Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  Joanna touched his hand. “I’m sorry.”

  He withdrew his fingers from beneath her sash and closed his hand over hers. Joanna’s heart raced as he brought her hand to his face. Her knuckles brushed his mouth, and for a breathless moment she thought he might kiss her hand, but he didn’t. Closing his eyes, he murmured, “I love the way you smell.”

  He opened her fingers and laid the flat of her hand against his warm face; she hitched in a breath at the strangely erotic sensation of needle-sharp stubble against her tender palm. All she could hear was the drumming of the rain and her own erratic breathing.

  He pressed her hand to his cheek, rubbed against it. “God, I wish...”

  “Yes?” she whispered unsteadily, her heart like a fist in her chest.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her, the heat in his gaze giving way to something that looked like resignation. “I wish I hadn’t gotten so bloody drunk,” he said, releasing her hand.

  Joanna stood, smoothing her skirts awkwardly as she strove for composure. “You should sleep it off, serjant. I daresay you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “I daresay,” he muttered.

  “Well.” Joanna crossed to the doorway and began drawing the leather curtain across. “Sleep well.”

  “Mistress.” He raised himself on an elbow.

  “Yes?”

  He seemed to be having trouble finding his words. Presently he sighed and lay back down. “Good night, mistress.”

  “Good night, serjant.”

  Chapter 19

  Newgate Street was so crowded with St. John’s Eve revelers that it took Joanna and Hugh twice as long as it should have to make their way from Wood Street to the cross in front of St. Michael la Querne. The small church, tucked into a fork in the road at the apex of Ludgate Hill, was dwarfed by St. Paul’s Cathedral, rising in dignified splendor right next to it.

  Shading her eyes against the midday sun, Joanna scanned the hordes of people milling about, looking for Robert and his daughters. It was as mixed an assembly as that at the Friday fair, most of them dressed in their holiday finest. Not wanting to wear the honey-brown silk again, Joanna had opted for her least patched kirtle—the blue one—but embellished it with her best girdle and purse. Over her braids she wore a crisp linen veil secured with an embroidered ribbon.

  “There they are.” Hugh pointed to an audience that had gathered around two jongleurs acting out a little comédie involving a priest selling an indulgence to a portly and pompous “Sir Alfred.” Standing at the edge of the crowd were Robert, his daughters...and Margaret. Sir Alfred, cleverly maneuvered into sacrificing his riches in order to avoid the pains of hell, began extracting bags of silver from beneath his overtunic, thus shrinking his considerable belly. Robert and his cousin laughed along with everyone else. They caught each other’s eye, as if to share the jest. Catherine was sucking on her two favorite fingers; Beatrix was squirming.

  Hugh cupped his hands around his mouth. “Robert!”

  Robert turned, smiling when he saw them. Margaret turned, too. Her smile faltered when her gaze lit on Joanna.

  She knows, Joanna thought. She knows he asked me to marry him. How would Joanna feel in such a situation? How would she act?

  Margaret caught Joanna’s eye and smiled—just a small smile, and perhaps a bit strained, but Joanna had to admire her for it. She was going to get through this with her head held high; she would survive this, with grace. Some people have the gift of persevering in the face of adversity.

  Could Joanna display such strength of character if the situation were reversed—if the man she loved were preparing to wed another woman? She immediately pictured Graeham Fox kneeling at the altar next to some faceless woman, and felt a sickening ache in her belly—in her very soul.

  And she wasn’t even in love with Graeham Fox, merely...infatuated with him. Fascinated by him. Obsessed with him.

  But not in love.

  * * *

  “Papa, look! Look!” cried little Catherine, pointing to an acrobat executing feats of contortion on a long pole held aloft by two colleagues, all of them in parti-colored tunics and fanciful hats. A crowd had formed around the troupe, performing in front of the tanners’ market hall on the corner of Newgate and St. Lawrence. The child hopped and bobbed excitedly as she angled for a better view.

  “Here you go.” Robert lifted his daughter onto his shoulders, holding on to her stockinged legs. “Is that better?”

  “Aye!” She clapped her hands, screeching with delight. “Beatrix, look!”

  But Catherine’s little sister was taking her midafternoon nap on Margaret’s shoulder, arms and legs hanging limply, little pink mouth half open, oblivious to the chaos surrounding her. Newgate Street had been a riot of noise and roiling crowds since before nones; judging from past midsummer celebrations, the merrymaking would continue through the night, curfew being lifted for the Feast of St. John the Baptist.

  Every house and shop in West Cheap and Corn Hill—in fact, most of the dwellings in London—were bedecked with garlands of St. John’s wort, white lilies, green birch and fennel. Lanterns dangled among the boughs and branches, to be lit at sundown, along with the bonfires being built at regular intervals along the city’s major thoroughfares.

  The daylight hours were a time of feasting, the more affluent citizens having set out tables laden with sweetmeats, pasties and ale, free for the taking. Tonight would come the much-anticipated Midsummer Watch, an annual parade by London’s most prominent citizens.

  Joanna, standing with Hugh at the edge of the acrobats’ audience, shaded her eyes and peered farther down the street to see what entertainments awaited them. On a platform erected at the corner of Ironmonger Lane, two dancing girls in filmy silks leapt and spun. Farther down, in front of tiny St. Mary’s Church, was a fellow coaxing tricks from a trained bear.

  Joanna’s gaze was drawn to a momentary flash of red in the crowd surrounding the bear and his master. She instantly thought of Alice and her tattered red cap. Five days had passed since the morning the child had disappeared, and there’d been no sign of her since. Neither the ward patrol nor Holy Trinity’s Augustinian brothers had reported seeing her. It was as if she’d simply vanished. Joanna suspected the child wouldn’t be found unless she wanted to be found, and she prayed nightly for her safety. Graeham was still morose about it; he blamed himself for driving her away.

  Joanna kept her gaze trained on the audience around the bear, many of whom were children, but the bit of red she’d seen before did not reappear.

  “What are you looking at?” her brother asked her.

  Joanna shook her head somberly. “Nothing.”

  Later, while they were watching a trickster perform sleights of hand, she saw it again, a flicker of red at just the right height to be a child’s cap, about twenty yards down the crowded street. It appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye. She stilled, her gaze riveted to the spot where she’d seen it.

  Hugh smiled indulgently. “Nothing again?”

  Robert, guiding Catherine by the hand, came up behind her. “My lady? Is anything amiss?”

  She shook her head, still staring. Presently it appeared again, a spot of red in the throng. It was a cap, she saw—a child’s cap. A moment later its owner turned toward her, just briefly, but long enough for her to see his face.

  Her face. “Alice,” she whispered, her heart skittering.

  Hugh and Robert exchanged a look.

  “It’s Alice, Hugh—the little girl I told you about, the one who ran off last week.”

  “Where?” Hugh squinted down the street.

  “There—see? The red cap.” Joanna lifted her skirts and threaded her way swiftly through the crowd as the red cap winked in and out of sight. Should she call out to her or sneak up on her? She seemed to be moving away quickly. “Oh, God, I don’t see her anymore,” Joanna said despairingly.

  “I’ll get her.” Hugh sprinted off, disappearing among the swarming celebrants.
<
br />   “Who is she?” Robert asked.

  Joanna told Robert and his cousin what she knew about Alice.

  “A little girl sleeping on the streets.” Margaret, still holding the slumbering Beatrix, curled an arm protectively around Catherine. “How awful.”

  Hugh reappeared, holding Alice tucked beneath an arm like a kicking, thrashing little demon. “Put me down, you...you...damned mongrel!”

  “If you want to call people bad names,” Hugh said mildly, “I’ll teach you some better ones than that.”

  “Please don’t,” Joanna said.

  The child ceased her struggles and looked up, wide-eyed. She was as filthy as ever; her cap was askew, one long braid trailing out of it. “Mistress Joanna.”

  “Hello, Alice. I was worried I’d never see you again.”

  Alice squirmed against Hugh’s grip. “Would you tell this...bastard to put me down?”

  “Bastard,” Hugh mused. “That’s an improvement over mongrel, but I’m sure you can do better.”

  “This gentleman,” Joanna said, “is my brother, Hugh of Wexford. You may call him Sir Hugh. And this is Lady Margaret and Lord Robert. And I have no intention of asking my brother to put you down until you give me your word you won’t run away.”

  “I give you my word,” Alice said quickly.

  “Swear on this,” Hugh said, taking one of Alice’s grubby hands and wrapping it around the crystal knob on the hilt of his sword. “There’s a bit of hay from the manger of Bethlehem in this crystal.”

  Alice gaped at it.

  “An oath taken on this relic is binding before God,” Hugh intoned, his manner so absurdly grave that it was all Joanna could do to keep from laughing out loud. “If you break such a holy vow, the Lord will find a way to punish you. Now, do you swear before Almighty God and all the saints that you’ll stay put after I release you?”

  “What’ll you do to me if I don’t?”

  “Find some rope and tie you up, I suppose.”

  Alice sighed heavily. “I swear it.”

  Hugh set her down and dusted her off. She jerked away from his touch and stuffed the braid back under the cap, her exaggerated scowl vanishing when she caught sight of Beatrix, blinking in wakefulness on Margaret’s shoulder. “A baby.”

  Margaret smiled. “Do you like babies?”

  Alice nodded, transfixed by Beatrix.

  “She’s my sister,” Catherine proudly announced.

  Alice smiled at the younger girl. “She’s very pretty. So are you. How old are you?”

  Catherine held up five fingers. “How old are you?”

  “Ten. What’s your name?”

  “Catherine. What’s yours?”

  “Alice.”

  Catherine frowned in evident puzzlement. “You don’t look like a girl.”

  Alice hesitated, then pulled off her cap and stuffed it under her belt; her untidy braids sprang free.

  Catherine giggled in delight. “Why do you dress like a boy?”

  Alice frowned, obviously at a loss as to how to explain it to such a young child.

  “I’ll bet I know.” Robert squatted down next to his daugh¬ter. “Do you remember how your sister Gillian used to wear braies and shirts when she went for long rides?”

  Catherine nodded. “Mummy used to scold her for it, but you didn’t.”

  “Yes, well, Mummy and I didn’t always agree about Gillian, but we both loved her very much. Gillian felt braies were more practical than skirts when it came to riding.” Casting a meaningful glance toward Alice, he said, “Perhaps that’s why Alice wears braies—because they’re practical.”

  Taking the cue, Alice said, “Aye, that’s just it. They’re practical.”

  “Can I wear braies, Papa?” Catherine implored. “Please.”

  Margaret arched an eloquent brow and looked at her cousin as if to say, See what you started?

  “Perhaps someday,” Robert hedged as he rose to his feet. “When you go for long rides.”

  “Do you ride much?” Catherine asked Alice.

  Alice shook her head. “I used to ride our mule sometimes, when I lived in Laystoke. I had a sister your age, and she rode behind me.”

  Catherine pouted. “Papa says I’m too young to ride.”

  “I just don’t want any accidents,” Robert said. “I wouldn’t want you...getting hurt.” From his grim expression, Joanna knew he was thinking of the wife and daughter he had lost.

  “What if Alice rides with me?” Catherine asked.

  Robert and Margaret exchanged a pensive look.

  “I don’t live near you,” Alice told the little girl.

  “Where do you live?” Catherine asked Alice.

  Hesitantly Alice said, “Here in London.”

  “Whereabouts in London?”

  Alice chewed on her lower lip.

  Joanna was wondering how to redirect Catherine’s interroga¬tion when Robert asked, “Who wants some sweet wafers?”

  “Me!” Catherine shrieked happily, clapping her hands.

  Beatrix slapped her pudgy hands together and squealed in jubilant imitation of her sister.

  Alice brightened and started to say something, but swiftly collected herself, as if she weren’t sure the invitation had been meant to include her.

  “Alice,” Robert said, touching her shoulder, “why don’t you take Catherine over to where they’re handing out the wafers—” he pointed to a table across the street “—and get three of them, one for each of you?”

  “Aye, milord!”

  As the two girls set off hand-in-hand across the street, Margaret turned to her cousin. “She even looks a bit like Gillian, doesn’t she, Robert?”

  Robert nodded slowly as he gazed at the grimy little girl in boy’s clothing. “A bit.”

  * * *

  “May I speak to you alone, my lady?” Robert asked quietly.

  This was the moment Joanna had been waiting for uneasily all day. Now, as the setting sun stained the sky orange and the lanterns along Aldgate Street flickered to life one by one, he had evidently decided it was time for her answer.

  “Yes, my lord. Of course.”

  Hugh and Margaret, standing with the three children in the crowd surrounding a raging bonfire, glanced toward them as Robert led her around the corner of St. Mary Street. Hugh caught her eye and winked, apparently gratified that his scheme to betroth her to Robert was bearing fruit. Margaret looked away, her face horribly void of expression.

  St. Mary Street was lined with houses that leaned so far out over the rutted dirt lane that it seemed as if they were holding each other up on either side. It was dark here, and much quieter than Aldgate Street. Two little boys sped past them on their way to the festivities; otherwise it was deserted.

  They walked slowly, and in silence, until Robert touched her arm and they turned to face each other. He took a breath. “Have you thought about...what I asked, my lady?”

  She nodded and looked down, her arms wrapped around her middle. “I’m deeply honored that you want me to be your wife, Lord Robert. I like you very much, and your children are delightful. But I can’t marry you.”

  After a long, hushed moment, he said softly, “May I ask why?”

  Graeham Fox’s image materialized in her mind’s eye...Are you happy? But this wasn’t about Graeham. She wouldn’t let it be. Mostly it was about Margaret.

  Joanna looked up and met Robert’s gaze. “Your cousin.”

  Robert briefly closed his eyes. “Margaret...I told you, she’ll be leaving Ramswick after I get—”

  “I know.” Joanna rested a hand on his arm. “She’ll be taking holy vows. But you still won’t stop loving her.”

  He just stared at her. “I...” He shook his head. “Nay, you don’t understand. It can’t be that way between Margaret and me. She’s my cousin.”

  “Your third cousin. And I know you wanted to marry her once.”

  “The Roman curia refused to sanction it.”

  “You should have married
her anyway. You still should.”

  He shook his head, his expression conflicted. “My parents, ‘twould kill them.”

  She allowed herself a wry smile. “I somehow doubt that.”

  “No, you don’t know them, my lady. They’re terribly devout. They’ve been talking about taking vows, both of them. If I were to disregard the Church’s authority in this matter, it might literally kill them.”

  “I thought it might kill my father when I married Prewitt Chapman. It made him angry—furious—but he’s still alive.”

  “And still not speaking to you.” Robert looked abashed. “Forgive me, my lady. ‘Tis none of my affair.”

  Joanna took both of Robert’s hands in hers. “Just because my father repudiated me doesn’t mean your parents will do the same. William of Wexford has yellow bile flowing through his very veins. He lives for spite. From what I know of your parents, they seem like good people. They will forgive you.”

  “But they’ll be shocked, hurt...angry.”

  “Are you worried that your sire will disinherit you?”

  Robert shook his head. “All I care about is Ramswick, and he deeded it to me outright. It can’t be taken from me.”

  “Then let them get angry. They love you. They’ll get over it.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “Have you never done anything against their wishes, even when you were a boy?”

  “Nay—never.”

  Joanna laughed. “Then I think you’re a bit overdue. You must make up for the oversight in some significant way. Marrying the lady Margaret should do it.”

  “If I married her,” Robert said, “‘twould be like betraying my mother and father.”

  “So instead you choose to betray Margaret.”

  He blanched and withdrew his hands from her. “Betray her!”

  “You’re betraying the love you share with her—a love that will never die, no matter how much you want it to. How do you think she feels right now, knowing you’ve asked me to marry you?”

  “She accepts it. She told me.”

  “Just as you would accept it if she were to marry someone else, I suppose.”

  “She’s not going to get married. She’s going to become a nun.”