‘Now, Jenny, pack those towels into a basket, put in the soap and the comb … oh, and this.’ She plucked a book from her night stand. ‘Then go and ask Mr Philip for the shaving tackle. Then find John and ask him if he can spare a shirt or two and some breeches and a jacket for Mr Lydgate. I will buy him new to replace them. He will know what else is needed.’ She sniffed resolutely and scrambled off the bed. ‘Ask him to take a hackney and go as soon as possible, please.’
Alone at last, Katherine went to sit at her dressing table and survey the damage her fit of crying had caused. Red eyes, red nose and blotched cheeks—how she envied ladies who could shed a decorative tear and all it did was to make their eyes shine more brightly. When Jenny came back she would have a bath, wash her hair and rinse it with jasmine water and then, when it was dry, lie down and rest with cucumber slices on her eyes—always supposing there was a cucumber in the house.
Thinking about Nicholas Lydgate made her determined that she was going to deliver her part of their strange bargain. In the middle of that noisome hell-hole he was going to have one night with a woman who smelt delicious and who went to him willingly. Doubtless he would have preferred an experienced Cyprian, but she would just have to do.
Katherine realised she felt better. She was still terrified, but the sense that she was behaving towards her stranger-husband as she ought was calming, as was the realisation that she had a plan of sorts for when it was all over and the immediate threat of the debt was removed. Then the reality of what the end of this meant hit her again: before the debt was due she would be a widow and her husband would have gone to a shameful public death.
The clock over the gate of the prison struck eight. Nicholas Lydgate straightened up from the table where he had been sitting, reading the volume of poetry his surprising new bride had added to the eminently sensible basket she had sent him. Soap and Byron were both welcome, although he would gladly have traded the entire works of the poet for an ounce of soap if that had been the choice.
Was she going to come? He would not blame her in the slightest if she did not. He ran one hand over his freshly shaven chin. Another luxury he had her to thank for, although the turnkey had stood over him while he shaved and had removed the razors the moment he had finished with them.
The door rattled, swung open and Mr Rawlings, a turnkey at his heels, looked in. ‘Your wife is here, Standon, or Lydgate, or whatever your name is. I will come to collect her at eight in the morning. Ma’am.’
In fact it was her coachman, the man he had seen earlier, who came in. He shot Nicholas a suspicious glance, measured him up and down with critical eyes, then gave a sharp nod of approval before he dumped a hamper on the table and another large basket by the bed. ‘You clean up better than I’d have suspected,’ he remarked with a grunt. ‘All right, Miss Katherine, I will be here all night if you need me.’ This parting shot came with another hard stare at Nicholas as the door closed behind him, leaving Katherine standing alone just inside the threshold.
He made no move towards her as she lifted her veil from her face and untied her bonnet, which she placed on the bed. Then she simply stood looking at him, her hands clasped in front of her. Her face was calm and lovely, but he could see the hem of her gown vibrating with her trembling. There was a thud and a howl of rage from somewhere close by and she started, her face pale.
Nicholas took a quick stride. ‘Here, let me take your pelisse. Come and sit down at the table. You have brought still more supplies, I see. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for the ones earlier; I hope I present a slightly less unnerving spectacle than I did before.’ He felt he was talking too much, but, until she seemed willing to speak, he could not be silent.
She sat obediently and finally managed a small smile. ‘Yes. I have brought food and drink and clean bed linen.’ She reached out a hand and touched gently the raw marks on his wrists where the shackles had rubbed. ‘And bandages with some of my own salve. Those must chafe horribly where your cuffs touch. If you take off your coat and roll up your sleeves, I will bandage them now.’
His immediate reaction was to refuse. She should not be sitting in a cell, tending to a felon’s wounds. But she had to spend the night here, come what may, and it seemed to be helping her to have something practical to do. He stood up and did as she asked before sitting again and holding out his arms for her attention.
‘Oh …’ she bit her lip at the sight of the sores, but to his surprise it was compassion, not revulsion in her tone ‘… how can they justify such heavy, tight irons? It is cruel.’ She unscrewed the lid of a jar of greasy green ointment and began to smear it on his wrists with light fingertips. The little shock of sensation he had felt when he took her hand in his in the chapel ran through him again. ‘I am sorry, did that hurt?’ He had not realised he had moved. ‘It is mainly wood sage, chickweed and betony, but I have put in thyme as well.’
Her voice seemed stronger discussing the herbs. ‘What does the thyme do? I thought that was a pot herb.’
‘It is, but I like to put it in most things for the scent. It is supposed to be helpful for courage and against nightmares.’
‘That will be useful.’
To his surprise she raised her eyes and looked directly into his. ‘I do not think you are in want of courage, Mr Lydgate. Do you suffer nightmares? It would not be surprising in this place.’ Her eyes dropped again to the bandage she was carefully wrapping around his right wrist.
‘Waking ones only,’ he rejoined, trying to keep his tone light. ‘Having the luxury of sleep in which to have a proper nightmare is rare here.’ Her fingers quivered again as she tied the bandage off and took up his other wrist. He wondered if she could feel his pulse hammering. ‘Will you not call me Nicholas—or Nick? That is what my friends call me.’
‘And where are these friends, Nick?’ Again those intense brown eyes met his.
‘In France.’
‘I see.’ She finished with the bandages and began to tidy away her ointment.
‘And what do your friends call you, Katherine?’
That produced another upward look and a flashing smile that showed even white teeth before she was serious again. ‘Katherine. My brother calls me Katy, but I dislike that.’
Nick reached out his hand and tipped her face up. ‘I shall call you Kat. Has anyone told you that you look like one, with your heart-shaped face and those big eyes?’
‘No.’ He could see from the emotions that flitted rapidly across her face that she was not sure she was flattered, then she decided she was. ‘Very well, you may call me Kat.’
He let his fingers just pinch her chin before releasing her. ‘Husband’s privilege, Kat.’ He could have kicked himself. Instantly the shutters came down and her hands tensed. How to retrieve it? ‘Are you hungry, Kat? I confess I am. Why do you not set out the food you have brought and I will tidy away the other things?’
He had been about to say ‘make the bed', but reference to that would hardly be tactful at the moment.
‘Very well.’ She stood up with her back, fortunately, to the bed and began to open the hamper. Nick threw back the lid of the other basket and pulled out sheets redolent of lavender and pillowcases edged with fine lace. For a moment he stood there, letting the feminine softness and sweetness sweep over him, then he stripped off the harsh blankets and made up the bed.
When he turned back the table was laid and she was watching him, a touch of colour staining her cheeks. But she had stopped trembling. Something within him knotted and he felt his loins tighten. Damn it, have some self-control, he snarled inwardly. She was frightened and adrift, cast there by her selfish brat of a brother; the last thing she needed was to be aware of how much she aroused him.
‘This looks good.’ He held a chair for her, then sat, reaching for the bottle of claret and the corkscrew.