their wooden eyes and lolling tongues surrounded her dirt-smudged face as if they recognized her as one of their own.
Nance Harbutt advanced like a besieging force on the gypsy. Nance had been part of Lynacre for as long as Stephen could remember, as ever present and unchanging as the gargoyle cupboard. The goodwife wore a starched wimple tied with a strip of cloth knotted beneath her well-fleshed chin.
“Stay away from me, you old gallows crow,” Juliana yelled.
Nance gestured at Juliana’s tattered skirt and blouse. “I know you felt pressured to wed, my lord, but where in God’s name did you find this slattern cat?”
“Long story,” Stephen said, perfunctorily searching Juliana for signs of physical abuse. Old Nance had never been averse to applying the switch or the rod where she deemed it necessary. “What’s the trouble?”
Juliana tried not to wince as a knob from the cupboard pressed into her back. What manner of man was Stephen de Lacey that he would come barging, all unbidden, into a lady’s chamber?
“She’s trying to make me sit in that—that—” Feigning horror, Juliana waved her hand at the trunklike bathing tub on the hearth. “That cesspool!”
“’Tis a fine, hot bath and you’re in sore need of it,” Old Nance snapped, scrunching her doughy face into an expression of disgust. “Jesu, you reek like a jakes-farmer.”
Juliana recoiled from the tub, when in sooth, she yearned to plunge into the steaming water. It was a singular arrangement with an open conduit that could be connected with a cauldron over the hearth fire for a steady supply of hot water. Steam rose from the tub. Bits of harsh-smelling herbs floated upon the faintly oily surface.
For Juliana, dirt and grime had been a shield fromlusty men for five years. With the exception of Rodion, she had managed to keep all interested males at bay, and she meant to continue with the disguise.
“That is what all the yelling is about?” Stephen said with a short laugh. “A bath? I view it as an occasional necessity, not a cause for panic.”
Juliana shuddered. “I have seen people catch fever and die from sitting in stagnant water.”
“You never bathe at all?” Stephen asked calmly.
Juliana sniffed, folding her arms protectively. “I bathe once a twelvemonth in running water. Not—” she pointed a grimy finger at the tub “—in a stagnant vat that reeks of poison simples.”
“Poison simples!” barked Nance, all a-quiver. “Those are my own good herbs. I’m no necromancer, not like that Jenny Fallow, who done in her husband with mandrake. Told him it’d prolong the sex act, see, and—”
“Nance,” Stephen said, and Juliana suspected the woman had a penchant for meandering bits of gossip.
“And she said it did for a time, but—”
“Nance, please.” Stephen’s tone was edged with impatience.
“Ah, I do go on, don’t I, my lord?” She glared at Juliana. “God blind my eyes, she’s a pert one.” Scowling, she planted her fists on her hips and leaned menacingly toward Juliana. “If you want running water, go bathe in the millstream.”
“Never!” snapped Juliana. “I take orders from no one.” For good measure, she kicked out with a grimy bare foot, knocking over the ewer beside the tub. Several gallons of water spread over the rush-strewn floor. Not yet satisfied, she ducked past Nance, grasped the edge of the tub, and upended it.
As Nance yelled to the Catholic saints and reeled back against the wall, a tide of scented water flooded the room.
A blur of motion streaked toward Juliana. Stephen cursed—another disgusting body-part word—and she felt herself being lifted and slung with dizzying speed over his shoulder.
She screeched, but it did no good. She pounded on his broad back and earned a slap on the rear for her troubles.
Pushing past Nance, Stephen grabbed a stack of linen toweling, a cake of lye soap and a vial of dark liquid and marched toward the door.
Her great bosom
Nance Harbutt advanced like a besieging force on the gypsy. Nance had been part of Lynacre for as long as Stephen could remember, as ever present and unchanging as the gargoyle cupboard. The goodwife wore a starched wimple tied with a strip of cloth knotted beneath her well-fleshed chin.
“Stay away from me, you old gallows crow,” Juliana yelled.
Nance gestured at Juliana’s tattered skirt and blouse. “I know you felt pressured to wed, my lord, but where in God’s name did you find this slattern cat?”
“Long story,” Stephen said, perfunctorily searching Juliana for signs of physical abuse. Old Nance had never been averse to applying the switch or the rod where she deemed it necessary. “What’s the trouble?”
Juliana tried not to wince as a knob from the cupboard pressed into her back. What manner of man was Stephen de Lacey that he would come barging, all unbidden, into a lady’s chamber?
“She’s trying to make me sit in that—that—” Feigning horror, Juliana waved her hand at the trunklike bathing tub on the hearth. “That cesspool!”
“’Tis a fine, hot bath and you’re in sore need of it,” Old Nance snapped, scrunching her doughy face into an expression of disgust. “Jesu, you reek like a jakes-farmer.”
Juliana recoiled from the tub, when in sooth, she yearned to plunge into the steaming water. It was a singular arrangement with an open conduit that could be connected with a cauldron over the hearth fire for a steady supply of hot water. Steam rose from the tub. Bits of harsh-smelling herbs floated upon the faintly oily surface.
For Juliana, dirt and grime had been a shield fromlusty men for five years. With the exception of Rodion, she had managed to keep all interested males at bay, and she meant to continue with the disguise.
“That is what all the yelling is about?” Stephen said with a short laugh. “A bath? I view it as an occasional necessity, not a cause for panic.”
Juliana shuddered. “I have seen people catch fever and die from sitting in stagnant water.”
“You never bathe at all?” Stephen asked calmly.
Juliana sniffed, folding her arms protectively. “I bathe once a twelvemonth in running water. Not—” she pointed a grimy finger at the tub “—in a stagnant vat that reeks of poison simples.”
“Poison simples!” barked Nance, all a-quiver. “Those are my own good herbs. I’m no necromancer, not like that Jenny Fallow, who done in her husband with mandrake. Told him it’d prolong the sex act, see, and—”
“Nance,” Stephen said, and Juliana suspected the woman had a penchant for meandering bits of gossip.
“And she said it did for a time, but—”
“Nance, please.” Stephen’s tone was edged with impatience.
“Ah, I do go on, don’t I, my lord?” She glared at Juliana. “God blind my eyes, she’s a pert one.” Scowling, she planted her fists on her hips and leaned menacingly toward Juliana. “If you want running water, go bathe in the millstream.”
“Never!” snapped Juliana. “I take orders from no one.” For good measure, she kicked out with a grimy bare foot, knocking over the ewer beside the tub. Several gallons of water spread over the rush-strewn floor. Not yet satisfied, she ducked past Nance, grasped the edge of the tub, and upended it.
As Nance yelled to the Catholic saints and reeled back against the wall, a tide of scented water flooded the room.
A blur of motion streaked toward Juliana. Stephen cursed—another disgusting body-part word—and she felt herself being lifted and slung with dizzying speed over his shoulder.
She screeched, but it did no good. She pounded on his broad back and earned a slap on the rear for her troubles.
Pushing past Nance, Stephen grabbed a stack of linen toweling, a cake of lye soap and a vial of dark liquid and marched toward the door.
Her great bosom
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