Chapter 15

 

Luke fidgeted, wishing Degory would retire for the night. When Luke was young, Degory had been his hero, the one who had taught Luke how to swim the river’s currents and whirlpools. He shared the secrets of how to recognize the best times in the evening for catching the biggest fish. Degory, two years Luke’s senior, had grown up on a bridge, had been around people more, and had learned much about travel and gold, and girls. Deg had taught him many things for which Luke’s father had no time because his father’s priorities properly rested with Philip, his heir. Degory had shown Luke the subtleties and necessities of life.

But Deg had not prepared Luke for a woman like Joya. In truth, one could not be prepared for such an abundance of color, of deep passions that swamped him like the foaming surfs on Ireland’s West Coast.

Deg wore all signs of being enamored as well. He had seized upon Joya’s interest in the bridge and over the last two hours had exhausted every topic about it.

“I must needs speak with Joya now, Deg,” he said.

Degory continued to gaze at Joya.

“We have matters to discuss,” he told his cousin, raising his voice a notch. “Privately.”

His cousin turned to him, and at last recognition lit his eyes.

Taking Luke’s pointed cues, Deg bid them good night and left to join his father.

Luke took Joya’s hand, and the touch of her small fingers sizzled up his arm. “Let’s walk the bridge.” Off the north end of the bridge the stables had quieted for the night, and Simon waved from the guard house. The church was dark, as were the haberdasher shop and the goldsmith’s house.

They walked the deck, the hollow sounds of their footsteps on the wood a faint music from his childhood memories.

A breeze brought the smell of the river, of fish and the rich earth of summer.

He nestled her hand into the crook of his arm, a most natural feeling. Her breast pressed against his arm and he remembered her thin chemise, shimmering with lake water, clinging to her lush breasts, her nipples taut under the fabric.

Turning her to him, he took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes, where he saw a depth of emotion and welcome he had never imagined. He covered her mouth with his, and her soft lips moved against his. Heat lashed him, and he fell into a desperate need to have her close to him.

He kissed her ear, her neck, the top of her breasts. She moaned and offered herself to him. He wanted to fall to his knees and take her with him, love her on the deck of the bridge, but he would not ruin her.

Summoning control, he forced himself to pull back. He would never have expected her to affect him thusly. He was loathe to send her away, but he must.

Wagg’s news changed everything, but it was so drastic a change from York’s original plans that Luke had immediately sent word to him in Dublin. He understood the need to adjust the plans because Margaret had changed hers, but in the original plans, he would have repaired a bridge to hasten movement of troops. In the adjusted plan, he would destroy a bridge to kill the king and hundreds of soldiers. Mayhap York did find it necessary to sacrifice hundreds to save thousands of lives and end the fighting, but he needed to hear it from him directly.

In the meantime, he must keep her and his family from danger. “I am glad to see you.” Indeed, words could not do honor to the feelings she stirred in him. “Thank you for bringing Hugh, but it’s not safe here for you. You must leave on the morrow.”

“Were it not for me, things would have been simpler for you. You heard from Hugh, I’m sure, that Margaret came with her troops to Coin Forest.”

“I did.”

“A sennight ago, while we were in Cerne.”

“Had I still been in Coin Forest—you saved my life. And here you are, now. ‘Tis hard to believe you possess such boldness. Surely Lord Tabor didn’t agree to this visit.”

She lowered her gaze. “It is most certainly against his order. But my mother…” She paused. “My mother understands how I feel about you.”

“Why would she allow you to sacrifice your reputation?” A complicated stew brewed in his mind. He had hoped that what they shared was based on genuine affection rather than a family struggle of wills. Young women were known to ruin themselves to avoid an arranged wedding to a loathesome man. He wondered, too, if her actions were those of a too closely guarded daughter. But they had shared their passions at the lake, and she had traveled all this way to see him. And what of Lady Tabor? Surely she could not approve of her daughter favoring a traitor. His thoughts veered into the Gypsy path of magic and dark secrets, and Joya’s story of the Evil Eye.

“Luke, are you all right? You look absolutely ill of a sudden.”

“Your mother agreed? To your coming here?” More unsavory thoughts spun their way into his thoughts. Kadriya had suggested that Joya show him Crystal Lake, back in Cerne. And he had been the fool, thinking it was merely a stroke of good luck, having hours alone with her. Had Kadriya been helping Lady Tabor offer up her own daughter to Luke as an opportunity for Margaret to spy on him?

Joya’s eyes grew wide, as if Luke had said she had two heads. “Oh, my no.” She shook her head vigorously. “She’s not pleased about it.” She tilted her head, regarding him. “Oh.” Her eyes cast down again, in thought. “Oh.” A frown wrinkled her forehead. “What you must think of us. What you must think of me.” She pushed him away.

“No. No, Joya. That’s not what I was saying.” What am I saying? Egad, I’m denying something I never said. Can she read my mind? It’s not true. It’s not true. Is it?

“Oh, yes it is. I see it in your eyes. You don’t trust me. You don’t trust my mother! Of all the reprehensible, insulting things you could think. After all I’ve sacrificed for you. After all my father and mother have suffered because of you. Because of my defense of you. Because I love you.” She struck him on the chest with each word, her dark eyes vivid with anger. “Well, I don’t any longer. I can’t love a stupid man, and you are stupid, stupid, stupid if you think I’d lay waste to my life like I have, for personal gain with the queen.”

He had thought that back in gaol when he met her friends, sharp-tongued, horse-laughing Camilla and tittering little Prudence. It was an insult, but not as bad as the one he’d been thinking. He warded off her blows, realizing anew that as trying as it had been to have Joya Ellington as a friend, it would be much more hazardous to have her for an enemy.

“As for my mother, she happens to believe in true love. Something you, clearly, will never understand. She gave me this one chance to talk sense into you. Your uncle told me tonight, he’s trying to talk sense into you and get you out of this York plan. We’re all trying, but you choose to suspect me. And my mother.” She gathered the skirts of her sparkling gown and marched back toward his uncle’s house, her steps short and thumping, punishing the wooden deck.

Luke ignored the warnings blaring in his head and pursued her, snagging her arm. “Wait. Surely you can see that—”

“I see all right. I see now why you always prefer the company of one—yourself. You trust no one, you think of no one but yourself. How you are affected, not how others are.”

“It’s for the others that I’m with York. The years York ruled as Protector were good years for England. The years under Margaret have been bad. Simple.”

“Ah, so simple, even I should be able to understand it?” Joya shoved her face into his, nose to nose, eyes flashing. “Here’s the rest of the ‘simple’ truth. Margaret came to Coin Forest to lighten your fine and spare you. The raid on Penryton was a deception.” She had leaned in so close he could feel the heat of her words.

“Hugh doesn’t believe her, either.”

“But you must. She had nothing to gain from such brutality. She could have claimed your lands, sent your brothers packing and beheaded you, all before breakfast.”

She was right. He stood, unable to think further, unable to speak.

“Margaret wants the throne for her son. What do you really know about York?”

“I could tell you again, but you don’t believe me.”

“Nor do you believe me.”

A stony silence settled between them.

“My mother gave me one day with you.” Her anger had faded, her words dull with resignation. “After that, my father will come to escort me home. Will he tell Margaret where you are? Probably. Unlike you, he’s loyal.” She spun away from him again and strode to his uncle’s porch.

“Wait, Joya.”

“No.” She hurried into the house.

 

In his chamber, Luke paced. The evening had gone badly. After all she had done to help him, he had offended her. Who knew what she was thinking? If he guessed incorrectly at what had offended her the most, she would be angry with him for thinking, not one, but two or more insulting things about her and her family.

Yes, this was why he kept his own company. He had successfully avoided such confusing, tangled bonds in the past. How much easier to laugh over tankards with an alehouse woman, pay her generously and bid farewell after a good romp under the covers.

But Joya’s eyes shimmered for only him. Her delicate fingers had touched his face, his heart. She had opened her heart to him and he would never be the same again. He could not return to that quiet place that offered peace but no Joya.

Life had become progressively more dangerous. Had Tabor summoned Margaret? He recalled Joya’s casual mention of his beheading, and rubbed his neck. Every gesture she made to help him seemed to instead force him into a more perilous position.

 

Three soft knocks sounded from Joya’s door. She donned a robe and opened the door.

Luke slipped in. “Sorry. I need to talk with you.”

“Say it quickly. This is improper.”

“I’m sorry. All are asleep. ‘Tis very late.” His uncle had given her the best guest chamber, the one facing the east. She would see a beautiful sunrise on the river in a couple of hours.

She lit a candle from the small fire and settled at the table.

The quiet near hummed in his ears. He cleared his throat, despising social intercourse. “I meant no insult to you or yours,” he began. He scratched his nose, and his neck needed attention, so he scratched that, too. “It has been awkward for us from the beginning. I don’t understand why you’ve been so helpful. I have done naught but disrupt your life and cause damage to your standing.”

She did not respond.

“I need to know if you have told Lord Tabor where you are. I don’t doubt his loyalties for a moment, and if he knows, Margaret knows, as well, and I will need to leave posthaste.” He paused. “Please.”

She still said nothing, and Luke hesitated, wishing to gain his balance. “Does he know?”

“I will send word tomorrow.”

Luke calculated. That meant he had three, mayhap four days. “Thank you.” Afraid to sit lest he fall off the bench from lack of grace, and loathe to leave when there existed such tension between them, Luke remained standing.

“You thought that my mother was using me to spy on you.”

It was an accusation, not a question.

“It makes sense. First Kadriya sent you away with me, without escort, for several hours. And your mother allowed you to come all this way—against Tabor’s order—to see me again.”

“I knew you weren’t listening. Did you not hear what I said outside? My mother knows I care for you.”

“And how can you? You don’t know me. We met a fortnight ago. My family’s been murdered and I’m without lands and funds and you care? You said I care only for myself. I did not seek you out. Why do you care?”

She took his hand in her small ones. “I tried not to. I’m not foolish. Most of times.”

Raising her hands in his, he kissed each one. “You are beautiful, the woman of any man’s dreams. How could I be deserving of your affections?”

“I told you I tried to stop.” She pulled him down to her for a kiss. It was soft and dainty, the touch of a butterfly’s wing against his mouth. Her tongue slid under his lips, met his tongue, and slid deeper.

He kissed her chin, her forehead, her hair. He lifted her up above him, as he had in the lake, and let her slide down the length of him, her body soft and her hips and stomach and breasts massaged his body, setting him on fire.

He swung by the door, latched it, and carried her to the bed. They fell gently onto it. “The lake,” he spoke into her hair, lifting the beautiful black locks from her shoulders, up above her head, where it cascaded like swirls of ink in water. “I was loathe to leave you after the lake. You’re in my dreams. You’re there when I close my eyes.” He kissed her again, lingering, a sweet melting of the body as he heated up for her again, his body straining. “I will love you so much that you will remember that I think of you with every breath.”

“Joya.” He helped her out of her robe and chemise. He raised her arms above her head, kissing her arms up to her hands. He held her hand as gently as he would a dove, kissing it, licking the tender pads between her fingers. “I love your hands.”

Her sharp intake of breath when he sucked her fingers was satisfying, but he wanted more sighs, more excitement.

He caressed her shoulders, following his fingers with more kisses. He rolled her over to expose her beautiful back and kissed down each bump on her spine, each rib, and down to the dimples below her waist. He trailed his fingers lightly on the beautiful swells of her bottom, his touch light. She gasped and he hardened, clenching his teeth at the pleasure it brought him to hear her love sounds.

She raised her bottom to him and his fingers trailed between her legs, finding her sweet folds, wet with desire. He stroked her until she panted, and slid his forearm between her legs, rubbing her in long, smooth strokes. She cried out and trembled, and he could stand it no longer.

He turned her over and rubbed himself against her opening, delighting in the smooth wetness and the wild look in her eyes, the way she clutched his neck and tried to climb up to him.

He drove into her, and closed his eyes, seeing the fire behind his eyelids as she stroked him with her body.

She grabbed his bottom and moved wildly below him, a dance of desire he had never known before.

She said his name, a kind of cry, and he shattered. He thrust inside her deeply, withdrawing, entering, feeling the velvet and friction, until he could feel and say no more.

When he could next register thought, she was kissing his face and stroking his back.

“Now you know,” he said.

“Know what?”

“How I feel.” Surely after what they shared, she knew now.

“Tell me, please.”

He rubbed a finger over her lips, swollen from their lovemaking. “You know.”

“You can’t say it?”

“You know I can’t.” The warm glow left him, replaced by frustration. “You know how it is between us.”

“You know I’m no spy?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ve made progress.”

He smiled. She was beyond beautiful, and she was his. It pleased him and scared him, but it would scare him a great deal more if he were forced to put it into words.

“Will you at least consider that Margaret had nothing to do with the attack on Penryton?”

“I cannot.”

“What would it take for you to believe her innocence?”

“She is too protected. It will never come out.”

“You refuse.”

Pre-dawn light started slowly stealing the darkness. He would need to leave soon, so he wouldn’t be seen leaving her chamber. “What would you have me do?”

“Meet with her.”

He thought of York’s amended plans. He’d meet with her, all right, if she decided to lead the royal troops to fight York. Luke would meet with her right here, and stop her from getting across this bridge and to London. “I might.”

Her eyes widened. “Might what?”

“Meet with her.”

“Forsooth? Oh, Luke, I’m sure ...”

Her words faded because hatred raged in his ears as he thought of his brothers, dying at Margaret’s bidding. This time, it would be her turn.

 

* * *

 

Later that morning, Joya finished her brief message and released the bird. Her mother would be angry with her for sending it late, but she honored her promise. She would have all day with Luke, another opportunity to get him to meet with Margaret.

He had encouraged her, agreeing to meet with the queen. She included that in her message home.

Degory was at table when she returned. He greeted her with enthusiasm and mentioned a visit to the village.

“I would like that, thank you,” she said. “And Luke, can he join us?”

“He left,” Degory said. “He said he’d be back for dinner.”

Degory held the front door for her as they left. “The streets are still muddied,” Deg said. “Better to ride and protect that lovely gown. ‘Tis a most unusual shade of red.”

Joya ran her fingers down the double princess seaming that defined the bodice. “Thank you. It always reminds me of red wine in the morning, that lighter color.”

They rode down the high street, past the church and green. The sun peeked through a break in the clouds, making the water sparkle as it splashed from the miller’s waterwheel. Pigs snorted enthusiastically as they snouted through their scraps, and a baby’s cries sounded from one of the marketplace stands.

“Redstone is an old Roman town,” Degory said. “A stone axe and some flints were found by what is now the mill, and Roman coins have been found on the riverbanks. Parts of the river are too narrow to handle ships, but it accommodates small ferries and boats, and it’s close to Fosse Way. It’s a market town but has never received license for a fair.” He reined his horse off the road to a large brick building lined on the outside with large barrels.

A rich, sweet smell intensified as they neared the building, the aroma of malted barley and yeast. “Millith makes a great potage,” Deg said. “Step carefully by those barrels.”

Inside, more barrels lined the left wall, and long tables allowed a narrow aisle that ended with a table laden with pitchers and jugs. The air was moist and fragrant with boiling meat, grains and herbs.

A serving girl greeted Degory and brought them each an ale and trencher of meat. Joya pulled her knife from her girdle and speared a chunk of the meat. “Delicious.” The house was near empty, just another table occupied at the far end. “Have you had any success with Luke?”

“Nay. He’s entrenched. He’s always been that way.” Deg talked between bites. “It’s not just me, or you. He’s been that way since I’ve known him. You should have seen him and his brothers fight.”

“I did. Dreadful.” She cleaned her knife and returned it to her girdle, frustrated once more. “There must be something we can say that will convince him.”

“You don’t know Luke. He closes his ears and his mind. His brothers used to call him Turtle for the way he would draw in to himself, disappear just like a turtle.”

“I heard them call him that. Luke threatened to kill Christopher if he called him that again.”

Deg stared at the line of barrels. “There was one time. Luke was really young, and Philip and Chris were trying to get him to do something.” He studied the big beams overhead as if trying to pull down the memory. “I can’t remember what it was they were trying to force him to do, but Luke refused. They called him Turtle and spied a rotted pickle barrel. Luke was strong, but not strong enough to fight the two of them. They stuffed him into the barrel and slammed the lid shut. He still has a scar on his forehead from it.”

“Why didn’t you stop them?”

“I wasn’t there, or I would have. Humfrye told me. He thought it was amusing. They rolled him around in it for a while, and then just left him until someone discovered him.”

“He must have been terrified. He could have died.”

“Humfrye said there were spaces between a few of the staves for air.” Deg paused. “Please don’t mention it. I never told Luke I knew. I only mention it so you know how stubborn he is.”

A sense of powerless outrage flared, making her breathless. “How long?”

“What?”

“How long was he locked in the barrel?”

Degory ran his hand through his hair. “I should not have spoken.” He licked his lips. “I don’t know.”