Veil of Lies

When Crispin turned back, he saw Philippa warming herself halfheartedly by the fire. He detected very little of the spirited woman she had been, but it was hardly unexpected.

He realized he tended to her as if she were a highborn lady. Servants were accustomed to sleeping several in a bed, sometimes male and female together. Surely Philippa had done so. No need, then, to send Jack out, yet he made no move to call him back.

He sat on the bed, pulled off his boots, and rubbed his feet. “Jack usually sleeps in that corner where the straw is. You’ll find it comfortable enough.”

She nodded. Skirt folding beneath her, she sank down before the fire and unbraided her hair.

Crispin tried not to watch and got up in his stocking feet to rummage among the jars and sacks on his pantry shelf. Finding a hard-crusted pasty leaning against a crock of pickled onions, he grabbed it, sniffed its slightly stale crust, and broke it in two. He laid one half on the table and pushed it toward her. He returned to the bed, laid down on his back, and tore into the stale meat pie.

He chewed in silence for an uncomfortable moment before he glanced her way.

The fire glazed her brassy hair, and the newly unbound tresses frizzed about her face in a golden halo. She raked her fingers through it, trying to comb out the curls. The action only served to soften her features. Her white face, fragile and alluring, shimmered in the firelight.

The dry dough stuck in his throat. He sat up, hoping wine would help. “That one on the table is for you.”

He reached for the wine jug and made a prayer of thanks when he lifted and found it full. He poured a bowl for himself and one for her. He scooted the chair to the table.

Philippa held the pasty but did not eat.

“You’d better eat that. That surety money was to pay for food. There isn’t any more.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Crispin sighed. “Don’t vex yourself.”

“You must hate me.”

“No. I’m angry, but I don’t hate you.”

“Surely you see how I couldn’t tell you. You’re honest. You would have had to report to the sheriff that my husband was not Nicholas Walcote. That’s why when Mahmoud threatened to tell—”

She pressed her lips closed, frowned, and gingerly put the pasty to her trembling mouth.

Crispin froze. He felt like a fool. Worse. “I’m an idiot,” he told the rafters.

“I lay with that vile man as much to protect Nicholas as me. It was nothing to me,” she said, eyes closed over damp lashes. “I was not there with Mahmoud. I was anywhere but there.” She opened her eyes again and fixed them on Crispin. “Whatever else he was, Nicholas was good to me. I won’t forget him for that. I did it for him. I owed him. He would’ve understood that, wouldn’t he?”

He shook his head. “I know not. This is a very sad affair.”

“Do you think those Italians killed Nicholas? He was afraid they had followed him. He said as much.”

When he’d dispatched the pasty he wiped his hands down his coat. Mahmoud’s missive recently sent to the Walcote Manor rose up in his mind. “Well, one thing is certain: Mahmoud will no longer extort you.”

She sighed, her first sound of relief. She looked up at him from her place by the fire.

Mahmoud. A vile man with vile habits. A Saracen. He glowered at her, wanting to know, yet not wanting to ask. “How could you do it?” he blurted. “Give yourself to a stranger. To a Saracen! What of your virtue—”

“Virtue? Do you think I was a maiden when I met Nicholas, or whatever the poor bastard’s name was?” She pulled a piece of the crust away with her fingers and stuffed it in her mouth. “Life’s hard in the scullery,” she said, cheek bulging. “You do a lot for an extra scrap of bread.”

“You said you were a chambermaid.”

“I was at the Walcote manor, but I didn’t start that way. Me mum was a scullion. I worked alongside her. Don’t remember when I didn’t. One day, she was stirring a cauldron when the chain holding it above the fire broke. I remember water and steam everywhere. And I remember her screaming. It scalded her to death.” She chewed thoughtfully. “When I buried her, I vowed I’d get m’self out of the kitchens, and I did. I’d never thought to reach so high.” She sighed with her entire body. “Maybe it was only a dream. You can take the girl out of the scullery, perhaps, but you can’t take the scullery out of the girl.”

Crispin tried hard to remember his own servants and could not recall if he had ever set eyes on a scullion in his manor in Sheen. He felt ashamed.

He leaned on his arm and studied her. “You rose from the very bottom. You can even read. Remarkable.”

“I’m a fair remarkable wench,” she said, smiling briefly. She finished the rest of her food in silence. She collected her wine bowl, pulled a stool to the table, and sat opposite him. “You’re fair remarkable yourself. So why’d you do it? Take me in, I mean.”

“You remind me of someone.”

“Oh? Who?”

He smiled. “Me.”

Her eyes brightened and she reached her hand across the table to touch his. Before she could, Crispin shot from his chair and moved away. She rose and edged toward him.

“It don’t matter why.”

“Philippa…”

“What matters is you did. ’Cause you’re decent and true.” She stood toe to toe with him and looked up unafraid. He recognized that confidence, and it twisted a knot in his gut. Her hair, like fleece, curly and wild, was edged with gold from the firelight raging behind her. Her lips glistened with wine, but it wasn’t just the liquor that gave them their rosy hue.

He stared at her for a long moment. Before he had time to question the sanity of it, he took a step toward her and dipped his face and kissed her soft lips, drawing on them until nothing remained but the taste of her. Hands found her back and he lifted her toward him, pressing her warm body against his, savoring the length of her, each dip and valley. The kiss grew harder, almost cruel. But she gave as good as she got and used her teeth and tongue like weapons. His hands slid about her waist. Her soft body melded to his like a tight-fitting garment and he smothered himself in her, rejoicing in that brassy fleece cascading about his cheeks. He grasped her head with one hand, allowing the tresses to tickle his wrist. He sealed his mouth to hers and feasted, nose inhaling sweat and sweetness and woman.

He released her head and waist to run his hands along her shoulders to the back of her neck, fingers working at the laces of her gown.

“What are you doing?” she asked drowsily to his moist cheek.

“I’m undressing you,” he rasped. “Any objections?”

She gave a breathy laugh. “No.”

The word barely left her lips when the gown slipped to her feet.

18

Crispin lay for the second time that night with his face under Philippa’s chin. His cheek rested comfortably on the softness of her bosom and he inhaled the muskiness of bedded woman.

“Tell me who you are, Crispin,” she said again. He silenced her the first time with kisses that turned to more. Now he was weak and drowsy and all he could do was angle his face upward and kiss her jaw. It tasted of him.

“Must we speak of such things?” His voice mumbled against her skin. “Are there not better topics of conversation when lovers are abed?”

She smiled. He could tell because the shadows and angles of her jaw changed. “Are we lovers now?”