Free Silken Threads by Patricia Ryan

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.”

    * * *

Chapter 5

    “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