They shared with Molly the stories they'd been swapping the night before, and she in turn reminded them of ones they'd forgotten: the time they'd been chased up onto the Rood Cross by the miller's savage dog; the time they'd sneaked into the cemetery on All Hallow's Eve; the time they'd seen a wolf in the marshes; the time they'd won a goose at the Midsummer Fair races. But they did not talk about the times they'd gone to bed hungry or the times Justin had gotten thrashed for taking food for them from the bishop's kitchen and not once did they speak of their late, unlamented father.
Occasionally their remembrances were interrupted by a minor disturbance in the tavern, but Bennet was able to restore order without difficulty. He was drinking as much as he had been on the preceding night, and since he'd shown none of Justin's morning-after malaise, Justin thought he must regularly swill more wine than an abbey of Benedictine monks. Mindful of his disquiet earlier that day, Justin confined himself to several cups of wine, and Molly had taken her usual quota, one cup, for she'd always insisted that she could get giddy on a thimbleful and a drunken woman was like a plucked chicken, just waiting to be tossed in the pot.
When curfew rang, Bennet began to herd his customers out, a prolonged process since most of them pleaded for one more drink to tide them over till the morrow. Justin offered to see Molly safely home. When he told Bennet that he was not up to another night of serious carousing, Bennet derided him for being a "pitiful milksop" and then hurried over to the door to remind Justin that he knew where the spare key was if he decided to go back to the warehouse instead of the tavern.
Chester's streets were quiet, for most people were home and abed by then. Molly was tall for a woman and had a brisk, confident stride, easily keeping pace with Justin as they strode down the center of the street, avoiding any dark alleys that could give cover to men intent upon robbery or worse. They did not have far to go, for Molly's cottage was within shouting distance of St Mary's nunnery, and they could already see the convent walls.
"I live on Nun's Lane," Molly informed Justin gleefully, "although I daresay the nuns think I ought to be dwelling on Wanton Way! Ah, the looks I get from the good sisters when one of them ventures beyond the gate. Can you imagine, Justin, choosing to shut yourself away from the world like that? Even if that the only way to save my eternal soul, I think I'd still balk."
"I know one who would agree wholeheartedly with that, lass," Justin said, thinking of Claudine, thinking, too, of the queen.
Molly's cottage had a thatched roof, for Chester did not have London's strict fire hazard prohibitions. Once they were inside, Molly told Justin where there was flint and tinder, and he kindled a fire in the hearth. By then she'd lit an oil lamp, and he looked about with unabashed curiosity. There was a bed in the corner, covered with a woven blanket, one high-backed wooden chair that was doubtlessly for Piers, two coffers, a wall pole for clothes, a trestle table and several stools. The room was immaculate, without a trace of dust anywhere, and the floor rushes were fresh, mingled with sweet-smelling herbs. But there was something oddly impersonal about this cottage. No one could walk in and know at once that this was Molly's home, for there was nothing of her in it, no small touches of comfort or decoration. It was almost as if she was not really living here, merely tarrying for a brief time. It was, he realized, very like the neat, sparsely furnished cottage that he rented from Gunter the smith in London.
Molly had left the door ajar, and a cat now strolled in. It was a large, grey male, sleek and well fed but bearing the scars of past combats, cocky as only a feline king of the streets could be. Most people did not view cats as pets, keeping them only to catch mice and rats, but this cat was obviously more than a mouser. It was purring and rubbing against Molly's legs with utter confidence that its overtures would be welcome, and when she stooped and picked it up, the cat draped itself across her shoulder like a pelt. "A slow night, Alexander?" she asked. "Usually you do not wander home till cockcrow."
"Alexander?" Justin said and grinned. "Whoever names a cat Alexander?"
"I do." Molly had crossed to the table and was pouring from a wineskin into a tin cup. Holding it out, she said, "You do not mind sharing with me?"
"I would be honored, my lady," he said, with his best court manners, and she smiled.
"You've grown into an interesting man, Justin, and, I suspect, far more interesting than I even know. You have not told us much about your new life, after all. Who knows what dark secrets you may be keeping from us?"
"Ask of me what you will," he offered. Their fingers touched as he took the wine cup, and even that brief touch was enough to sear his skin. He took a deep breath, but it was hard to listen to his brain when his body was sending such urgent messages.
"And would you answer my questions honestly?"
He considered and then smiled. "Mayhap not." Taking a swallow, he handed the cup back to her, watching as she drank slowly.
"My, my," she said softly, "a man who is honest about his dishonesty. Be still, my heart."
"Molly…"
"Do you really want to walk all the way back to the warehouse, Justin?" Her eyes were luminous, reflecting the firelight and his own desire, "You can always stay here. Of course I have only the one bed, but you said you'd not mind sharing, did you not?"
"Molly, there is not a man alive who'd say nay to you. I was daft about you for years, and not very good at hiding it. So, yes, I want to share your bed, God, yes. But I do not want to bring any trouble into your life."
"Piers?" She'd begun unfastening her veil, let it flutter to the floor at their feet. Her hair was coiled at the nape of her neck; she deftly removed the pins and then tossed her head so that it swirled about her face, cascading down her back. It was as dark as he remembered, a midnight river a man might drown in. "You need not worry about Piers," she murmured. "He does not own my body. He merely rents it on occasion."
~*~
Justin leaned over and pressed his mouth to the palm of Molly's hand. She smiled without opening her eyes and made a sound low in her throat much like her cat's purring. Turning his head, Justin realized it was the cat. It had jumped on the bed with them and was kneading the blanket with its paws, clearly staking out its territory. "I have a rival," he said, brushing his lips against her eyelids and then the corner of her mouth and getting an unblinking yellow stare from the tomcat. "I do not think your cat likes me."
"Probably not," she agreed, yawning. "He does not have much use for men." Shifting onto her side, she placed her hand on his chest. "From the way your heart is beating, I'd say I was worth waiting for."
"You seriously need to ask? If it had gotten any hotter in here, the bed would have gone up in flames,"
She laughed softly, and Justin drew her closer. She nestled against his body, her breath warm on his skin. "Good night, lover."
"Good night, Molly." He stroked her hair gently, ignoring Alexander's baleful gaze, and drifted off to sleep before he could do any brooding about Bennet, Piers, or Claudine. When he awoke, several hours must have passed, for the hearth fire had burned down to embers. Molly slept peacefully beside him. She'd kicked the blanket off, her long hair trailing over the side of the bed. The cat was nowhere to be seen. Justin lay still, all his senses on the alert, for his awakening had not been natural. It came again, a muffled sound, but loud enough to have penetrated his dream. He started to sit up, listening intently, and Molly stirred.
"You want seconds already, lover? A girl does need some sleep, you know."