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.
Graeham sighed. “Perhaps nothing’s really wrong. More likely, a great deal is.”
“What happened?”
“I overheard a couple in the alley just now. Rolf le Fever...and Olive.”
“Olive? Perhaps...perhaps she was bringing him some tonic for his wife.”
“Mistress, there’s only one reason for a man and a woman to meet in an alley in the middle of the night.”
She shook her head. “Nay. Olive and le Fever? You’re imagining things.”
“He tupped her against the wall,” Graeham said shortly.
The flush spread from Joanna’s cheeks to encompass her face. “Perhaps it wasn’t really Olive. Perhaps—”
“I heard her voice. She was crying, so I didn’t recognize it right off, but after he called her Olive, I realized it was her. I had the impression they’d...been intimate for some time.”
“Oh, my God.” Joanna crossed to the table and sat on the bench, looking dazed and sad. “What about Damian? He loves her, and...I thought she loved him.”
“Perhaps she does,” Graeham said. “Matters of the heart are rarely simple. Usually they’re quite complicated...often unfathomable.”
She looked up and met his gaze then. Graeham thought about the awareness that enveloped them, the ponderous weight of things felt but unspoken, like a cloud swollen with rain waiting for a spark of lightning to make it burst forth.
Joanna was the first to avert her gaze. “You said you needed me.”
“I do,” he said softly. Too much, for far too many reasons.
She glanced at him. “What is it you need?”
Refocusing on the matter at hand, he said, “I’d like you to go across the street to the apothecary’s.”
“Right now? At this hour?”
“Aye. She’s over there mixing up some—”
“No.”
“No? But—”
“You seem to have forgotten,” she said, rising to her feet, “that I don’t exist to spy on my neighbors for you.”
Graeham groaned. “Mistress, I’m sorry about what happened before, but this is important. At least I’m being honest with you and not sending you over there on some other pretense.”
“That’s something, I suppose. But I promised myself that I’d never let you use me again, for...for anything. And it’s a promise I intend to keep.” She turned toward the ladder. “Good night, s
erjant.”
He hobbled after her on his crutch and closed a hand around her waist as she stepped on the first rung. “I know you care what becomes of Ada le Fever—otherwise you wouldn’t visit her every morning as you do.”
“What of it?” She lowered her foot, her back to him, her hands still gripping the ladder. He felt the tension in her, and curled his arm around her waist, telling himself it was because he didn’t want her dashing upstairs, where he couldn’t follow her. Her belly was warm and flat through the slippery silk; her scent made him light-headed. He wanted to pull her warmth against him, bury his face in her hair, press against her, into her.
Graeham swallowed hard, striving for some command over himself. “You bring her food every day. I know it’s because you’re worried that she’s being poisoned.”
“Let go of me, serjant,” she said a little breathlessly.
He tightened his arm around her, moved closer, felt the heavy satin of her hair against his face, the silken glide of her wrapper brushing his bare legs. “You’ll just climb that ladder if I do.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Graeham released her reluctantly, letting his hand slide slowly around her waist and linger momentarily on the firm curve of a hip before he backed away. It had been almost like holding a lover; he’d never have an excuse to hold her that way again.
She turned without looking at him and rubbed her arms. “I did think about poison in the beginning. I thought if she only ate what I brought her, she might recover. But she didn’t.”
“You suspected her tonic, too, didn’t you?”
“At first, but it’s just an infusion of yarrow.”
“If Olive was telling you the truth.”
Joanna looked at him sharply. “Olive is no murderer, serjant.”
“Olive is an impressionable young girl, mistress. And Rolf le Fever is not above using her to his own ends.”
“Those ends being murder?”
“I heard her speak that very word tonight.”
Joanna studied him for a long moment, then crossed to the bench at the table and sat. “Tell me.”
“There was something he wanted her to ‘take care of, and soon.’ He told her it was taking too long, that she knew what needed to be done and should just do it. She said it was murder.”
“Oh, Olive, Olive...” Joanna murmured, absently crossing herself.
“She agreed to it because he said it was the only way they could marry.”
Joanna closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead.
“With Mistress Ada out of the way,” Graeham said, “Olive and le Fever—”
“He would never marry her. He’d choose someone who could advance his station—a girl from the minor nobility, or perhaps the daughter of a rich and respected merchant. Not a humble apothecary’s apprentice.”
“Olive doesn’t know that. She’s entirely in his thrall.”
“Poor Olive.”
“‘Poor Olive’ may be over there right now concocting a fatal dose of whatever it is they’ve been slipping to Ada le Fever all along. Le Fever had probably wanted it to look like a slow, natural death, but now the time has come to finish her off.”
Joanna shook her head resolutely. “I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”
“Nevertheless,” Graeham said, coming to stand over her, “le Fever sent her back to the shop to ‘prepare the mixture,’ as he put it—before she lost her nerve. He said by this time tomorrow, it would all be over. I assume he means for Olive to put the final dose in the tonic she brings tomorrow afternoon.”
Joanna was still shaking her head. “‘Tisn’t possible. It can’t be. Olive...she couldn’t do such a thing.”
“I’m all too afraid she could.”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked woodenly.
“Go to the apothecary shop and see what she’s up to,” Graeham said.
“Just show up there in the middle of the night?”
“Tell her you need something...a sleeping powder. Look around, take stock of what she’s doing and how she’s acting. Question her, if you can do it without raising her suspicions.”
Joanna’s brow furrowed. “I’d feel so treacherous, misleading her that way.”
“I can’t go myself,” Graeham said. “There’s my leg, and—”
“I know, I know.”
“Would you rather I sent for the sheriff?” Graeham asked, although he’d prefer to avoid that until it became absolutely necessary, lest it compromise the secrecy of his mission.
Joanna shook her head and stood. “Nay—not yet. If this isn’t what it looks like—if Olive is innocent—I don’t want the sheriff getting involved.”
He’d hoped she would feel that way. Joanna plucked her mantle off its peg and pinned it over her wrapper. Graeham followed her into the shop, where she slipped on the wooden pattens she kept by the front door.
After she left, he held the door open a crack and watched her sprint across the street and knock on the door of the apothecary shop, which glowed from within. The door opened. Olive looked surprised to see her; even from this distance, Graeham could see that the girl’s eyes were puffy, her nose red. She had something in her hand—a wooden pestle. Joanna said something to her. She held the door open for Joanna to enter, then closed it behind her.
Graeham stood watching the shop until his leg began to ache. It was hot for this time of night, even in July. Sweat trickled beneath his shirt, which clung damply to his chest. Manfrid, who’d been outside, came and rubbed against his legs before squeezing between them and into the shop.
It was taking too long. Why was it taking so long? Something was wrong. He should never have sent her over there. She was in danger. There was murder being planned, and he’d thrust her right in the midst of it without sparing a thought for her safety. He’d been complacent because it was just Olive, and he couldn’t see her hurting Joanna, but if the girl was capable of poisoning Ada le Fever, she was capable of anything.
He opened the door and stepped into the street just as Joanna came out of the apothecary shop. Hurriedly he ducked back inside. When she reentered the shop, let out a sigh of relief. “I was worried about you.”
“Not too worried to send me over there.” She pulled off her pattens and swept past him into the salle.
Graeham followed her, his leg throbbing. He sat at the table and leaned his crutch against it. “Did she tell you anything?”
“Nay. She was too distracted. She prepared the sleeping powder as if she were in a trance. I’d be afraid to take it in case she made a mistake with the ingredients.” Joanna tossed a little parchment-wrapped packet on the table.
“What was she doing when you arrived?”
“Grinding up herbs.”
“Did you recognize them?”
“Nay.”
Graeham cursed inwardly.
“Do you?” Withdrawing an arm from beneath her mantle, she held up two bundles of dried herbs tied with string.
“You...you took them?”
“Aye.” She laid the bundles on the table; one had large leaves, one small. “If these really are the ingredients of a poison, I thought ‘twould be best to get them away from Olive before she...does something foolish.”
Graeham lifted first one bundle and then the other, bringing them to his nose; he didn’t recognize them either by appearance or smell. “She may have more than just these two bunches.”
“I know.” Joanna unpinned her mantle and hung it on its peg, wiping a hand over her damp forehead. “I thought of that after I took them. Still, it might give her pause. She might rethink what she was about to do.”
“Or she might go to le Fever tomorrow and report the theft, whereupon he might decide you’re a threat to his little scheme.” Graeham shook his head. “I can’t fault you for taking these herbs—I might have done so myself. But I hope you haven’t put yourself in any danger because of it.”
Returning to stand over the table, Joanna lifted one of the
sinister bundles and twirled it slowly. “It’s Ada le Fever I’m worried about. We should send for the sheriff first thing tomorrow morning.”
Graeham sighed, then nodded grudgingly. He no longer had any choice but to enlist the sheriff’s aid if he wanted to ensure Ada’s safety. If he weren’t a damned cripple, he would go over there right now and take her out of that house, but as it was... “You’re right,” he said. “I hate to do it, but...”
“Why?” she asked. “‘Tis the sheriff’s responsibility to investigate matters of this sort. Why would you hesitate to summon him?” She looked down at him in obvious confusion, the firelight making sparks of gold flicker in her brown eyes.
“When I was sent here to bring Ada le Fever back to Paris, I was cautioned to proceed with discretion.”
“Ah, yes.” She plucked off a leaf and crushed it under her nose. “The things you’re ‘not at liberty to reveal.’”
Graeham’s ears grew hot. He was ashamed, he realized, of having withheld so much from her while enlisting her aid to the extent he had. She’d resisted being his pawn, yes, but in all respects, save one, she’d proven herself completely worthy of his trust and confidence. The one exception was her prevarication about her husband’s death, but it was an innocent lie. She was a beautiful widow living alone. He couldn’t blame her—or her brother—for perpetrating a falsehood meant to keep the young soldier under her roof at a distance.
But he could blame himself for keeping things from her that she had every right to know, given the extent to which he’d involved her in this complicated little intrigue.
“I haven’t been fair to you,” he said. “You’ve earned the right to know more than I’ve told you. You’ve earned the right to know who sent me here.”
Joanna grew very still and quiet for a long moment. She laid the herbs back down and sat—not opposite him, as usual, but right next to him on his bench. “Who sent you here, serjant?”
“‘Twas my overlord, Baron Gui de Beauvais.”
Her brows drew together. “Why did you not want me to know that?”
“Because—” Graeham took a deep breath “—Ada le Fever is Lord Gui’s daughter.”
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 26
