Silken Threads (34 page)

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.”

* * *

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
good 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.

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, serjant.”