Polly, numbed in mind and body, replaced her smock and crept out of the room, shutting the door gently behind her.

Hearing the click of the latch, Nick allowed the violent flow of oaths to pour forth unhindered. He had told Richard that he would kindle passion in Polly before allowing himself to consummate his own desire. There would be no chains of love forged in the simple satisfaction of his need, and he was not fool enough to mistake Polly's offer of her body for anything but the pragmatic bargain it was. Although exactly what she wanted in exchange at this point, he did not know. But when he took her, it would not be the tavern wench with the come-hither smile he intended to initiate. It would be Polly in all her beauty and innocence, with that infectious smile and mischievous wit. And she would want his love-making for its own sake, not for what it could buy her. Until that time he would manage both himself and her.

But he ached for her, could still feel her warmth in the bed, the imprint of her body against his, could still see her standing naked in the moonglow. He lay staring into the shadows of the bed curtains. It was going to be a very long night.

Polly claimed her cot for what seemed only minutes before a great bell clanged through the house. Her companions in the attic came awake with groans and imprecations. Bridget lit the candle, and they dressed in its chilly light, fingers fumbling in the cold. Polly's silence went unremarked in the general complaining mutters, and once in the kitchen, there was too much to do for conversation.

The interminable morning wore on. The kitchen resembled a furnace, steam from the bubbling cauldrons thickening the air so that one could barely see across the room. The smell of soap and heating irons was entrapped in Polly's nostrils. After her almost sleepless night, she seemed to have lost touch with physical reality, moving in a trance, bumping against tables and stools, once nearly dropping a heavy kettle of boiling water. After that, Bridget set her to scrubbing sheets in a tub, and there she stayed all morning, out of harm's way, kneeling on the hard flagstones, scrubbing until her hands were crimson and wrinkled.

After the noon dinner, there was ironing, folding, mending. Polly moved like a somnambulist. Not even in the worst days at the Dog tavern had she felt so exhausted. She fell asleep during evening prayers, only Susan's swift nudge saving her from Lady Margaret's wrath. That night she slept like one dead, and not even her mortification could penetrate her stupor.

It was there the next morning, however, in hard-etched memory, and she prayed that her duties would keep her again in the kitchen, that she would not be obliged to face him, see the contempt in the emerald eyes.

Nicholas waited for her to come for her lesson in his parlor after dinner. He had not expected her the previous day, not after such a recent confrontation. But he had had neither sight nor sound of her since that ghastly debacle, and it occurred to him, with a sudden flash of alarm, that maybe she had left. She had nowhere to go, but she had proved herself resourceful. He pulled the bell rope and paced restlessly.

It was young Tom who appeared. "You want me, m'lord?"

"No. Polly, as it happens. Is she in the house?"

"She was at dinnertime, m'lord," responded the boy with a cheerful grin. "Shall I fetch 'er for ye?"

"If you would be so kind," said his lordship, dryly.

Polly heard the summons and tried desperately to think of an excuse. She had the cellar to sweep, the pots to scrub…

" 'E's waitin' for ye," Tom stated as she hesitated. "In 'is parlor."

"Oh, very well." There seemed no help for it. Polly wiped her hands on her apron and went into the hall. This time she knocked on the parlor door.

"Come in." Nick looked up from the Bible he had again opened on the table and smiled at her. There was no response as she stood in the doorway, looking at her feet. "Why did you not come for your lesson?" he asked.

She still did not look at him. "I did not think you would wish me to."

He sighed. "Why would I not, Polly?"

"Common whores do not learn to read."

"Come inside and shut the door!" He waited until she had obeyed before saying more softly, "I know I was harsh, Polly, but you caught me at some considerable disadvantage. You must understand that I cannot avail myself of what you would offer while you remain under this roof, as a member of my household. Not only would it mortally offend Lady Margaret's principles, and I will not insult her, but it would also make your position with the other servants quite untenable."

"I understand that," Polly said, raising her eyes from the floor. "It is perfectly obvious. That is why I thought that if you lay with me, then I would have to go and live somewhere else."

"Conniving baggage!" Nick expostulated with soft ferocity. "So that was what you had in mind! I knew there had to be some ulterior motive."

To his unutterable dismay, tears welled in the glowing hazel eyes, welled and fell slowly, pouring soundlessly down her cheeks as she stood and looked at him, making no attempt to wipe them away.

"Oh, no, moppet, do not weep," he exclaimed, moving from behind the table, taking her in his arms. "I did not mean to be unkind, sweetheart." The tears stopped as abruptly as if he had closed a tap on an ale barrel. Nicholas stared down at the ravishing, tear-wet countenance. Suspicion grew, became certainty. Crocodile tears, if ever he had seen them. "God's grace," he muttered. "What web have I woven for myself?"

Chapter 5

The fire crackled, and the branched candelabra threw bright illumination on the table, catching the rich tones in the head bent over the big Bible. Her tongue peeped from between her lips, when they were not moving silently, making out the words on the page. It was most amazingly wonderful, Polly thought, how in a mere four weeks a confusing jumble of symbols could fall into a sensible pattern, unlocking a whole world.

"They did seem to do a deal of begatting," she commented, raising her head to look at her companion.

Nick, sitting at his ease beside the fire, chuckled. "You have come across one of those passages, have you? They can continue for pages. Why do you not find another chapter?" He watched her over the rim of his wineglass as she turned the fine paper with delicate fingers. It remained a source of continual amazement to him that such a fine-boned, dainty creature should have emerged from that coarse and brutal environment. Everything she did, she did with a natural grace.

"I cannot make this word out." She frowned deeply, saying with some annoyance, "The letters do not make sense."

He came to stand behind her, looking at the recalcitrant

collection of letters indicated by a slim but ink-stained forefinger. "The g-h is silent, moppet."

"Oh… Nigh!" Enlightenment brought heart-stopping radiance to the face now upturned to his. "But how very awkward to have letters that don't mean anything."

"Isn't it," he agreed, pressing a fingertip on the end of her nose in one of the casually affectionate gestures that were now so natural for him to administer and for Polly to receive. "I gather you left the house without leave this afternoon." An eyebrow lifted quizzically as he returned to his seat.

Polly did not immediately respond, and he did not press her, concentrating on the business of setting a taper to his clay pipe. "So she told you," Polly said finally, folding her hands on the table in front of her.

"She did." Nick drew on his pipe, narrowing his eyes against the curl of smoke. The list of Polly's infractions presented to him by his rigidly furious sister-in-law grew daily longer and increasingly tedious. "Could you perhaps see your way to telling me the occasion for it?"