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pretending that he didn't no tice.
    She instantly covered herself with her arms and sank down until her breasts were submerged in the dark water. The fire showed just enough ghostly, fluid femininity to keep his blood rumbling.
    “Please. Behind me.”
    He grabbed the soap and threw it to her. Water dripped off his sodden shirt, making pools on the floorboards. He stripped it off, fetched a dipper and a clean rag, and knelt behind that beautiful back.
    “Leave now. I can do it.”
    He ignored her, because of course she couldn't. Using the dipper he poured water over her head. “Give me the soap.”
    Joan unplaited her long braid and he washed. She had a lot of hair, and it took a long time. The soap turned the water milky, finally obscuring her body. Except the top ofher back. And the sinuous line of her shoulders and neck. And the bent knees popping up, catching the firelight.
    She began washing. It pained her to move her arms so much, but he knew that she would not let him do it for her. Just as well. Stroking those limbs, even to clean them, would not be a good idea.
    He brought over one of the buckets of hot water. Using the rag, he made a wet pad that he pressed to her neck.
    She startled, and recoiled from the heat. But the shock soon turned soothing and she accepted it. He could feel her loosening beneath his hand. The protective hunch of her shoulders slowly dipped away.
    “You said that you are alone, Joan. Are you widowed?”
    “Not exactly. I was betrothed once. He is dead.”
    “You chose not to remarry?”
    “I have no interest in finding a husband. Marriage can interfere with a person doing what needs to be done.”
    He understood what she meant. He had avoided it him self because of things that needed to be done. It was odd hearing a woman say it, though. He wondered what pur pose had led her to reject a normal life.
    He remade the compress and held it to her back, below her shoulder, where her position in the stocks would have caused the worst knots. A little groan of relief escaped her. It sounded for all the world like a woman being plea sured.
    He pushed her wet strips of hair out of the way so he could do the other side. “How came you to London?”
    She slid up so he could reach better, crossing her arms over her body lest he try to peek.
    “My family died, except for Mark. We came here be cause I had met Nick Tiler a few years earlier where I lived. He had come to make pavers for a manor house in the region, and had let me play with the clay. I hoped thathe would give me work, since he had said back then that I had a talent with it.” She shrugged. “I could think of nowhere else to go.”
    “Where was your home?”
    “The western marches.”
    “We have more in common than crafting statues, then, since my family hails from there as well. You crossed the breadth of England? That is a long way for a woman and a boy to travel by themselves.”
    “I had no idea how long when I started. It took three months and the little coin I had. But Nick accepted me, so it was not a lost journey.”
    All the way from the marches with a young brother in tow. He was impressed. He had made that journey himself when he had been about Mark's age, with a father to pro tect him and enough coin for inns. Even so, it had been hard and sometimes dangerous. He had been running from trouble and seeking a free future, and only those goals had made it worthwhile. He doubted he would have done it just to find work in a tile yard.
    He placed the hot compress on the edge of her back and pressed in to her ribs below her arm. His fingertips grazed the soft swell of her breast. She stiffened in objection, but the comfort of the heat defeated her.
    “When I was a young apprentice, my master's wife used to do this,” he explained. “After a few years my body grew accustomed to the work. If I had really hurt myself, she also did this.” He placed his fingertips below her shoulder bones and firmly circled.
    She arched in