She inclined her head to him. After a moment’s hesitation, he returned the greeting and continued on.
The two sheriffs came next, followed by the city’s two-dozen aldermen in single file, along with their beadles and serjants. Lastly came the guildmasters and other distinguished merchants, grouped together by ward. The portly money changer Lionel Oxwyke, his expression as dour as ever, recognized her and nodded. Rolf le Fever, right behind him, leered at her as if she were standing there stark naked, the icy transparency of his gaze adding an ominous nuance to the gesture. Joanna straightened her back and met his gaze squarely. He looked away.
Dancing girls and more musicians brought up the rear of the procession. As it tapered off and the crowd dispersed, Joanna noticed that Margaret wasn’t with them anymore. Glancing around, she saw her walking up to Robert, still cradling the sleeping Beatrix on the church steps. He looked up when she approached, suddenly animated for the first time all evening. Sitting on the step below him, she spoke to him; he nodded.
"You’re staring," Hugh chided.
Joanna spun back around, gathering herself. "Alice, Catherine, stay with me. I don’t want you to get lost in the crowd."
A minute later, Margaret and Robert—with Beatrix shifted to his shoulder—joined them.
"Papa, you missed it!" Catherine exclaimed. "You missed the Midsummer Watch!"
"I saw Gog and Magog," he said. "Did they frighten you?"
"Nay. Alice told me they’d be coming, and that they were just make-believe—like big dolls."
Robert and Margaret exchanged a brief look. "Thank you, Alice," he said. "That was thoughtful."
She shrugged. "I didn’t want her to be afraid."
"Alice," Robert said, "there’s something I’d like to ask you. ‘Tis Lady Margaret’s idea, actually. Perhaps I’d best let her ask you."
Margaret crouched down so she could look Alice in the eye. "Alice, is it true you have no family—no kinfolk?"
Alice’s smile evaporated. "None who’d care to claim me."
"And no home?"
The child glanced anxiously at the adult faces staring down at her. "I won’t live in no almshouse."
Fearful that she might bolt, Joanna closed a hand over her arm. "No one wants to send you to an almshouse, Alice."
"I thought you might want to come live at Ramswick," Margaret said.
Catherine squealed with pleasure and clapped her hands. "Aye! Oh, please! Please come!"
Alice blinked at Margaret. "Ramswick?"
"Ramswick is my manor," Robert said. "‘Tis naught but a great farmstead, really."
Alice’s eyes lit up. "A farm?"
"Aye, a grand farm," Robert said proudly. "Or many small farms that make up one grand farm."
"Like Laystoke?" Alice asked.
"I know Laystoke," Robert said. "Ramswick’s on a larger scale, but the idea is the same."
"You’d live in the manor house and share a bedchamber with the girls," Margaret said. With a glance at Robert, she added, "There’s a bed just your size already there. It’s got lovely pink bedcurtains and a feather mattress."
"Do it!" Catherine pleaded, pulling on Alice’s sleeve. "Do it! Come live with us!"
Alice looked back and forth between Margaret and Robert, evidently mystified. "Why?"
"Why do we want you to live with us?" Robert asked.
Alice nodded.
"We like you," Margaret said. "And Catherine adores you."
"Am I to be a sort of nursemaid, then?" Alice asked.
"You’d be my ward," Robert said. "I’d raise you as I would have raised..." His voice caught; he took a deep breath. "As I would have raised you had you been my very own."
"You’ll be given fine kirtles," Margaret said, "and educated. Lord Robert’s chaplain will tutor you in reading and account —"
"Reading?" Alice exclaimed. "I’ll be taught how to read?"
"And how to calculate numbers," Margaret said, "and manage an estate. And when you’re old enough, we’ll arrange for your marriage to a wellborn man with his own holding, and you can be the lady of the manor. Would you like that?"
Alice stared at Margaret, wide-eyed. "‘Twas your idea, milady?"
"Aye." Margaret looked up at Joanna, her expression suddenly troubled. "I’m sorry. We should have consulted you, seeing as...well..."
So. Robert hadn’t told her yet that she’d rejected his proposal. "There’s no need to consult me," Joanna said, in a tone she hoped conveyed the significance of the statement.
Margaret stood slowly, looking from Joanna to Robert. He shook his head. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment.
"Well, Alice?" Joanna prodded. "Do you think you’d like it at Ramswick?"
"Is...is it really all right with you, milord?" Alice asked Robert.
"It makes me very happy to think of you coming to live with us, Alice. Just as Lady Margaret knew it would." With a fond look at his cousin, Robert said, "She’s a very clever woman."
"Well?" Margaret prompted, smiling at Alice expectantly.
Hugh nudged Alice. "Say yes."
Alice smiled at them, her chin wobbling just slightly. "Yes."
Catherine shrieked delightedly. "Oh, thank you, Papa! Thank you, Aunt Margaret! I have a big sister again," she said, throwing her arms around Alice. "Thank you, thank you!"
***
"WHERE’S ROBERT?" asked Hugh as the festivities were winding down. "The children are tired. They’ve had enough."
Joanna, on whose shoulder Beatrix now slept, looked around at the thinning crowd. The bonfires had mostly died down to embers, but flames still leapt in the largest one, near the gate of Holy Trinity.
A couple stood near the fire, facing each other. "That’s them," Hugh said.
Robert was talking, Margaret listening. He seemed very wrapped up in what he was saying, almost overwrought. His gestures grew abrupt, his expression anguished.
Margaret held her hands up. Robert took them in his and moved closer to her.
"You’re staring again," Hugh said quietly.
"So are you."
Releasing one of her hands, Robert reached out tentatively and stroked Margaret’s face. She closed her eyes. He spoke to her, his manner rawly earnest. She nodded and opened her eyes. Something glimmered on her cheeks. Tears.
Robert brushed the tears away with both hands. He said something to her, his gaze imploring.
She nodded. "Yes," she said; Joanna could read her lips. "Yes. Yes, Robert. Oh, yes."
Joy lit his face. He laughed, his cheeks wet with his own tears. Margaret laughed, too.
He cupped her chin, tilted it up. She gazed at him, her eyes huge. He bent his head, touched his lips to hers, drew back.
Gathering her in his arms, he lowered his head and kissed her again, a real kiss this time. She seemed momentarily stunned, but then her arms banded around him and she returned the kiss.
It went on and on. Gladness squeezed Joanna’s throat, stung her eyes.
Hugh cleared his throat. "This is your doing, I assume," he said reproachfully.
Joanna turned toward her brother, amused to find his eyes shimmering wetly. "You don’t seem unmoved by this turn of events."
He swiped at his eyes. "‘Tis the smoke from the bonfires."
"Ah."
"He would have made you an excellent husband, Joanna. I hope you know what a fool you are."
She sighed, thinking of Graeham Fox. "I’m afraid I’ve known that for some time."
Chapter 20
* * *
THERE WAS SOMETHING about the footsteps in the alley that made Graeham’s ears twitch. Quick and soft.
He instantly thought of Alice. His chest tightened instinctively, until he reminded himself that the child was no longer roaming the streets of London, sleeping in doorways and doing odd jobs for the occasional silver penny. A week ago, she’d taken up residence at Ramswick, to be brought up by Lord Robert. Graeham was grateful beyond measure that she’d found such a g
ood home. The most Joanna could have offered her was a pallet by the fire. As Robert of Ramswick’s ward, she would enjoy a life of privilege and promise. Graeham had thanked God in his prayers for smiling on her.
The footsteps raced out of the alley and across the croft. On reflection, they were a bit too heavy to belong to a child. A woman, most likely. A woman running.
It was long past curfew. The only women who roamed the streets at this hour were whores; most of them shared a bit of their meager earnings with the ward patrol for the privilege of defying curfew. But whores didn’t run. Unless something was wrong.
He blew out the candle by which he was reading, unlatched the shutters on the rear window and peered into the darkness, wondering how he could be of help if some whore were being pursued against her will, given his leg.
But she wasn’t a whore, or at least she didn’t look like one from the back. She had on a hooded mantle, despite the heat. Whores didn’t like to cover up their hair and various other charms if they could help it, and they certainly wouldn’t do so on a sweltering summer night like this one. When the weather forced them to cloak themselves, it was usually in some garish color that served to advertise their occupation. Graeham couldn’t see much by the weak moonlight, but the mantle of the woman running across the croft looked dark.
The woman went directly to the gate in Rolf le Fever’s stable yard, opened it, and sprinted up to the house. Graeham sat up straighter, suddenly alert.
He expected her to knock on the back door, but instead she crouched down and picked something up off the ground. Straightening, she stepped away from the house, drew back her arm, and threw what she’d picked up—a pebble, most likely—at the closed shutters of le Fever’s bedchamber window. Squatting down, she gathered up more pebbles and hurled them one by one against the shutters. Presently they opened. Rolf le Fever, in a night shirt, leaned out and saw her.
The woman gestured for him to come down; he nodded once and closed the shutters. Light filtered through them as he lit a candle or lantern. The woman looked around furtively; it was too dark and she was too far away for Graeham to make out her features.
The door opened and le Fever appeared, hastily clad in a tunic and chausses of much more subdued hue than he usually wore. The woman said something to him and sank her face in her hands. He grabbed her arm and walked her through the gate, across the croft, and into the alley.
Through the closed shutters of the alley window, Graeham heard their footsteps slow and then stop. In a voice choked with tears, the woman said, "But, Rolf...I can’t. I just—"
Her words were abruptly silenced. Long moments later, there came her voice again, breathless but still weepy. "Your kisses can’t make this all right, Rolf. What we’ve done is wrong, but what you want me to do now is even—"
More silence; a soft, feminine moan. His voice, low, inveigling. A whisper of fabric being gathered up.
"Nay, Rolf, not here." Her voice was thick and scratchy, as if she’d been crying for hours, but she sounded young.
"No one can see us," he said. "Be still. Just let me touch you...yes...ah..."
She gasped.
"How is this?" he asked. "Do you like this?"
"Rolf..." Her breath snagged on a little sob. "Rolf, please..."
Softly, cajolingly, he said, "Aye, you love it when I do this. You’re getting wet."
"God, Rolf, not here. Let me take you—"
"I need you now. Feel this. Does that feel as if I could wait?"
It was quiet again for a few moments. When the kiss broke, they were both panting. "Not so hard," he protested. "Do you never learn? Yes...yes...like that. A little faster. Faster. Faster. Oh, God, stop. Stop."
The window shutter jiggled as he backed her roughly against it. Graeham heard their ragged breathing, the whiplike sounds of a cord being untied, le Fever’s brusque commands. "Raise your skirts—keep them up. Up."
The shutter rattled as he lifted her, slamming her against it. "Wrap your legs around me. Tight. Hold on."
She sucked in a breath. He groaned. "Ah, yes. That’s it. Ah." The shutter creaked in rhythm with his grunts and her soft intakes of air.
"Move against me," he said gruffly. "You know what to do, don’t pretend you don’t. That’s it. That’s it."
The shutters shook on their hinges with every pounding thrust against them; the wooden latch pin quivered. Graeham prayed it didn’t snap under the strain.
The thrusts grew swift, frenzied—then the movement ceased. "Hold still," le Fever growled. "Oh...oh, yes..." He muttered lewd obscenities on a low, drawn-out moan that left him breathless.
She was weeping.
"Shit," he grumbled. "Not again."
Graeham heard him set her on her feet; they adjusted their clothing.
"Really, Olive," drawled le Fever. "You wouldn’t be a half-bad fuck if you didn’t burst into tears quite so often."
Olive? Olive and le Fever?
"Rolf, please," she begged. "We’ve got to talk about this. It’s murder. It’s a sin. I can’t— "
"You can and you bloody well will."
"Rolf, listen to me..."
"I want it taken care of, do you hear? And soon. You’re taking too long about it. You know what needs to be done. Do it."
"Oh, God, Rolf," she sobbed. "I can’t. I can’t."
Le Fever sighed heavily, impatiently. "Come here. There, now. Don’t cry. I hate it when you cry. Here, blow your nose."
She did.
"Pull yourself together, my sweet. I’m sorry I spoke harshly, truly I am."
Smooth-tongued snake, thought Graeham.
"I can be such a bear," he said in a tone of oily contrition. "How do you put up with me?"
"I l-love y-you," she stuttered between little hiccupping sobs.
"And I love you, too, Olive. Deeply. Unbearably. Our future together means everything to me—which is why you really have no choice but to take care of this."
She sniffed.
"I know you understand," he said soothingly. "You’re just a little balky, which is natural. But it’s the only way. Isn’t it?" After a pause, he said, softly but firmly, "Isn’t it, Olive?"
"Y-yes."
"Say it," he murmured.
"It...it’s the only way."
"That’s right. That’s right. You have everything you need in the shop, don’t you? All the ingredients?"
"There are just two, and yes, I...I have them."
"And you know there’s no other way. You know it has to be done."
"I just w-wish it didn’t."
"Of course you do. And I hate it as much as you do. But we have no choice, do we? Not if we want to be together. You want to be my wife, don’t you?"
"More than anything."
"Go then," he urged. "Prepare the mixture. Do what you have to do. Now, before you lose your nerve."
She drew in a shaky breath. "All right. All right, Rolf. I’ll do it."
"That’s my girl," he said. "By this time tomorrow, ‘twill all be over. And you’ll see it was the only way. You’ll see."
Graeham heard them kiss, and then her footsteps receded toward Wood Street. A few moments later, le Fever turned and walked away in the other direction. Graeham watched him slip back into his house.
Levering himself off the cot with his crutch, Graeham made his way to the leather-curtained doorway and paused. All he had on were his drawers, because of the heat, but Joanna always seemed a bit agitated when he was in a state of undress. He snatched that day’s shirt off the floor by the bed, pulled it on and limped into the solar.
Fumbling in the dark for the fire iron and flint, he lit the candle on the table, startled to find Petronilla blinking at him from the windowsill. He crossed to the ladder that led to Joanna’s solar and hesitated, wishing he didn’t have to wake her up, but mostly wishing he didn’t have to drag her into this any more than he already had.
He swore softly under his breath, then called out, "Mistress Joanna?"
Silence.
"Mistress, wake up. Please. I need you."
From the back of the solar came the squeak of the ropes supporting her mattress. "Serjant?" she said groggily. "Are you all right?"
"Yes. I just need you for something."
He heard her feet on the floor and imagined her climbing out of bed naked. The image aroused him deeply despite the urgency of his objective. With a mental shake, he reminded himself that she was, by now, a betrothed woman. And he was as good as betrothed to Phillipa.
But that didn’t stop him from wanting her, with every breath he breathed. He would never stop wanting her. Long after he’d left here and settled in Oxfordshire with Phillipa, he knew he would still dream of Joanna Chapman, still long for her. She’d gotten into his bones, she flowed red hot in his veins, she haunted his waking thoughts and nightly dreams. How could no more forget her than his heart could forget to pump, his lungs to breathe.
She descended the ladder quickly, clutching the skirt of her white silk wrapper, her great shimmering swath of hair rippling around her like old gold come to life. Sleep had made the blood rise in her cheeks and heated her skin, intensifying its wild, rain-soaked scent.
Graeham’s heart stilled in his chest. He hadn’t seen her in such sweetly alluring dishabille since the night he’d watched her getting ready for her bath. That was over a month ago, but every detail of that stolen memory was etched indelibly in his mind’s eye from having been examined and reexamined during long nights on his lonely cot. He recalled all too well how her fingers had shaped the heaviness of a breast through her shift, how her nipple had pushed against the threadbare linen, how her hand had traced a path lower still...
He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to ignore the heat pumping through his loins and grateful he’d bothered with the concealing shirt. "I’m sorry to awaken you, mistress."
"What’s wrong?" She glanced at him—his bare legs, his rumpled shirt—and pulled her wrapper closed across her chest. The silk stretched taut over her breasts, molding to their lush contours, their delicate tips.
Wounded Heroes Boxed Set Page 68
