Wild Wind

by Patricia Ryan

  Alex's vital part could never fit under a leaf of any kind—and it was at rest. Nicki shuddered with a certain nervous fascination, imagining what it must be like to lie with such a man. She'd almost found out nine years ago. Would it have been a union of pain or pleasure? Pain most likely, despite her lack of a maidenhead; he'd been young and inexperienced.

  Not so anymore.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  She wheeled around and stumbled over her saddlebags.

  "Nicki!"

  Gaining her feet, she seized the saddlebags with one hand and her skirts with the other and fled toward her horse. She passed a boulder she hadn't noticed before, on which his clothes were carelessly tossed.

  "Wait!"

  She heard the ripple of water as he waded out of the stream, and quickened her pace.

  "Nicki, don't go." He was closer.

  She threw the saddlebags over Marjolaina's back and stepped into the stirrup.

  He gripped her shoulders from behind. "Please, Nicki, don't go." His breathing was harsh in her ears.

  She felt the heat of him at her back, the dampness of his hands through the thin wool of her tunic.

  "I'd decided you weren't coming," he said breathlessly, without unhanding her. "I was just trying to wash off the sweat from my ride." He kneaded her shoulders, moved infinitesimally closer. "I was so glad to see you. Please stay."

  He was holding onto her, totally and completely naked, begging her to not to go. Nicki's heart pounded wildly when he reached around her to gently grip her foot, guiding it out of the stirrup and onto the ground.

  "You don't want to go." His warm breath tickled her ear.

  She closed her eyes. A riot of images bombarded her—things she wanted and shouldn't want, things she'd almost had but could never have. "Alex..."

  His hands slid down to encircle her waist. He moved closer. She felt him pressed up against her from behind, solid and wet and so very warm.

  "Put some clothes on," she said unsteadily.

  "Take yours off," he murmured.

  She shoved her foot into the stirrup again and tried to hoist herself into the saddle, but he held on tight to her waist.

  "No, don't! Don't! Please, Nicki. I won't touch you." He backed away from her. "I promise. I swear to God and the saints that I'll keep my hands off you this afternoon. You know I never break my oaths."

  She slid her foot out of the stirrup, rested her forehead against the cool, smooth leather of the saddle. "It can't be like that between us, Alex." Christ, if only it could. If only it could. She wanted him—body and soul—unbearably. If he wanted her the same way—wanted her heart and not just her favors—she might even be tempted to yield to him, despite all the risks and the sinfulness of it. But he didn't, and that gave her strength.

  "I just..." he began. "I just wanted—"

  "I know what you wanted," she said. "The same thing you wanted nine years ago. But you can offer me no more now than you could then. Less, for I'm a wedded woman. And at least then, you loved me. Now, all you feel for me is lust."

  "Nicki—"

  "Tell me I'm wrong." She turned to face him, forgetting for the moment his state of undress. Cheeks stinging, she spun back around. "Tell me you want more, that the Lone Wolf has changed his ways, that he wants the attachments he used to scorn. That he's ruled by his heart, and not his cock." She bit her lip, astounded that she'd uttered such a coarse word.

  She waited for Alex to laugh at her, but he didn't. He was silent—too silent. No protestations, no denials, no promises.

  "I thought so," she said soberly.

  He fell silent for a long moment. "Are you still willing to teach me to read and write?"

  "'Tisn't just an excuse to get me alone, and..."

  "Nay, I promise it's not. Didn't I just vow not to touch you? Please stay, Nicki. Please."

  She rubbed at a scratch on her saddle. "Get dressed."

  "All right."

  She heard him retreat to the boulder on which his clothes were heaped. Presently he said, amusement in his voice, "It's safe to turn around now." She did. He tied off his underdrawers and smiled at her. "Better?"

  "Completely dressed."

  "Come, now. You've seen me in my drawers, and there's no one else here. And I'm wet. I'd really rather wait—"

  "Then I'd really rather leave." She turned around.

  "All right!" From the direction of the boulder came the soft sounds of clothing being donned. "You don't mind if I dispense with the tunic, I hope. It's turned hot."

  "Of course not." She dragged the saddlebags off her mount and strode toward him, dismayed at the way his shirt and braies clung to his damp body. How would she keep from staring?

  "Here, let me carry that." Alex took the saddlebags from her and brought them to a sea of ferns shaded by ancient oaks. "This seems like a good spot." He pulled out the blanket and whipped it open, laying it on the ferns and smoothing it down. Looking up, he met her gaze and smiled. "Soft as a feather bed."

  Nicki groaned inwardly. Perhaps conceding to the teaching wasn't such a wise idea, after all.

  * * *

  Idiot. Alex lay on his stomach, carefully inscribing the Latin alphabet onto his wax tablet. Did you have to tell her to take her clothes off, for pity's sake?

  He may as well have ordered her to lie down and spread her legs. Milo had praised his reputed finesse with the fairer sex, and here he was trying to seduce the delicate and refined Nicolette de St. Clair by manhandling her—stark naked, no less. What was the matter with him?

  He was overeager, that's what—impatient to do the deed and be gone, having fulfilled his oath to Milo and saved Nicki from ruin, but his impatience had made him clumsy as a spotty youth taking a stab at his first kitchen wench.

  He'd have to change his tactics. He'd have to slow down, ingratiate himself with her, make her trust him. Make her like him.

  He stole a glance at her as she lay on her back gazing at the trees overhead, bathed in shadow spattered with wavering patches of sunlight. Christ, she took his breath away. She always had.

  Just as she had always, he reminded himself, been other than what she seemed. An undercurrent of deceit had governed not just her actions, but her very being. How could he have known, as he wooed her so ardently in Périgeaux, that she'd squandered her precious virtue long before he'd ever met her? At sixteen, she'd lain beneath some faceless man and surrendered to his lechery, let him plant his bastard in her belly, yet now she had the temerity to play the blushing lady of virtue.

  A thought occurred to him. Perhaps she hadn't surrendered to him at all. Perhaps she'd been taken against her will. Alex felt a brief surge of hope that this was so—she didn't mean for it to happen, he overpowered her, I was to have been her first—but promptly stamped it down, disgusted with himself. Would he rather she'd been raped than taken a lover? What manner of low, selfish cur was he?

  He shook his head, deeply ashamed.

  "Is something wrong?" Nicki turned to face him, a beam of sunlight playing across her eyes, kindling a hot green fire in their depths. Alex could scarcely breathe. His hand quivered with the need to touch her.

  Win her with subtlety. You must seduce her heart before you can seduce her body. He had until Christmastide to get her with child. He could afford the luxury of taking his time. And he hardly had any choice in the matter at present, with her sleeping in great hall. It wasn't as if he could seduce her on a pallet next to her husband's bed—that is, if she kept to the pallet, rather than joining Milo, as she had last night.

  Alex frowned, recalling his shock at seeing them in an attitude of such intimacy. His long, exhausting ride had helped somewhat to subdue the idiotic jealousy simmering in his belly. He shouldn't care; Milo was incapable of claiming his husbandly rights. He'd ceded them to Alex, for God's sake! Was it the fact that she still cared enough for Milo to want to comfort him that was so upsetting?

  Christ, it was. Alex sank his head in his hand, dismayed to
be coveting the little bit of affection she still harbored for her invalid husband.

  Nicki sat up, studying him. "What's the matter, Alex?"

  He laughed humorlessly. "One hardly knows where to begin."

  She lifted the tablet and examined his efforts. "You're doing very well. You shouldn't feel frustrated."

  There was frustration, he thought, his gaze traveling from the tablet to Nicki, and then there was frustration. Setting down the stylus, he reached over and fingered her heavy linen veil. "Aren't you hot in this?"

  Alarm flickered in her eyes. "I thought you said you wouldn't—"

  "I'm not touching you," he pointed out. "Just your veil. It's so hot today, and I can tell you're suffering." He trailed a finger over the sweat-dampened linen at her hairline. "I just thought you'd be more comfortable if you took this off." He shrugged and picked up the stylus. "Do as you will."

  She seemed to contemplate that for a few moments, and then she removed the veil, folded it neatly and set it next to her. Her hair was woven into a single braid down her back; moist tendrils clung to her forehead and nape. There was a damp patch on the pack of her ivory tunic as well, he noticed, where it laced up with a golden cord.

  Digging into her saddlebags, she said, "Would you like a peach?"

  "I couldn't eat another bite." He'd stuffed himself on the meat pie and cheese wafer she'd been thoughtful enough to bring him, since he'd missed dinner.

  She pulled out a peach and lay on her stomach next to him, propped up on her elbows. Riffling one-handed through the primer, she pressed it open and pushed it toward him. "Try to copy those words," she instructed as she brought the peach to her mouth.

  Alex watched, transfixed, as she bit into it. Juice spilled from it, trailing over her chin and onto the blanket. "My word." Laughing, she lifted the edge of the blanket to blot her chin.

  Her laughter was so rare, and enhanced her appeal so magically, that all he could do was gape, like some driveling dunce. This was the Nicki he'd fallen in love with nine summers ago, the golden girl with the enchanting laugh.

  The peach's ripe perfume mingled with her intoxicating fragrance and the sweet, earthy scent of the enveloping woods, challenging Alex's resolve to maintain a chivalric distance from her. Today.

  Her tongue darted between her lips to lick the juice from them, triggering a heaviness in Alex's loins. He was glad to be lying on his stomach.

  Just today. He'd vowed to keep his hands to himself, but only for this afternoon. After that, if he happened to brush up against her, or take her hand in a moment of tenderness, or get swept away and kiss her, ...

  "Aren't you going to copy the words?"

  "Words?"

  "Those words." She nodded toward the primer, then raised her astonishing, incandescent eyes to his. "Are you sure you want this?"

  "Absolutely." Alex shifted to adjust himself on the blanket. "I don't think I've ever wanted anything quite as much."

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  Nicki saw Alex as she passed the athletic field while riding through the outer bailey on her way to the drawbridge. He was teaching swordplay to a loose circle of men, something he'd done every morning for the past week.

  She reined in Marjolaina, taking advantage of this opportunity to watch Alex openly without attracting notice, since she'd be but one of many doing so. Alex, with his back to her, didn't even know she was there.

  Shirtless, like most of the rest of the men, he swung his big broadsword two-handed, whipping it across, up, down, around. His muscles gleamed beneath a film of sweat in the early morning sun. His hair, which he'd tried to tie back into a stubby queue, had mostly sprung loose; wet tendrils flew as he sliced the huge blade through the air.

  Gaspar stood on the sidelines, observing him with crossed arms and that studiously blank expression he sometimes adopted. Those churls who did his bidding, Vicq and Leone, stood next to him, whispering and snickering together. One of them cocked his head toward Alex and muttered something to Gaspar, who smiled.

  The smile dissolved when Gaspar noticed her. He quickly scanned the length of her body as she sat astride her mount, and then glanced away as if he hadn't seen her.

  It had been getting harder of late to ignore her uneasiness when he looked at her that way. In the past, she'd paid no heed. Men looked at her; they always had. And Gaspar had been subtle about it, never embarrassing her or overstepping himself. Given his importance to Peverell, she'd never thought to have Milo speak to him about it. But lately a hint of lewd menace had begun creeping into his expression. Moreover, she didn't care for the increasingly eerie reserve with which he accepted orders from her.

  Alex was right; Gaspar had changed. She'd tried to ignore it, to deny it, but now that Alex had voiced his apprehensions, her own rose inexorably to the surface.

  Pausing, Alex called for a volunteer to help him, and Gaspar instantly stepped forth. A young page with a pile of weapons—both real and wooden—retrieved a broadsword, but Gaspar waved it aside and pointed to a long-handled mallet with a spiked head forged of lead. He hefted the awful thing in his beefy hands, laughing at Alex's nonplussed expression.

  It had been a weapon like this, Nicki knew, that had torn the flesh from Alex's hip. Gaspar knew this, too. Several nights ago, Milo had coaxed Alex into telling the story of the Cambridgeshire ambush during dinner. Gaspar had listened intently. The next morning, he was seen practicing with a mallet, and he'd even taken to carrying one around in lieu of the club he'd favored for so many years.

  "This is a demonstration of swordplay," Alex said as Gaspar swaggered toward him, the mallet resting on a gigantic shoulder. "Not a tavern brawl."

  Gaspar, alone among his men, did not laugh. "Might one's enemy not attack with something other than a sword? Come on—prove your stuff. Defend yourself with a sword against this, if you can."

  Alex eyed the evil thing grimly. Nicki felt his dread as he regarded the instrument of his mutilation—not to mention the length of Gaspar's arms and his brutish strength—and wished desperately that she could say something that would put a stop to this encounter. But it was, after all, merely a demonstration, with the parties presumably intending no harm to each other. And for her to come to Alex's aid would subject him to the men's scorn. She had no desire to reawaken his hatred for her, when things between them had been fairly amicable lately.

  Seven days had passed since their first lesson together in the woods. Alex, having a sharp mind, had made remarkable progress in reading and writing. His desire to learn was obvious.

  Just as evident was his desire for her. He hadn't attempted any more liberties—not overtly—but often she caught him looking at her when he should have had his mind on his studies. He'd seize on any little excuse to touch her—brushing a leaf off her sleeve, hair off her cheek...

  Perhaps it wasn't wise spending so much time alone with Alex, but she was loath to put an end to their afternoons together. If nothing else, it got her out of that dismal castle. And, in truth, she relished his little attentions, evidence of the attraction that quivered between them. She felt it every waking hour. It droned in her veins, infusing all her thoughts and actions with a kind of heady awareness.

  In her case, the attraction had its basis in a hopelessly incorrigible love that she'd be just as happy to be rid of. Alex's attraction to her, on the other hand, was no more lofty or meaningful than what he had felt for hundreds of other women over the years. Although she yearned for him with every breath she took, she'd be damned if she'd add her name to the long list of women who'd spread their legs for Alex the Conqueror. Adultery was far too grievous a sin to waste on a man who didn't care for her.

  Gaspar gripped the mallet in both fists and leapt at Alex, swinging it hard. Alex leapt back. A collective murmur rose from the men watching. Nicki knew what they were saying—that it would take a miracle for a lone swordsman to best a giant wielding such a barbarous weapon so enthusiastically.

  Gaspar advanced, slashing the mall
et through the air with quick, powerful strokes. Alex lunged and parried, sweat pouring into his eyes as he searched for an opening, a weak spot. Sometimes he'd use his sword to deflect a blow, steel clanking against lead; sometimes he'd jump aside, or duck. Gaspar did not appear to be holding back. That the men noticed this as well became clear when some of them began urging Gaspar to back off the beleaguered Alex, lest he do some damage. Nicki bit her lip so hard it hurt. Might it not be worth Alex's wrath to order an end to this brutal spectacle?

  Alex blocked a blow, slamming his sword against the upraised shaft of the mallet. At that moment, Gaspar looked toward Nicki, still on horseback, nodding as if he had only just now noticed her. Smiling in a way that struck her as almost sly, he called out, "Good morning, milady."

  Alex turned to look at her. Nicki screamed along with the others as Gaspar swung his mallet sharply downward, ramming it into Alex's hip.

  Alex dropped his sword and crumpled, roaring in pain. It was his left hip, she saw as he grabbed it, his body curling in the dirt. Gaspar had deliberately attacked the hip already mangled years before by the same weapon.

  She dismounted and ran to him, yanking aside the men gathering around him. "Let me through!"

  Just as she made her way to Alex, he bellowed a blistering oath, something she'd never think to hear in her presence. The men looked from Alex to her, wide-eyed.

  "Shit," Alex rasped when he saw her. "Oh, damn. Forgive me, Nick— my lady." He struggled to sit up.

  "Stay where you are," she told him, kneeling at his side. She wanted so much to touch him—to take him in her arms and comfort him—but everyone was watching; it would be scandalous.

  "Where is he?" Alex managed through clenched teeth. "Gaspar, you son of a bitch. Sorry, my lady." He groaned as he clambered unsteadily to his feet, heedless of her advice to stay put.

  "Here I am," Gaspar said mildly, stepping out of the crowd with the mallet balanced on his shoulder.