Veil of Lies by Jeri Westerson Read Free Book Online

lose himself in those lustrous eyes.
    “I know I can trust you,” she rasped. Could those lips truly go unkissed by other men? He tried to imagine what her lips tasted like, how they felt. Were they soft and pliant, or merely flat and moist? He found he wanted to know. He wanted to taste them, to bite them, to feel them like petals running down his flesh. He wondered if she felt the same for him—and then with a jolt he reminded himself of her husband.
    He retreated deliberately.
    She took a deep breath and the neckline of her gown rose and lowered. Her face grew somber. “What I am about to say, well. It is plainly unbelievable. But you must believe it. If you don’t, then I might as well leave now.”
    “How can I promise before I hear?”
    Her eyes searched his. They seemed to drag him forward and shake him, willing him to listen. “Do you believe in the power of holy relics?”
    He ran his hand over the back of his neck to wipe away the sweat. “I may have had a run-in or two with relics.” He nodded. “But I do not know whether I believe in their power or not.”
    “But you must believe in this. Have you ever heard of the veronica?”
    “Do you speak of Veronica’s Veil?”
    “Aye. But there are supposed to be many veronicas. They take the words from the Latin and Greek, vera icona . It means—”
    “True Image,” he finished. “Yes, Madam. I know my languages.”
    She nodded. “There is one veronica’s veil that our Lord encountered while on his way to the cross. The woman Veronica offered her veil to wipe our Lord’s face, and his image was miraculously imprinted upon it. The other was the shroud from his tomb. But there were others that came before.”
    “I never heard of these.”
    “Few have.”
    “How do you know of them?”
    “May I sit?”
    He motioned her to take the only chair. He sat on the edge of the chest.
    Methodically, she folded her hands on her lap. She took her time as if she were recounting exactly how to sit and how to place her hands. Finally she raised her head. “Six months ago Nicholas returned from a long journey on the continent. When he returned, he was a changed man. Nervous. Afraid. Oh, I know what they say. He never leaves the house except to travel. He was always cautious of strangers. But this was different. He was different. I begged him to tell me what vexed him but he would not. Soon he had locks affixed to every door, and me and Adam Becton were given the only other keys and told to lock the doors after going through each of them.”
    “Adam Becton? The steward?”
    “Aye. You met him.”
    He frowned. “Yes. Becton. Go on.”
    “There isn’t much more to tell. Nicholas told me about this Mandyllon, that’s what he called it, and that he kept it in the house. I want it gone.”
    “But why should you fear such a thing? Surely your husband was duped into believing it was authentic. There is much traffic in so-called relics—”
    She shook her head. “No. It is authentic. And it is dangerous.”
    “In what way?”
    “It does things to people.”
    “What sort of ‘things’?”
    “Please! Can’t you find it and rid me of it? I will pay you.” She rose and fumbled at her scrip. Crispin watched dispassionately while she spilled a handful of coins on the table, more money than he had seen for a long time. She raised the coins in her cupped hands and thrust them toward him. “Take them! And I will no longer be cursed!” He said nothing and her face became fierce. “You need it, I have it. Take it and do as you are bid! Are you so rich that you would refuse a Walcote?”
    The words stung that sore place on Crispin’s pride. He lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. The coins jangled and hit the table, some spinning across the floor. He tightened his grip. “I work for myself. I do what I like, when I like. And I need not abide a lying, adulterous serpent of a woman filling my head with straw and nonsense about cursed relics. I care not how wealthy