The Maiden's Hand

“Nor do I like walking in a strange alley with a man I hardly know. However, it is necessary. You see, there is a matter—”

“Hail the lord and his lady!” A group of men in sailor’s caps and tunics tumbled past, swearing and spitting and jostling one another as they shoved themselves into the tavern.

“Good fishing to ye,” one of them called out to Oliver. “I hope the perch are biting fair.” The door slammed behind the man, muffling his guffaws.

Lark frowned. “What did he mean?”

She was surprised to see the color rise in Oliver’s cheeks. Why would so shameless a man blush at a sailor’s remark?

“He must have mistaken me for the sporting type.” Oliver started off down the alley.

“Where are we going?” Picking up her skirts, Lark hurried after him.

“You said you wished to talk.”

“I do. Why not here? I have been trying to explain myself.”

A creaking sound came from somewhere above, where the timbered buildings leaned out over the roadway. Oliver turned, grabbed Lark in his arms and pushed her up against a plastered wall.

“Unhand me!” she squeaked. “You rogue! You measureless knave! How dare you take liberties with my virtue!”

“It’s a tempting thought,” he said with laughter in his voice. “But that was not my purpose. Now be still.”

Even before he finished speaking, a cascade of filthy wash water crashed down from a high window. The deluge filled the road where Lark had stood only seconds ago.

“There.” Oliver eased away from the wall and continued down the street. “Both your gown and your virtue are safe.”

Miffed, she thanked him tersely. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” The sound of his tall, slashed knee boots echoed down the tunnellike lane.

“I don’t want a surprise,” she said. “I simply want to talk to you.”

“And so you shall. In good time.”

“I wish to talk now. Forsooth, sir, you frustrate me!”

He stopped and turned so abruptly that she nearly collided with him. “Ah, Mistress Lark,” he said, his bluer-than-blue eyes crinkling at the corners, “not half so much as you frustrate me.” She feared he would touch her again, but he merely smiled and continued walking.

She followed him along a pathway, passing kennels where dogs for the bull baitings were housed, trying not to gawk at a flock of masked prostitutes gathering to watch the sport.

The north end of the path opened out to the Thames. The broad brown river teemed with wherries, shallops, timber barges and small barks. Far to the east rose the webbed masts of great warships and merchantmen, and to the west loomed London Bridge. From this distance Lark could not see the grisly severed heads of traitors that adorned the Southwark Gate of the bridge, but the whirling scavenger kites made her think of them and shiver.

Oliver lifted his hand, and in mere seconds a barge with three oarsmen at the bow and a helmsman at the stern bumped the bottom of the water steps.

Bowing low and gesturing toward the canopied seat of the barge, he said, “After you, mistress.”

She hesitated. It had been a mistake to leave Randall behind. For all she knew, Lord Oliver was dragging her along the path to perdition.

Still, the open, elegant barge looked far more inviting than the dank alley, so she descended the stone steps to the waterline. The helmsman held out a hand to steady her as she boarded.

“The lady mislikes being touched, Bodkin,” Oliver called out helpfully.

With a shrug, Bodkin withdrew his hand just as Lark had one foot in the barge and the other on the slimy stone landing. The barge lurched. She tumbled onto the leather cushioned seat with a thud.

Mustering courage from her bruised dignity, she glared up at Oliver. His buoyant grin flashed as he grasped the pole of the canopy and swung himself onto the seat beside her.

Lark stared straight ahead. “I assume we are going someplace where we can speak privately.”

Oliver nudged the oarsman in front of him. “Hear that, Leonardo? She wants to tryst with me.”

“I do not.”

“Hush. I was teasing. Of course I will take you to a place of privacy. Eventually.”

“Eventually? Why not immediately?”

“Because of the surprise,” he said with an excess of good-humored patience. “The tide’s low, Bodkin. I think it’s safe to shoot the bridge.”

The helmsman tugged at his beard. “Upstream? We’ll get soaked.”

Oliver laughed. “That’s half the fun. Out oars, gentlemen, to yonder bridge.”

Lark hoped for a mutiny, but the crew obeyed him. In perfect synchrony, three sets of long oars dipped into the water. The barge glided out into the Thames.

In spite of her annoyance with Lord Oliver de Lacey, Lark felt a thrill of excitement. Turbulence churned the waters beneath the narrow arches of London Bridge. She knew people had drowned trying to pass beneath it. Yet the smooth, swift motion of the sleek craft gliding through the water gave her the most glorious feeling of freedom. She told herself it had nothing to do with the benevolent, lusty and wholly pagan presence beside her.

Moments later, white-tipped wavelets lifted the bow of the boat. As the barge neared London Bridge, it bucked like a wild horse over the roaring waters around the pilings.

Lark lifted her face to the spray. She had come to London for a business transaction, and here she was in the throes of a forbidden adventure. She swirled like a leaf upon the water, buffeted, at the mercy of a whimsical man who, with sheer force of will, had turned her from her purpose and swept her up in an escapade she should not want to experience.

“I wish you would listen to what I have to say,” she stated.

“I might. Especially if it involves wine, women and money.”

“It does not.”

“Then tell me later, my dove. First we’ll have some fun.”

“Why do you insist on surprising me?” she demanded, gripping the gunwale of the boat.

“Because.” He swept off his hat and pressed it over his heart. He looked boyishly earnest, eyes wide, a silver-gilt lock of hair tumbling down his brow. “Because just once, Lark, I want to see you smile.”

Two

She did not understand him at all. That much she knew for certain. She could not fathom why he insisted on entertaining her. Nor did she know why it pleased him so to wave to strangers boating on the Thames, to call out greetings to people he’d never met, to run alongside a herring-buss to inquire about a fisherman’s catch.

Most of all, she could not comprehend Oliver’s shouts of humor and ecstasy when they shot the bridge. The adventure was sheer terror for her.