A Mummers' Play by Jo Beverley Read Free Book Online

mother had remarked how fortunate it was that Justina was not left a widow, perhaps with a child. Justina had never quite forgiven her for that.
    “Well, Justina?” he prompted. “Can you not answer me?”
    “I couldn’t consider it,” she said coldly.
    “Why not?” The impromptu beggars were still singing and with a distracted curse, he scooped up the coins on the table and tossed them out the window, calling, “Merry Christmas! Now, cut it!”
    Then he slammed the sash on their laughter and thanks. “Can we think of that as throwing our problems out and starting afresh?”
    “I doubt it,” she whispered.
    He went to throw extra logs to crackle on the fire, then turned to her, dusting his hands. “Let me at least make my offer in better form, my dear. I don’t expect you to love me, but you seem to be a pleasant companion, and you’ll make a good chatelaine of this place. I really cannot bear to think of you brought so low. Simon would have my hide.”
    The bells, the laughter, the frosty air blending with the roaring fire, all conspired to make Justina feel that she had lost touch with reality. “Simon is dead. The dead know the truth.”
    “Lucky corpses. Or perhaps not,” he added with a sigh. “Truth is a harsh rider. But if Simon knows the truth, he’ll know that my intent is nothing but to make reparation. He’ll know that you’ve never broken faith with him, that you marry for convenience, and perhaps out of kindness since I’ve told you of my sorry state.”
    It was shockingly tempting to say yes.
    “What do you mean,” Justina demanded desperately,” ‘truth is a harsh rider’?”
    He came closer, to stand on the other side of the empty, sterile desk. “Do you not have truths you’d rather forget, or at least sugarcoat into something easier to swallow?”
    Again she tried to pin him down. “Why did you say marriage to me would be reparation? For what sin?”
    “For living.”
    Justina wanted to tear him apart with her bare hands and expose his dark secret. Oh, he was sorry. She sensed that. But he was damnably guilty as well.
    This night, however, would be her only chance. Something—perhaps Christmas—had softened him, weakened him, but when morning came, Jack Beaufort would retreat out of reach and keep his guard high forevermore.
    How, then, could she tear him apart?
    Drink wasn’t fully working. She suspected that sex might. Men, they said, went wild when with a woman, and lost all self-control. Hadn’t Samson let Delilah cut his hair because of love and sex? Naked in bed, Jack Beaufort might lose his last restraints and become just as foolish.
    Then she would destroy him, and perhaps at last be at peace.
    But her own thoughts startled her.
Naked in bed . . .
Could she really do such a thing, now, tonight, with a man who was as good as a stranger, even to win justice and peace?
    She looked at her quarry with sex in mind, and swallowed nervously. He’d thought of himself as St. George opposing his great-aunt, the dragon, but Justina knew she was the hero here, and he the monster.
    She just wished she felt heroic.
    Had St. George quivered with terror when he’d first sighted the power and strength of his opponent?
    Perhaps there were other ways, she thought frantically. There must be other ways. He had teetered on the brink of confession time and again as they spoke. More conversation was a great deal less daunting than naked intimacy.
    Warily, she left the barrier of the desk and moved toward the warmth of the fire. “Tell me about Simon’s death.”
    He turned to keep her in view. “You don’t want to get into that on Christmas Day.”
    One hand on the cold marble mantel, she challenged his uneasy eyes. “Don’t tell me what I want. You were the only survivor.”
    “Yes.”
    “So tell me what happened. I will never rest until I hear it from the only witness. You.”
    He rubbed his hands—one deformed—over his face. “Does it not occur to you that I might not