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She looked up, dismayed that Rhys had returned so quickly. Only it wasn't Rhys. A red-haired youth walked over to her.
    “Is your master here?”
    He thought her a servant. “Nay. He works today.” Itseemed a sensible lie. She did not want the youth waiting here.
    He looked her up and down. “A dedicated man if he leaves such as you to wield his hammer.”
    Not just a servant, but a leman. Well, that was common enough, too. “He will not eat if he does not work.”
    A wolfish grin broke over his face. “Who needs bread if there are other delicacies.”
    “Leave this property now, you rude boy. If you have business with him, come back later.”
    He resented her tone. Rich or poor, high or low, they always did, as if they expected her to be flattered.
    He pulled a parchment out of his sleeve and tossed it on the table. “See that your master gets this, woman.”
    He strolled back to the house.
    She picked up the parchment. Its folded ends were sealed. She recognized the device impressed in the wax. She had seen it before, on the banners unfurled by Guy's army.
    The seal belonged to Mortimer himself. And it appeared that Rhys knew him well enough to receive private messages.
    An unholy fury reddened her mind. That device had always heralded disaster for her. The power behind it had ripped her life from her grasp.
    Hot resolve instantly stiffened her. She would get it back, all that she could, for Mark if not herself. She would avenge the crimes, at least. She could not touch Mortimer, but she could demand justice about the bastard pig Guy Leighton who served him.
    Nothing else mattered, suddenly. Not the kindness nor the care. Not the sweet pleasure under the tree. The last day might never have happened. Rhys was what she had accused him of being, a lackey to an evil man who hired butchers to do his bidding. It had been a mistake to forget that.
    She carried the parchment into the kitchen and set it on the table with a cup holding one corner. Her old grey gown lay folded on the bench by the hearth, and she picked it up. She glanced down at the green robe she wore. It had come not from him, but from that lady friend. She would keep it, but not the others.
    She looked around the kitchen, and fought off the memories of last night. His hands undressing her and his arms lifting her to the bath. His concern when he found her naked by the fire. The sense of protection last night, and the flutters of excitement when he looked at her.
    In her desperation she had clung to the help, forgetting the cost and danger. Nor had his generosity been pure. He had just been biding his time. The giving had not been selfless. He admitted that himself, and had proven it just now.
    He wanted her to stay. She knew why. She was not reduced to that yet, though. And if she ever bartered that way, she would expect more than simple comforts in return. She would demand much more than this mason even knew how to pay.
    She hurried through the hall. She stepped out on the street, and ran down the lane.

C HAPTER 6
    A MASON WHO WANTED TO LIVE did not refuse Roger Mortimer's call. Still, Rhys waited a day before responding to the summons. He decided that would be long enough to remind Mortimer that he dealt with a free citizen of London, but not so long as to anger the most powerful lord in the realm.
    He found Mortimer on a bench in his private garden at Westminster, alone with a young woman. The lady appeared distraught, as if she feared that she was being forced to play a game which she could only lose.
    Rhys knew that look. Its familiarity evoked painful images from his youth.
    Relief veiled her eyes when his arrival interrupted them. Mortimer dismissed her, and she darted to the garden portal.
    Rhys experienced an intense, visceral reaction to the little scene. The way that Mortimer used women disgusted him. He brought all his power to bear on the weak in order to get what he wanted.
    He was not alone in it. Many lords thought it their due to have