Lindsay Townsend by Mistress Angel Read Free Book Online Page B

They ran past a kitchen block and a
workshop with a thatched roof  and then scrambled through a small postern to
the great street of the Strand outside. A swift glance in both directions told
her that, short-cut or not, they were too late. Mary and John were nowhere in
sight.
    Too breathless to moan she sank to her knees
and rocked herself. It is over. Mary and John will rush to Sir William and
tell him everything. Tell him I refused. I will never see Matthew again . A
keening wail built in her throat and her chest tightened further, her vision
darkening as the shadow of her fate overwhelmed her.
    “None of that.” Stephen lifted her up,
snapped his fingers at a lingering musician with a viol. With the blood still
hammering in her chest and ears, Isabella did not hear what he said to the lad
but he turned her toward the river. “We take a boat and out-run them that way.”
    “Why?” she gasped, when she could speak.
    Stephen did not pretend to misunderstand
her. “Because I care and I can and I never liked your waste of a husband or his
kin.” His face was as keen as a blade. “Now do you come or do I carry you?”
    “Run,” she wheezed, ignoring the stitch in
her side. “Hurry.” She lurched from his arms and staggered a few steps.
    In an ungainly mass of whirling legs and
arms they rushed back to the river, Isabella jumping so recklessly into the
waiting wherry that the whole boat rocked furiously and the waterman cursed
her.
    “Save your breath and row,” ordered
Stephen, coming alongside her. “Row to London, man, and hurry!”
    He sprawled beside her, catching his breath
a moment, then took her hand again. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me it all.”
    She glanced at the ferryman, reluctance and
eagerness flickering across her face like the reflections of the water skimming
beneath them. Stephen lowered his head. “Whisper to me,” he said.
    “Or pay me double to keep quiet and shout
it,” said the waterman with a grin.
    Doubtful as a hind approaching a baited
trap, Isabella leaned away from both of them.
    “You need help,” Stephen said steadily. From
all his time spent in the forge and the armories he sensed that this was the
moment of decision between them. Isabella would share her truth fully with him
now or they would not truly meld together. He tipped up her chin. Her face was
as gray as the weather was bright. “I want to help you.”
    She leaned into him, against his shoulder. “We
do not know each other,” she whispered.
    “We know enough of each other.”
    “We met only a few days past, not even a
month ago.”
    She argued even while she was pressed up against
him and unconsciously sought comfort and counsel. Her wariness was one of
habit, not desire, Stephen guessed. He put his arm about her. “Does that
matter?” he asked. “You are a woman of London and the world. I am sure you understand
my character most clearly.”
    Isabella said nothing but Stephen felt her
settle into the crook of his arm. Her body trusts me so that is a start .
The ferryman was occupied with navigating their wherry through the arches of
London Bridge, a tricky, dangerous maneuver, especially for a single waterman, and
one to which he bent all his attention. Isabella watched him and closed her
eyes, her limbs becoming as taut as harp strings.
    Tense, and not only because of getting past
the bridge. The stakes are high here and I believe I know why. Nothing else
makes sense.
    “Shall I say what I think?” said Stephen
softly, keeping his eyes on her. “Richard Martinton’s family keep your son. I
know he does not live with you in London. You speak of him with such longing.”
    Isabella screwed up her eyes and made a
small choking sound.
    “You asked after places and householders in
Kent. Martinton’s kin have property in Kent. I know because the family is
notorious in those parts. They are not well-liked.”
    Isabella looked at him. “What can I say?”
    “Your keepers are not with you here. You
need