Wild Wind

by Patricia Ryan

  "You can have her," Milo said, his voice low, almost seductive, "with no ties or responsibilities of any kind. Isn't the Lone Wolf tired of tumbling serving wenches and whores? Think of it. You could have Nicolette de St. Clair, with her soft skin and her golden hair, and you wouldn't have to give up anything for her. I'm offering you a liaison with a woman of exceptional beauty, a clever, learned, highborn woman, and when it's over, you can simply return to your former life as if the whole thing had never happened."

  Alex watched the goat as it snuffled and searched. In his mind he saw a white silk shift neatly folded on a crimson pillow. "'Tis an ill-conceived plan, you know. You claim to have thought it all through, but...well, what if your wife is barren? After all, you tried at one time to get her with child, but it didn't work. You did have a baby with Violette, though, so the problem can't be yours."

  "Nicolette is fertile," Milo said shortly.

  "How can you possibly know that?"

  Milo regarded him speculatively for a moment, as if weighing his answer. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he said, "On our wedding night, when we lay together for the first time, it felt—"

  "Christ, Milo." Alex turned away. "I'm leaving. I don't need to hear—"

  "There was no resistance, no blood. And she didn't even try to pretend there was pain."

  Alex turned slowly back around.

  "I questioned her, and she admitted the truth. Not only had she lost her virginity years before, but she'd already been with child."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  "Who's next?" bellowed Vicq, the biggest of Gaspar's two apes, at the audience of men who stood gathered around a circle of beaten earth in the sporting field. Alex sat in the grass on a nearby knoll, where he had a good overhead view of the fighting circle, but could observe the matches from a distance.

  "Who's man enough to fight Gaspar Le Taureau this fine afternoon?" yelled barrel-chested Leone.

  Gaspar himself stood unmoving in the middle of the circle, his bloodied fists resting nonchalantly on his hips, as his underlings paced around him, goading the crowd. A pair of sweat-soaked linen braies covered his legs to the calves, and his feet were encased in heavy boots. Half-naked, he was a daunting specimen, and Alex didn't wonder why so few men were willing to take him on. His chest was a wedge of pure brawn, heavily furred. He had the back of an ox, arms bulging with veined muscle. Sweat and blood dripped from him, soaking the packed dirt beneath his feet. Alex would not have stepped forward. He marveled that several already had.

  "He's taking on all challengers!" Vicq shouted. "Come on! Where are your ballocks?"

  "I've got a pair," came a voice from the spectators. Alex sighed and shook his head.

  The fellow stepped into the ring, peeled off his tunic and shirt, and threw them to a companion. He was young and strong, but he'd be no match for The Bull.

  The youth put up his fists. Gaspar slugged him in the head and he hit the dirt. The crowd groaned as one. Laughing, the big man kicked him in the side as he shielded his bloody face with his hands. "Come on, get up. Give us a fight. You said you had a pair. Prove it."

  The young contestant tentatively uncovered his face. His nose was misshapen, and blood stained his lips. With a shaking hand he reached into his mouth and extracted a shard of tooth. "You win," he said nasally.

  "So soon?" Gaspar said with exaggerated disappointment. "Wasn't much sport to that. Are you sure you've got anything in here?" he asked, yanking on the drawstring that secured his opponent's chausses.

  Some of the onlookers laughed nervously. Others just watched in silence as Gaspar untied the hose and pulled them down. When he reached for the underdrawers, the poor fellow began to struggle, so Gaspar order Vicq and Leone, howling with laughter, to pin him to the ground.

  Alex had seen enough. Rising to his feet, he cupped his hands around his mouth. "What a noble display, Gaspar!"

  Heads turned. Gaspar, hunched over his writhing victim, glowered up at him.

  "Three against one!" Alex yelled. "But, then, that's the way you like it, isn't it?"

  The audience looked toward Gaspar. Grimacing, he backed away from the young man and ordered his underlings to do the same. The fellow's friends helped him to his feet and hauled him, his chausses around his ankles, from the ring.

  Gaspar nodded to Vicq and Leone, who set up the appeal for more challengers. To Alex's dismay, another youth stepped forward. Alex turned away in disgust, thinking he'd walk to the river and seek out the solitude of the old longship, when a glimmer of yellow in a nearby meadow caught his eye.

  It was a woman, sitting with her back to him in a saffron-dyed silk tunic—Nicki, for he'd seen her earlier in that gown. Faithe, with whom she'd become friendly, sat across from her on a blanket spread on the grass, baby Edlyn at her breast. Robert and Hlynn flanked Nicki, the three of them bending their heads over some activity that seemed to engross them.

  Shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun, Alex studied the distant figure in yellow as he ruminated over Milo's astonishing revelation yesterday. Thinking back to that summer in Périgeaux, he recalled his excruciating chivalry with Nicki, his reluctance to take liberties that would shock her. Just holding her hand had thrilled him immeasurably. How utterly laughable she must have found him. Of the two of them, he'd been the blushing virgin. She'd lost her innocence three years before.

  She'd become pregnant at sixteen, she'd confessed to Milo, and lost the babe. With tears in her eyes, she'd begged him not to tell anyone, lest she be ruined. Milo had agreed not to reveal her secret to a soul, and he hadn't, until yesterday. He'd made Alex promise not to tell anyone, including Nicki, what he had confided beneath the shadows of the chapel arch.

  Judging by Milo's account, he'd been remarkably sanguine about his bride's past, and certainly more understanding than Alex would have been. Milo hadn't pressed her for details, and she had not seemed disposed to offer any. When Alex asked his cousin how he could have taken it so calmly, Milo replied that he was in no position to judge her, having hardly been a paragon of chastity himself.

  Milo's worldliness about such matters had always mystified Alex. It struck him as unfathomable to regard women—women of their own class and position, at any rate—as being entitled to the same sexual liberties as men. A man had a right to expect his bride to be pure and untouched on their wedding night. A high-ranking maiden's virtue wasn't something a man should ever feel compelled to question. He had certainly never questioned Nicki's. In retrospect, although he knew she'd been no angel, having used him to manipulate Milo into proposing, he'd been as certain of her virginity as he was of his own.

  How well he'd thought he'd known her; how foolish he'd been. Luke had realized something was amiss. Alex remembered his brother remarking that Nicki looked like a woman with a secret. Hadn't she as much as told him so herself? I'm not the woman you think I am. There are things about me you don't know.

  Out in the meadow, Faithe noticed him and waved; he waved back. Nicki turned toward him, but offered no greeting. Robert and Hlynn leapt to their feet and raced toward him. Faithe called after them, and started to rise—awkwardly, given the baby she was nursing—but Nicki waved her back down and strode across the grass after the children.

  When little Hlynn tripped over the hem of her tunic, her brother helped her up and held her hand the rest of the way. Alex smiled, remembering how combative they'd been the night he came looking for Luke's wine flask.

  "Look, Uncle Alex!" Robert exclaimed, waving something—a wax tablet. Hlynn carried one, too. "Aunt Nicolette's been teaching us to write!"

  "Little Hlynn as well?" Alex asked doubtfully. She hadn't yet seen her third birthday.

  The children scampered up the knoll, Hlynn thrusting her tablet proudly into Alex's hand. "She's still learning her alphabet," Robert said, pointing to the crudely scribbled letters gouged into the wax. "Aunt Nicolette says she's doing very well for her age."

  Hlynn beamed. Alex ruffled her hair as he
returned her tablet to her. "Good work, Mouse." She giggled, as she did whenever he called her that.

  "She's a very quick-witted little girl," Nicki said as she joined them, slightly out of breath, her cheeks flushed. Her gaze connected with his for a breathtaking moment before she looked away; in that brief instant, he sensed a universe of feelings roiling beneath the surface. Her hair was caught in a snood of golden gauze today. She glowed like the sun. "Her brother is very clever, as well. He wrote a poem today!"

  "Mummy had already taught me the alphabet," Robert confided, handing his tablet to Alex. "And Aunt Nicolette told me how to spell the words. But I made it up all by myself."

  Alex looked down at the little rows of words—meaningless to him—inscribed with painstaking care into the wax.

  "Aunt Nicolette says it's excellent," the boy bragged. "Do you like it?"

  Heat crawled up Alex's throat. Feeling Nicki's gaze on him, he would have given anything at that moment—anything—to have been able to read what was on that tablet. "I'm sorry, Robert," he said, giving the tablet back, "but I can't—"

  "Here," came a breathless voice from behind. "Let me have a look."

  Alex turned to find Milo toiling with his cane to ascend the little hill. He was surprised his cousin had made it this far from the castle without help.

  Robert handed over the tablet to Milo, who squinted at it, swaying slightly; drunk again. "Why, this is splendid." Clearing his throat, he recited, "'We sing our praise, For summer days, And almond cakes, With honey glaze.'"

  Alex couldn't help but smile at the things a five-year-old boy found worthy of extolling in verse. "That's excellent, Robert."

  "Come," said Nicki, rounding up the children. "Robert, you may return to your mother. Hlynn, I promised Mummy I'd take you back to your chamber and put you in for a nap."

  Hlynn held her chubby arms up beseechingly. Nicki smiled and hefted the little girl, who promptly shoved her thumb into her mouth and went limp.

  Quietly Nicki said to Milo, "You shouldn't have walked all this way. You'll exhaust yourself."

  "I'm sick to death of that blasted castle," Milo griped. "You know that, damn you. Leave me be."

  She looked as if she wanted to say more, but after a brief glance toward Alex, she left. The two men watched her carry the child across the field toward the castle.

  "She's good with children, is she not?" Milo asked, speaking slowly in an apparent attempt to counteract the thickness of his speech. "Patient, understanding."

  "Almost as good as she is with you," Alex said. "And you're a damned sight more trouble."

  Laughing raspily, Milo lifted his ever-present wineskin to his mouth and took a drink. "She'd give her soul to have a child of her own."

  Alex sighed wearily. "Well, she won't get one from me."

  "'Twould mean the world to her," Milo said. "And you'd be saving her from homelessness in the bargain."

  Alex reflected on Robert's charming little poem, indecipherable to him until it was read aloud. "What do you think of me, Milo?"

  Milo seemed to be struggling to focus his gaze on Alex. "I love you like a brother, Alex. You know that."

  Alex nodded. "A slow-witted little brother, good for a bit of company now and then...or the occasional very special favor. Is that it?"

  "What are you driving at, cousin?"

  "I'm no more than breeding stock to you, am I?"

  Milo made a face of derision. "Alex—"

  "A stud bull. Witless, to be sure, but he'll mount any female put in front of him. Good for his seed but—"

  "You are witless," Milo said, choking with laughter, "if you think that's how I view you."

  "What else am I to think?"

  Milo clamped a bony hand onto Alex's shoulder. "Don't you remember how it was, back in Périgeaux those last few years? You were more than my cousin—you were my confidant, the friend of my heart. I needed you. You had a way of looking at things straight on, where I was always peering around corners, making everything vastly more complicated than it needed to be. I questioned everything. I needed your clear vision, your sense of rightness and honor, to remind me what was important. You kept me from all my little dishonesties and self-indulgences." Grimly he said, "If you'd been around these past nine years, I doubt I would have deteriorated into the sorry wastrel I am today." He was slurring badly, having abandoned his effort to appear sober.

  "But that's just it, Milo. I wasn't around. For almost a decade you made no attempt to contact me. When you finally sought me out, 'twas to ask the most obscene 'favor' imaginable."

  "I needed you then, and I need you now. More than ever."

  "I'm sorry, Milo, but I can't stomach what you're asking of me. Find someone else."

  "Actually," Milo said, "I already have. If you won't do it, Gaspar will."

  Alex gaped at him. "Gaspar?"

  A roar from the crowd around the fighting pit made both men turn to see what had prompted it. It was the arrival of a new opponent, a monstrous brute—some sort of infidel judging from his dark skin and the gold ring in his ear. He was entirely as tall and broad as Gaspar, every muscle on his torso clearly defined. The spectators cheered wildly as the savage dodged Gaspar's first two punches, landing him a punishing blow to the stomach that doubled him up. He turned to acknowledge the hurrahs of the crowd, only to have Gaspar leap on him from behind and tackle him to the ground.

  Gaspar and Nicki? God's eyes... "He wouldn't do it," Alex said.

  "He already offered to," Milo retorted. "And if I need him, I'll order it. He may be the apothecary castellan, but he hasn't forgotten how to follow an order."

  "Christ, Milo." Down in the fighting circle, the competition had evolved into a wrestling match, with the two sweaty behemoths grappling furiously for dominance. "Was it his idea?"

  "Nay," Milo said quickly—too quickly, perhaps. "'Twas mine. We were drinking one evening, after supper. I was...perhaps a bit loose-tongued."

  Alex grunted; easy to imagine.

  "I confided in him about the inheritance problem, the need for a son. And he offered..." Milo frowned uncertainly, as if trying to remember. "But mind you, the idea came from me. He offered to sire the child. For the sake of all of us. If we're forced to leave Peverell, he might have to leave, too. At best, he'd lose the authority he wields now, and one can hardly blame him for wanting to hold onto it—a man of his humble origins."

  "I daresay," Alex murmured, wondering how much of this scheme had come from Gaspar. "She'll never allow it. She'd never let him seduce her."

  Another chorus of cheers rose from the crowd. The barbarian had Gaspar pinned on his back. Gaspar thrashed and grunted. Finally he hooked a leg around the other man's and, with a howl of effort, wrested him loose and flipped him face-down. Throwing himself on the dusky giant, he pinioned his flailing limbs. "Surrender!"

  The infidel twisted and writhed.

  "Surrender, you black beast." Gaspar ground his opponent's face into the dirt. "Surrender!"

  "You're right, of course," Milo said, swaying slightly on his feet. "Nicolette would never submit to Gaspar. I told as much. He took offense, I could tell. He's rarely angry, but I could see it in his eyes. I probably worded it poorly—I was in my cups." Milo paused, squinting at the two sweat-slicked, writhing bodies in the fighting ring. "He does, however, have other means at his disposal—means that wouldn't depend on my wife's permission."

  The dark-skinned man screamed invective in his native tongue while he bucked and rolled. Gaspar held on tight, grunting as he struggled to keep his foe immobilized. Grabbing a fistful of hair, he lifted his opponent's head, slamming it hard into the packed earth. "Give in, you godless pagan!"

  "You can't mean..." Alex began. "You wouldn't let him...take her by force."

  "Rape her? I'm not quite that depraved, cousin. Nay, but there's a way he could do it that wouldn't require her cooperation...or even her knowledge."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "He knows how to make a
potion that will induce a deep sleep."

  "Oh, for God's—"

  "Nicolette wouldn't even know what was happening."

  "Jesu! You're capable of such...Milo, have you descended so low?"

  "Desperation drives men to low acts, cousin. Yes, I'm capable of ordering my lovely lady wife to be so ill used. Absolutely. I'm at the end of my tether. I'll do anything."

  The crowd was pleading with Gaspar, who continued to pound the now-insensible wretch's head against the earth, to stop. Finally, dripping sweat, his chest heaving, he climbed off the unconscious man and raised both fists in the air, beaming. A smattering of applause and a few cheers, mostly from Vicq and Leone, acknowledged his victory. The onlookers dispersed.

  "Of course," Milo said, "I would rather avoid such unpleasantries. My feelings for Nicolette may not run as deep as a husband's should—we never had that kind of marriage—but I've always been fond of her."

  "Doesn't seem that way at times."

  "When one loathes what one has become," Milo said with drunken solemnity, "that loathing tends to break free from time to time and seek the most convenient target. In my heart" —he tapped his chest with a palsied hand— "I care for her almost as one would a sister. She has a good soul, and she's remarkably gifted, and...well, 'tis a rather unsavory business, his drugging her wine and..."

  Alex closed his eyes and saw Gaspar, grunting and straining atop his helpless opponent.

  "But make no mistake, cousin," Milo said softly. "If it comes to that, I'll order it. Don't doubt that for a moment."

  "I don't," Alex whispered, rubbing his eyes.

  "Do you see why I asked you to father this child?" Milo squeezed the wineskin into his mouth, frowning to find it empty. "'Twould be ever so much more civilized, having you do it—much better for Nicki. And, of course, there are all the reasons I pointed out before—the de Périgeaux blood, and our resemblance, the fact that you live so far away... That's important. Gaspar would always be about, and what if the baby looked like him? Not good, not good at all."

  Alex watched Gaspar wipe down his face and chest with a rag, which he then traded to Leone for his shirt.