Silken Threads (8 page)

A spark ignited the rush; Mistress Chapman
blew softly on it to encourage the flame. Cradling the lamp in her
hand, she carried it toward the storeroom. By its yellowish light,
Graeham saw her clearly for the first time since she’d come
downstairs. The sight mesmerized him.

She was luminous...entirely, breathtakingly
luminous. Not just her hair, which hung to her thighs in sinuous
waves of bronze and gold, and not just her gleaming wrapper of
white silk.
She
glowed
—
her face, her throat, her
hands
—
like alabaster lit from within.

Of course, he’d known she was a comely
woman, even dressed as she’d been earlier, in her matronly head
covering and dreary tunic. She had the kind of soft-edged,
meltingly pretty face men found themselves gazing at without
realizing it. Her eyes were a deep, liquid brown beneath
dramatically arched brows, her lips full and seductively pink. Her
chin, like her brother’s, was distinguished by the merest hint of a
cleft, as if a sculptor had touched the wet clay just once,
lightly, and left it at that.

Yes, he’d known she was comely. But now,
blanketed by that lustrous hair and draped in a whisper of white
silk, she was beautiful in a way that was almost excruciating to
behold.

If he were Prewitt Chapman, he would spend a
good deal more time in London, and a great deal less abroad.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she set the
oil lamp on the chest next to it and gathered her great mass of
hair behind her, all the while pointedly looking away from him. To
his chagrin, he realized he’d been staring at her, all but
awe-struck. He dropped his gaze as she leaned forward to inspect
his leg, her silken wrapper stretching enticingly over her breasts.
They were no larger than average, but lush and round, with high,
taut little nipples.

Arousal flared in his loins. Closing his
eyes, he took a deep breath and mentally recited his Latin drill,
loath to grow hard beneath his drawers with her ministering to him
this way. Joanna Chapman wasn’t one of Lord Gui’s wanton little
laundresses. She was a wedded woman; moreover, one who’d been kind
to him and deserved to be treated with a modicum of chivalry, not
as a vessel for his lust. And he was, after all,
betrothed
—
or soon would be
—
to another woman.

Graeham had best rein in his carnal
appetites until his wedding to the lady Phillipa, which Lord Gui
had assured him would take place in Paris within a fortnight of his
bringing Ada home. Phillipa had consented to the match provided
that she be permitted to continue her studies, a condition none of
her erstwhile suitors had conceded to, finding logic and philosophy
unseemly pursuits for a woman. Graeham, mindful of St. Jerome’s
counsel not to look at the teeth of a gift horse, and never having
had any quarrel with the education of women, had agreed readily. In
turn, Lord Gui, eager to please his beloved daughter, had chosen to
award Graeham the sprawling Oxfordshire estate for its proximity to
Oxford’s emerging
studium generale
.

All his life, Graeham had wanted one simple
thing, something even the poorest villein could lay claim
to
—
a home and family of his own. Soon he would have that,
and more. He would have the ideal wife
—
beautiful, learned
and agreeable
—
and a grand estate in one of the most
bucolic regions in all of England. After five-and-twenty years of
being the interloper, the tolerated outsider, he would finally
belong somewhere
—
and to someone. At long last, he would be
content. Perhaps even happy.

Nothing must interfere with the success of
his mission and the claiming of his reward.

Nothing.

“Are you all right, serjant?”

Graeham opened his eyes to find Joanna
Chapman looking up at him, one hand on his splinted leg.

“You’re clenching your fists,” she said,
pulling the blanket up to his waist. She turned her attention to
his swaddled ribs, which she gently patted and stroked, her brow
furrowed in concentration. Her hands looked strong and elegant at
the same time. He imagined those long, nimble fingers slipping
beneath the blanket, untying his drawers...A helpless little moan
rose in his chest.

“Am I causing you pain?” she asked.

A mirthless chuckle shook his chest. “Of a
sort.”

“I’m sorry.” She rested a hand gently on his
shoulder. “I’m quite sure that fall was agonizing, and I couldn’t
swear it did no harm
—
I’m not a surgeon. But if it did, I
see no evidence of it.”

“That’s some comfort. Thank you.”

“You’ll sleep better if it’s darker in
here.” She stood and reached across the pallet to close the window
shutters against the bright moonlight, sliding a wooden pin across
to latch them in place. Her wrapper shifted as she moved, caressing
a lissome curve of waist and hip and leg. That ugly blue tunic had
disguised both her slenderness and her deliciously feminine
contours. Moving to the head of the pallet, she shuttered the
window that looked out on the alley.

When she bent over to lift the lamp off the
chest, one side of her wrapper gapped open slightly, revealing a
pearly slope of inner breast. Clearly she had nothing on
underneath; he realized she must sleep naked.

“Is there anything else you need?” she
asked.

God, yes.
“I think not.”

“If anything occurs to you,” she said as she
crossed to the leather curtain, “just call up to me. I’ll hear
you.” She pulled the curtain closed.

“Mistress Joanna.”

There came a pause, and then the curtain
reopened. She looked in almost warily. “Aye?”

Words normally came to him without effort,
but not tonight. “Thank you. I...’Twas kind of you to...take me in
this way. I know I’ve been a great deal of trouble
—
”

“Not at all.”

He grinned skeptically. “You’d be fast
asleep upstairs right now if it weren’t for me.” He pictured her
naked in bed, that luxuriant hair spread out around her, and felt
desire rekindle within him. “You’re a...very unselfish woman, to
let me impose on you this way.”

“‘Tisn’t any great challenge to be unselfish
for just one night. Hugh will take you to St. Bartholemew’s
tomorrow, and then you’ll be the sisters’ responsibility.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Aye, in the morning.”

“Ah.”

“Is that not what you wanted?” she asked. “I
thought
—
”

“Aye,” he said quickly. “It’s what I want.”
It was what he
should
want. It was what was best.

“They’ve got the hospital there.”

“Yes, I know. I’m happy to be going
there.”

She opened her mouth to speak, and frowned.
Finally she said, “Very well. Good night, serjant.”

“Good night, mistress.”

* * *

“Serjant?” came a soft whisper from the
other side of the leather curtain the next morning. “Are you
awake?”

“Aye. Come in.”

The curtain parted and Joanna Chapman
entered, cradling a large wash basin in one arm and carrying a
steaming bucket in the other. She wore a brown kirtle even more
shapeless than yesterday’s blue one, and her hair was again
concealed, this time beneath a veil draped over her head and tied
on one side. How sad, Graeham reflected, that a woman must hide
such spectacular hair simply because she’d taken marriage vows.

She said, “I thought you might like to wash
up a bit before Hugh comes to take you back to St.
Bartholemew’s.”

“Thank you
—
I most certainly would.”
Graeham sat up slowly, teeth clenched.

She set the bucket on the floor and the wash
bowl on the chest next to his bed. In the bowl he saw a dish of
soft yellow soap, a wash rag and a towel. She arranged these on the
chest and half-filled the bowl with warm water, leaving more in the
bucket.Averting her gaze, she said, “Do you...need help or...”

“I can manage fine on my own, thanks.”

She unlatched the window shutters and threw
them open; morning sunlight flooded the little chamber. “Are you
hungry? I’ve started a pot of porridge. I’ve no ale to offer you,
but the water from the well is pure.”

“I don’t normally break my fast till midday.
Thanks all the same.”

She nodded without looking at him, clearly
ill at ease. Perhaps their nocturnal encounter had disturbed her as
well. “How do your injuries feel this morning?”

“Better. They only really hurt when I
move.”

“Try not to move too much. Hugh’s bringing a
cart to take you to St. Bartholemew’s, so you’ll be able to
lie
—
”

“A
cart
!”

“Aye. ‘Twas either that or a litter, and I
gather he thought a cart would be easier to obtain.”

“I’m not bouncing through the streets of
London in a cart, like some murdering churl on his way to Tyburn
Hill to be hanged.”

“You can’t very well sit astride a
horse.”

“I damn well...pardon me, mistress. I most
certainly can. And will.”

“You’re an exasperating man, serjant.”

He nodded, smiling. “Point taken. But I’m
not getting in any cart.”

“You may discuss the matter with Hugh when
he gets here.” As she turned to leave, her gaze lit on the jake,
which he’d tucked under the bed. “Does that need emptying?”

“Nay. I...went out and used the privy a
little while a
—
”

“
Again?
After what happened last
night?”

“I was careful.”

“How did you support yourself? That sledge
is still by the back door.”

“There’s a broom over there.” He nodded
toward the corner. “I used that.”

She shook her head, outrage turning her
brown eyes to gold. “Exasperating and maddeningly stubborn.”

“So I’ve been told. Don’t worry, mistress.”
His voice grew subdued. “You haven’t that much longer to put up
with me.”

She met his gaze squarely for the first time
that morning, her expression pensive, perhaps even a little
melancholy.

“God’s tooth!” came a man’s furious roar
from outside. “You haven’t got him saddled yet? I
told
you I
was late! What have you been doing out here?”

Looking out the little rear window, Graeham
saw Rolf le Fever in his stable yard, dressing down a hulking,
redheaded fellow who was buckling a saddle onto the back of a black
horse. Graeham didn’t know which was gaudier, le Fever’s
multicolored tunic or the absurd saddle, which had been plated with
hammered silver and studded with gems; the bridles appeared to be
gilded, and rows of tiny gold bells hung from the breast strap.

“Beg pardon, Master Rolf, but
—
”

“You should bloody well beg my pardon! Get
him saddled up so I can get out of here!”

“That’s the master of the new Mercers’
Guild,” said Mistress Joanna. “Rolf le Fever.”

Graeham turned to find her peering out the
window with her arms crossed, watching le Fever’s little
performance as if it were a street play.

“Is that so?” he said.

She nodded. “He lives right behind me, so I
get to listen in on his fits of pique several times a day, whether
I care to or not. Luckily for me, he spends most mornings at the
silk traders’ market hall, so the hours between terce and nones are
generally quite peaceful.”

“That must be where he’s off to now.”

“Nay, he walks to the market hall. It’s
right around the corner on Newgate Street.”

After draping the seat of the saddle with a
quilted brown satin
baudré
that hung nearly to the ground,
the red-haired brute assisted his master in mounting.

“Who’s the other fellow?” Graeham asked.

“His manservant, the poor, long-suffering
Byram.”

Graeham looked at her sharply. “Byram?”

“Aye.”

The manservant watched le Fever ride off and
retreated into the house. “That fellow’s name is Byram? Are you
certain?”

“He’s been serving le Fever for the entire
six years I’ve been living here. I think I know his name.” Her
brows drew together. “Why?”

“Nothing, just...”
Are you Byram?
Graeham had asked the bald-headed cur who’d lured him into the
alley.
That’s right...
“Is it possible there are two Byrams
working for le Fever?”

She cocked her head as if she hadn’t heard
him right. “Two Byrams.”

“Aye...I know it sounds daft.”

“It
is
daft. Le Fever’s only got the
one fellow over there. There’s a maidservant and a kitchen wench,
but just the one man. Why would you think there’d be another
Byram?”

Graeham shrugged. This woman and her brother
mustn’t suspect that the attack on him was anything other than a
routine robbery, or Lord Gui’s secret might be exposed. “It
is
daft. Never mind.”

“But
—
”

“That’s quite a house,” Graeham said to
divert her. By the light of day, he had an excellent view of the
back of it. Through the ground-level windows, he saw a kitchen
wench with shiny red cheeks singing as she cooked. The second-floor
windows were even larger. To the left was the opulently appointed
sitting room he’d been in yesterday. To the right he saw an equally
grand chamber, in which the maidservant, Aethel, was smoothing the
counterpane of a massive, curtained bed with the aid of a long
pole. That must be le Fever’s bedchamber. The windows of the solar,
on the third level, were shuttered.

“A dreadful house,” Joanna said. “I gather
he thinks it’s quite grand. He has...aspirations. Likes to play the
nobleman, but he ends up looking more like the court jester.”

Which was why he’d married Ada, of
course
—
to help propel him beyond his station. No wonder he
became so incensed when he found out his new bride was, in fact,
Lord Gui’s “shameful little secret.”