Silken Threads by Patricia Ryan Page A

him
down, hands on hips.
    She glanced toward the drawn leather curtain
at the rear of the house and lowered her voice. “Do you remember
what you were telling me last night? About how most men steer clear
of entanglements with married women? About how marriage protects a
woman, shields her from unwanted attention?”
    He sighed. “You think Graeham Fox will
pester you with unwanted attention unless he thinks you’re
married?”
    “I...I don’t know.”
    He grabbed her chin and forced her to look
at him. “What happened last night, Joanna?”
    “Naught of any import,” she said
resolutely.
    “Did he...”
    She wrenched her chin out of his grasp.
“Nay. He did nothing. I would just feel better if he
didn’t...entertain any ideas. He’s not...the type of man I should
be encouraging.”
    That was true, certainly, and Hugh found it
reassuring that she had the good sense to see it. Graeham Fox,
regardless of his character, good or bad, was a professional
soldier, without property or prospects. He was the very last type
of man with whom Joanna should become involved, especially given
her dire straits
—
for it was clear that she was all but
penniless, despite her assertions to the contrary. A woman who was
“getting along fine,” as she’d claimed, would not be lighting her
home with lumps of kitchen fat. She would have wine and ale in her
kitchen, and ample food.
    She would take no more charity from him, he
knew
—
she’d made that abundantly clear six years ago.
Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea, after all, for Graeham to rent
the storeroom from her. His four shillings would go far toward
making life bearable for her, at least until Hugh could get her
married off to the right sort
—
Robert or someone like him.
And even if he were the type to take advantage of the
situation
—
which Hugh doubted
—
his grievous
injuries would render him harmless enough.
    For the time being. He’d be on the mend soon
enough; what would happen then? Hugh had best have a little chat
with the good serjant and get some things straight right from the
beginning.
    “Very well,” he said. “I’ll go along with
your little mystery play, given that it’s for a good cause. I hope
you manage to pull it off, though. You’ve never been any good at
lying, sister.”
    “‘Twouldn’t be lying,” she said indignantly.
“Precisely. I mean, I never actually told him my husband was still
alive, so
—
”
    “It’s lying, Joanna.” Hugh patted his sister
on the cheek. “At least be honest with yourself. ”
    Joanna opened her mouth to deliver some
retort, but Hugh cut her off by saying, “You’ve got a customer, I
think.”
    She turned toward the fat matron
scrutinizing her wares, and smiled. “Good morrow, Mistress
Adeline.”
    Hugh strode to the rear of the house and
knocked on the frame of the storeroom door.
    “Fear not, mistress,” came Graeham’s voice
from within. “I promise I’m not naked this time.”
    After a moment’s pause, Hugh pushed the
curtain aside and walked in. Graeham, sitting on the edge of the
bed tugging a comb through his damp hair, looked nonplussed to see
him. “Hugh. I thought you were...”
    “Evidently.”
    To his credit, Graeham didn’t scramble to
explain the “naked” comment; in fact, he might even have looked
slightly amused. “Did you bring the cart?” he asked.
    “Aye.” Hugh scraped a wooden cask away from
the wall and sat on it, facing Graeham across from a chest set up
with a wash basin and shaving gear.
    “Did your sister tell you it wouldn’t be
needed?”
    “She did.”
    Graeham lifted his purse from the floor,
whereupon Petronilla darted out from beneath the cot to take a
swipe at the belt that still dangled from it. “I’d like to
reimburse you for whatever you paid for it.”
    “‘Twas free. A friend lent it to me.”
    Graeham observed Hugh thoughtfully as he
resumed combing his hair. “Do you disapprove of my staying
here?”
    Hugh shrugged. “‘Twould matter