismissed, effective immediately. I’ll send any wages owed.”

  Adrian heard a slight quiver in her voice. He could almost see the effort she used to control her emotions. Almost see panic in her eyes. How could he alleviate her distress?

  Clutching his belly, John stepped toward Joanna. Adrian tensed, ready to spring if he attempted to touch her.

  “We’re not finished. William and I will see to that,” John said. He turned to Adrian. “As to you, hero, if I see you again you’ll regret it.”

  John shot a glare at Joanna, then stomped out and slammed the heavy door.

  The minute he was gone, Joanna heaved a sigh and slid down the wall to the floor. At last she revealed her fear.

  Adrian bent down to her. He smelled paint and rose water. “How can I help?”

  “I’m fine.” She took his proffered hand. “A bit shaken, but fine. John has never behaved like that. I….”

  She shook her head, sending her curls tumbling over his fingers. So silky, so sweet-smelling…exactly as he’d imagined. He clamped down the urge to caress them.

  She let him pull her to her feet, then freed her hand.

  “Your cheek is bleeding,” he said, concerned. He picked up a clean cloth from her counter, then dipped it in a pitcher of water. “May I?”

  When she nodded, he moved closer. The odd mix of paint and roses washed over him again. He sensed her studying him as he gently dabbed the cloth against her cheek and wiped away the blood. The curve of her jaw, the fullness of her lips tempted him to abandon the cloth so he could touch her skin.

  She reached up, her fingers grazing the back of his hand. The slight, unintentional contact sparked desire.

  “My face. Do you think it will scar?”

  “No. The cut is small, and not very deep. Does it hurt?”

  “Not as much as John’s betrayal,” she answered. She caught her breath, as though she’d revealed too much. “Lord Fitzhugh. You arrived at a most opportune time. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. I’m so sorry you were hurt on my behalf.”

  “My timing was a bit off,” he replied. Had he moved seconds sooner, he could’ve stopped John from hitting Joanna.

  “Your turn. I’ll get a cool cloth for that eye.”

  Adrian had had worse injuries, but didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to have her tend to him.

  She wet another cloth in the pitcher, then perched on the tall stool beside him. “Closer.”

  He leaned down as she lifted the cloth to his face. The coolness soothed his eye but her nearness warmed the rest of him. He closed his good eye against the sudden urge to kiss her. Did she have any idea how attractive she was to him? That he wanted her?

  “Hold that,” she said.

  He held the cloth while she used another to wipe the worst of the black paint from her hands. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes. I don’t know how to thank you. My sister should return soon, and then I’ll be fine.”

  Adrian doubted that. Curiosity urged him to try to find out who William was and what John was really after. With his uninjured eye he watched her every move. He admired her efforts to be independent and brave, but could see she needed comforting.

  He had to erase this need to hold her and protect her. Though he wanted to help Joanna, her problems weren’t his.

  Yet he asked, “What if John returns?”

  “If John returns….” She shuddered. After a long moment, she turned to look at him, a strange expression on her face. “Are you married?”

  Adrian dropped the cloth.

  “Are you married?” she repeated.

  “No.”

  “Would you like to be?”

  How could he answer that? Yes, he would. Could he be? Unlikely. How could he live with someone the way he was?

  To stall for time, he looked around the small studio, taking in whitewashed walls, sheets of glass stacked in bins, the table with what remained of her work in progress and various tools he couldn’t identify arranged neatly on a counter.

  What should he tell Joanna? She didn’t even know his real name. Normally, he was a good liar. He’d had to be to survive. Yet h
e couldn’t bring himself to lie again to this beautiful woman, who just by being in the same room stirred a strange yearning within him.

  “My name isn’t Lord Fitzhugh.”

  Her expression told him it was her turn to be taken aback. “Oh?”

  He pulled another stool closer to her and sat. He picked up the damp cloth and wiped his hands. “I am Sir Adrian Bedford.”

  Nothing could be heard but their breathing.

  Her remarkable green eyes widened. “Sir Adrian Bedford.”

  Hearing his true name on her lips pleased him.

  Joanna nodded. “I see now why you used another name when we first spoke.”

  So she’d heard the stories about his family, which still circulated after all these years. He’d expected that, one reason he’d concealed his true identity. But what did she believe, truth or rumors?

  She tossed a dirty cloth into a small bin. Then her mouth formed an O. His heart sank. Would she understand?

  “The stained glass windows. Bedford Castle was your home. Of course I’ll do my best to preserve them for you.”

  Relief washed through him like a cleansing rain. There was no disdain, no fear, no revulsion in her face. Just acceptance. Maybe even understanding.

  “What have you heard?” His voice came out a whisper.

  It was important to him that she not believe the rumors. He could almost see the vapor of dread hovering above him, awaiting her answer before it blossomed into an enveloping cloud that would spoil their fledgling friendship.

  “A sadly romantic tale. That your mother died and your father couldn’t tolerate life without her. He gambled away everything, even Bedford Castle. And borrowed from his friends, debts he couldn’t repay,” she said. “Is that true?”

  “Yes. But I’m working to earn everything back.”

  Enough truth. Joanna’s opinion of him would worsen if she knew what he had to do to regain his home. Her acceptance of his explanation for giving her a false name and her sympathy for his plight meant more to him than he could say.

  “Then why would she make changes, especially if she knows you wouldn’t approve?” she asked.