Read Silken Threads for Free Online

man
—
his booted
feet, emerging from beneath the blanket in which he was wrapped,
extended past the foot of Prewitt’s bed
—
and his face was
grimy, and he stank of wine. His drunkenness would only stoke his
capacity for violence. If he leapt at her, she must be prepared to
strike back, and hard.
    “Mistress...” he began.
    “Get up!” she ordered, brandishing the axe.
“Go! I’ll use this, so help me God I will.”
    He took her measure with oddly unruffled
calm, his eyes glowing like blue fire in the semidarkness. “No, you
won’t,” he said quietly, sounding almost sober. “You couldn’t. Your
hands are shaking.” He lifted himself on an elbow.
    Joanna backed up a step, holding the axe
before her like a talisman. Was he preparing to leave...or to
attack? “My husband’s due home any moment now,” she lied. Thinking
that might not be enough to discourage him, given his size, she
added, “And my brother is with him. Hugh’s a master swordsman.
He’ll run you through if he finds you here.”
    She saw amusement in his eyes, and something
else that might, under different circumstances, have almost looked
like compassion. “Actually, ‘twas Hugh who brought me here.”
    “What?”
    “Aye, he
—
”
    “Liar. You just want me to let my guard
down. Hugh’s not even in London. He’s off fighting in the
Rhineland.”
    The bastard’s mouth quirked. “If your
brother’s not even in London, how could he possibly be on his way
here with your husband?”
    Joanna cursed inwardly; she’d never been
adept at lying. “My...my husband is coming.”
    “I don’t think so. If he were, you’d leave
right now and let him oust me instead of trying to do it
yourself. He’s not in London either, is he? No one’s coming. You’re
all alone.”
    “Get out of here!” She advanced on him, the
axe at the ready, keeping toward the foot of the cot so he couldn’t
make a grab for her.
    “Mistress...”
    “Get up! Go on!” Flipping the axe in her
hands, she whacked him on the legs with its handle.
    “ Fuck!” He contracted into a ball,
clutching his legs. “Oh, shit! Fuck! Shit!”
    Joanna backed up swiftly to the doorway,
unnerved by his reaction.
    He growled a torrent of ragged expletives
before sinking, ashen-faced and quivering, onto the cot. “By the
blood of the saints, mistress,” he rasped. “Did you have to do
that?”
    “If you don’t leave right now,” she
blustered, “I’ll do it again.”
    “If I could walk, I’d leave,” he said
breathlessly. “My leg is broken.”
    She narrowed her gaze on him. “You’re
lying.”
    He whipped back the blanket. “My left leg.
And one or two ribs, I think.”
    Joanna fetched her makeshift oil lamp from
the salle, careful not to turn her back on her uninvited guest.
Holding her axe in one hand and the lamp in the other, she winced
to see that his left leg below the knee was grossly swollen beneath
the leathern legging.
    “I really did come here with Hugh,” he said
wearily. “He went off to find a surgeon for me. That’s his satchel
over there.” He nodded toward a leather kitbag in the corner.
    Holding the lamp over it, Joanna recognized
it as her brother’s. He must have returned from the Rhineland.
Thank God; every time he went off on another far-flung military
campaign, she feared she’d never see him again. She dreaded the day
one of his comrades showed up at her door to give her his personal
effects
—
or perhaps there would be no one to attend to such
niceties, and she would never find out what became of him.
    “How do I know you didn’t steal that satchel
from him?” Joanna asked, her confidence faltering. “Perhaps he
broke your leg trying to defend himself.”
    “I was attacked in the alley next door. They
took my horse and a good deal of my overlord’s silver
—
but
not all of it, thank the saints.” He patted the kidskin purse
hanging from his belt. “Your brother came to my assistance and
brought me here. He said your name