Jayne Fresina (16 page)

“You’ve been at my mother’s plum wine haven’t you?”

Hands on her waist, she stood her ground. “So what if I have?”

Glowering down at the bedraggled creature with the stubborn lips and prim, upturned nose, John once again suffered an undeniable jolt of need. At least once a day, since he’d brought her here, these feelings came to him and usually at a very inconvenient moment.

She could deny it all she liked.

But he knew her. Intimately. In every way.

Where had she been before then? How many other men had she known since him? Had she thought of him at all in the time between? Anger, jealousy and hurt battled for supremacy. No woman had ever done this to him. No woman would dare treat him this way.

She was leaving him again, her quick step already passing through the gates to the yard. He followed, grabbed a pitchfork from the hay cart and ran around in front of her, holding it like a weapon. She skidded to a halt, eyeing the pitchfork fearfully.

“Tell me the truth, Friday wench.” She stepped back against the cart and he followed. “It was you, wasn’t it? Confess!”

She regarded him sourly, lips pursed, head on one side. He resettled the pitchfork across his thighs, holding it with both hands.

“Well?”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life. Not before you found me waiting on the Captain’s cart in Yarmouth.”

The little scar under her eye was not familiar to him, but her lips were. So was the dimple and the hair, now its true color began to show. She had the sheer gall to feign ladylike, dainty manners when he knew exactly what she was and what she’d done to him, damn her.

She was the best birthday gift he’d ever had.

There was an odd break in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You’re not a very good liar,” he observed coolly, trying to remain calm. “Surprisingly enough, for a whore.”

She was silent.

“Is that where Nathaniel found you? At Mistress Comfort’s?”

“I don’t know what you–”

“After you left my bed, did you go to his?”

“You speak nonsense.” Now she put on a little display of exaggerated outrage, almost comical, waving her arms wildly. “I’ve never been in any bed with you. I’m shocked you would suggest it.”

He stepped closer and she turned her face away. “Did he celebrate with you later?” he spat. “I’m surprised he didn’t come to crow over me, once he proved I couldn’t stay celibate until I married. He chose you, I suppose, because he knew I’d never resist you.”

“How dare you mistake me for some sixpenny whore?”

“I’ve no doubt you charge more than sixpence.” He remembered every sweet inch of her butter-soft skin. “I’m lucky Nathaniel paid your fee. It was my birthday, but I never expected him to remember me with such a generous gift. Since I’m covering your living expenses while he’s away, I’m entitled to some arrangement surely. I realize your accommodation here in my humble abode is hardly luxury, but it must count for something toward the fee.” The anger he’d sworn to restrain refused to oblige for the sake of his pride. It sputtered out of him, wild and tempestuous, too much even for him to handle. “What would you charge me, then? Just out of curiosity. Not that I’ve any intention of paying for it. How much for one night?”

* * * *

Lucy was too indignant to manage any reply. She certainly wasn’t ready to tell him what sent her to Mistress Comfort’s or how she came to be with Nathaniel. In many ways John Carver was still an unknown quantity to her, as much mystery as he’d been the night they’d met. Back then, the only two things concerning her had been his ability to perform the job and that she’d found him attractive. Now, he was an entire person with a life and family. She’d never wanted to make anyone like her before, never sought approval from anyone other than her father, and the Lord knew that was a thankless task. But she realized how much she wanted John to like her, respect her, not to have him think her a whore, shout at her with fire in his eyes, the veins standing out on his neck, his hands clenched into fists.

If he ever hit her he would do more damage than old Winton, she thought grimly.

But he wouldn’t hit her. Or would he? How did she know?

She’d recently discovered she knew a great deal less about men and life in general than she’d thought she’d known when living under her father’s strict governance. Sometimes, when more of this shocking self-pity welled up in her throat, she wished she’d never left her old world where all was familiar, even if it killed her slowly. Better that, perhaps, than to be out here, tired, sore and unappreciated, with this dreadful, uncouth, rough-handed, big, gorgeous man yelling at her. If her father were here, he’d have something to say. Yes he would. John Carver would be put in his place then and never dare raise his voice to her again.

Damn him! He was a country peasant who should be thanking her for the honor she once bestowed upon him, not accusing her of being a harlot who went from one bed to another. How dare he? How dare he? Had he taken no part in what had happened? It seemed he was just like every other man after all, another believer in the great double-standard. He would bed with a whore, then look down on her as a woman of loose morals, while thinking himself above reproach. He was ready to blame her, say she tempted him.

There was only one thing she could do when he questioned her so crudely: maintain her innocence. Deny everything.

“It wasn’t me, you great stupid, country oaf!”

Still, even as her own fury mounted, the fire ignited by plum wine, she realized what she wanted from him most of all was a kiss. A long, hard, hot, wet one.

And he was staring at her mouth, as if the same ridiculous idea was on his own mind.

“You best tell me the truth, whore,” he growled, “or I’ll…”

She stuck out her chin. “Or what, plowman?”

“I’ll send you back to Yarmouth, or Norwich, or wherever you came from. I won’t keep a lying deceiver in my house.”

“I told you, I’ve never been to Norwich.”

“If I saw you naked, I’d know for sure.”

“Well, you’ll never see me naked, will you? So there!”

He gave her a dark, sinister look and she backed up another step against the hay cart, fearing he might actually try to rip the clothes off her there and then. He was arrogant enough to think he had the right. “You’re on loan to me, wench, remember?”

“Nathaniel didn’t mean it that way, fool!”

“Oh?” He leaned closer. “How did he mean it then? Am I supposed to look and not touch? You’ve teased me since I brought you here.”

“I certainly have not!”

“Yes you have. And I’ve told you before, wench, don’t argue with me! And don’t leave these gates again without my permission.”

“I thought I wasn’t your prisoner?” she shouted.

“Now you are, since you’ve proven yourself untrustworthy. You’ll do as I say and stay in the house.”

“I’ll do what I like and go where I like.”

“Over my dead body,” he yelled at her.

“Fine! Suits me!” He wasn’t the first man she’d done away with, was he? With a flounce of her skirts, head tipped back proudly, she began to march around him, but he stopped her again with the pitchfork.

“Or over yours,” he growled menacingly. “Confess, wench. It was you.”

“If you’re so sure, why do you need my confession?”

He considered briefly, eyelids lowered to hide the wicked gleam. “Until you confess your sins, you can’t be forgiven and we can’t get beyond it.”

The plum wine sang in her veins, making her bold and considerably careless. “I’m weary of this conversation and I’m going in. Get out of my way.”

“I’m in charge here, Friday wench, not you.”

“If I wanted a master I would have stayed…” she stopped, recovered, and hissed through gritted teeth. “I told you…I’ll do as I please.”

“Not while you’re under my roof and eating my food.”

She said nothing. The sun had disappeared behind the chimneys of the house and all was still. The birds finally rested after a long day of song, but his mother’s gentle humming drifted
out through the open shutters.

“Whatever my cousin let you get away with,” he said, every word succinct, loaded with menace, “you won’t find me so tolerant.”

“You don’t frighten me…peasant!”

Throwing the pitchfork aside, he closed in the last little distance, one hand on each side of her as she leaned back against the cart. “Well, you ought to be afraid of me, Lucy. If that’s your real name.”

She wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes, determined not to show an ounce of fear.

“You have no idea what I could do to you,” he breathed against her cheek.

“Ha! I know exactly, don’t I, since you’ve already done everything…” She froze.

He let out one sly, wicked chuckle. “Never been to Norwich, eh? Never been in any house of ill-repute or laid in any bed with me? Better not drink anymore plum wine or you might reveal all your secrets.”

She cursed herself for the slip, but it was too late. John leaned over her, staring at her mouth and she was hot, melting like a pat of butter left on a sunny window ledge. Expecting a kiss, she parted her lips. Instead, he licked her cheek, slowly and carefully. She gasped, a quick, startled inhalation as his shirt brushed against her breasts and then she put her hands to his chest, pushing him back.

He licked his lips. “Just as I thought.” He was hoarse. “I remember the taste.”

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on me again.”

“It wasn’t a finger.” He grinned slowly.

Nose in the air, she swung her skirts to walk around him, but he caught her sleeve again and held it in his iron grip. “I know who you are, wench.”

“You know nothing about me,” she declared, half laughing. Oh, wouldn’t he be surprised to know the truth?

“I know this,” he whispered, his breath toying with a stray frond of hair as it tumbled down her neck. “You were mine first. Therefore you belong to me, not Nathaniel. And this changes everything.”

Chapter 11

That evening, as the effects of the plum wine slowly wore off, she played solitaire by the fire, trying to ignore him, while he slumped in his chair, watching her as if she were a criminal under his guard. Vince sat beside her, his great head on her knee. Occasionally the dog’s gaze flicked back and forth between them, is if he were unsure whose side he was on, but was definitely aware of a battle being waged. Knowing how much the dog’s torn loyalties disturbed John, she patted his head, fondled his ears and told him how good he was, even occasionally planting kisses on his furry head.

Every angry little twitch, every muted ramble from across the hearth, counted as a small victory. He wouldn’t talk to her again as he had today and get away with it. She was a lady, not a whore. Perhaps, just once, she had lapsed, but let he who is without sin cast the first stone, she thought angrily. As far as she recalled, he’d enjoyed himself as much as she had, probably even more, since he’d had no unhappy marriage hanging over his head at the time.

Mistress Carver didn’t appear to notice the chill in the air, or at least, she was wise enough not to mention it. Tonight the old lady wrote letters to her daughters in Dorset. Lucy, searching for some conversation to take her mind off other matters, asked if they came home often to visit.

“Not so often as I might like,” his mother replied. “But I’m glad to see them both happily wed, and they have families of their own now.” She looked up from her letter. “Besides, I still have John to fuss over me.”

Lucy glanced over at him. He’d just taken a sip from his pewter tankard and now, gaze trapping her in a fiercely possessive hold, he licked his lips. “I’ve no taste for cider tonight. I’ve a sudden hankering for something else.”

“Do you want some ale, John?” his mother asked. “I’m sure Lucy will fetch the jug from the pantry.”

“No Mother. ’Tis not ale I have the taste for either. Something sweeter.”

“There’s buttermilk, if you–”

“I can’t think what it is I have a thirst for,” he interrupted, nursing his tankard to his chest. “Can’t think of the name. I had it once, a while since. Not sure if I ever knew the name of it in fact.”

Clearing her throat loudly, Lucy slapped another card down. “You have many grandchildren, Mistress Carver?”

“Oh yes. My eldest daughter, Grace, has only one child, a dear little girl, but my younger daughter Maddie has eight children. Five girls and three boys.”

“Eight?” Lucy felt the fire in her cheeks. “Gracious! So many!”

“And she acts as if each one was purely by accident.” The old lady sniffed, returning to her letter. “I told her, by now she ought to know what’s causing it, but she pretends not to hear and keeps making the same mistake. She always was a contrary girl.”

“Always thought she knew what was best,” John interrupted gruffly. “Always mouthy, eh Mother? Always telling fibs.” He shot Lucy a dark, ominous look. “Always giving commands, trying to take charge. A woman is supposed to be yielding, obliging, and come when she’s summoned, right Mother?”

Accustomed to this high-handed manner, his mother merely tut-tutted, not looking up from her letter. Lucy resumed her card game, keeping her expression bland.

“But I don’t suppose my sister bosses her husband,” he added. “He wouldn’t stand for it. No sensible man would.”

“Aye,” his mother agreed this time. “She met her match with him. Thankfully. I don’t know what we would have done with her otherwise.”

“Women should know their place, stay where they’re put and where they’re needed,” John added, his voice low, carefully measured. “They should be grateful to a man for his patience and generosity, not use him for trickery or take his forgiveness for granted.”

Lucy flipped another card and her shoulders stooped when she realized she was losing her hand. She needed the ace of hearts, or there was no hope. It had to be there, one of the cards as yet unturned, unreachable. If she played by the rules. A veteran of many lonely games of solitaire, she thought nothing of making her own rules when necessary. She slyly slid a fingertip under each turned card, until she found the one she sought. Biting her lip, she fumbled the excess cards in her hand, dropped and retrieved them again, this time with the elusive ace of hearts safely shuffled into their midst.