Wild Wind

by Patricia Ryan

  Nicki leapt to her feet. "What were you thinking?" she demanded, wheeling on Gaspar. "How could you—"

  "I'll handle this," Alex said quietly as he eased her aside.

  "But he—"

  "I said I'll handle it." He leaned over his hip, rubbing it, but his gaze connected sharply with hers. His fleeting, almost imperceptible glance toward the men made it clear: he needed to fight this battle himself, or risk losing their respect.

  Conscious of the many pairs of eyes trained on her, Nicki returned to her mare and saddled back up, but walked her close to the cluster of men, so that she could hear what was said.

  Gaspar clicked his tongue. "You should know better than to let your attention wander in a fight, Sir Alex—especially one you're losing. If you'd like," he added, his eyes sparking with malicious humor as he glanced toward Nicki, "I'll teach you some proper fighting skills, help you out a bit." Vicq and Leone laughed uproariously.

  So that was it. Gaspar was trying to take Alex down a notch, belittle him in front of her. Why should he care what she thought of her husband's cousin?

  As Alex bent over to retrieve his sword, he looked toward Nicki, and her heart ached for him. She could see it in his eyes—the disgrace of having been defeated, and so soundly, in her presence. "Curious," he said. "I don't seem to have had any trouble defending myself in the past. Of course, my opponents have generally been men of honor. Such men don't tend to stoop to your tactics."

  Gaspar glared at the handful of men who had the temerity to laugh at that. "I don't see anything dishonorable in taking advantage of your opponent's weaknesses," he protested. "My only difficulty in fighting with you is deciding which of your many shortcomings to exploit." His two brutish underlings guffawed. "I did use the blunt end," he said, displaying the mallet's head, strong enough to crush armor. "My point was merely to demonstrate the risks of inattention. If I were the shameless cur you make me out to be, I'd have used the spike."

  "Next time," Alex said softly as he sheathed the sword on his belt, "perhaps you should. Aim for my head, though, and make damn sure you kill me. Because" —he closed his hand over the relic in the hilt of his sword, a gesture lost on no one, and nodded toward the mallet— "if you ever take that thing to me again, I swear to Almighty God you'll pay with your life."

  Silence settled over the throng. Everyone looked to Gaspar for his reaction to this extraordinary vow.

  Gaspar's returned Alex's fixed stare, his eyes dull and flat and black. They looked like the eyes of a dead man Nicki had come upon once in the woods. She remembered standing over the poor fellow, who had been mauled by a boar from the looks of him, and wondering how eyes that had reflected light during life could absorb it so utterly upon the soul's departure.

  Presently Gaspar executed one of those little bows of his; had they always set her teeth on edge this way? "I regret that the difference in our fighting styles has caused you distress...young sir."

  Alex stiffened at the condescending term of address, but made no response.

  "In the future," Gaspar continued, "perhaps we'd do better to practice our skills with other partners."

  "I should bloody well think so." Turning away from Gaspar, Alex announced to the men that he was going to rest his hip for a short while, then demonstrate some finer points of strategy. The men drifted away to await the next stage in the morning's lessons, and Gaspar tossed his mallet back onto the heap of weapons.

  Nicki walked her mount a few steps closer to Alex. "Are you all right?"

  "I'll limp for a bit," he said, taking a few halting steps toward her to rub Marjolaina on the nose. "Won't be the first time." His sodden hair hung over his forehead. Nicki quelled an absurd urge to lean over in her saddle and tidy it.

  "Perhaps you should have Maître Guyot look at that hip," she suggested. "Or at least lie down in your chamber for a while."

  "There's no need for that," he said, sliding a quick glance toward Gaspar as he walked toward them. "Nothing's broken. And I'd much rather be out here in this sunshine than in that tomb of a castle."

  Knowing he was trying to minimize the injury in order to salvage his pride, Nicki dropped the subject. They lapsed into silence, exchanging a look when Gaspar joined them. Why he thought he'd be welcome after his display of savagery was quite beyond Nicki.

  "Where are you off to this fine morn, milady?" Gaspar asked.

  Nicki bought a moment by fiddling with her reins. Seeing as she couldn't very well disclose the true purpose of her trip, she'd best keep mum about her destination—especially since Gaspar's watchfulness was gradually giving way to out-and-out prying. "I'm on my way to St. Clair," she said, keeping her gaze trained on Gaspar lest Alex look into her eyes and know her lie for what it was. "To do some marketing," she elaborated, pleased to have thought up such credible subterfuge on such short notice.

  "You're riding all the way to St. Clair unescorted?" Alex asked.

  "Aye." In point of fact, she was riding well beyond St. Clair unescorted. She just hoped she'd get back in time for the noon meal, so as not to raise suspicions. And, blast it, she'd have to stop in St. Clair and buy something, so she'd have it to show for the trip. Lying got everything all tangled up in knots. Alex had always said so, back in Périgeaux, and it was true.

  "I'll go with you," Alex said.

  "Nay. It's...it's not necessary."

  "But I don't mind. I'd like to. I'll cancel the rest of the lesson—"

  "Nay! I'll be perfectly all right. And my marketing will bore you."

  "I don't mind marketing," Gaspar said. "You shouldn't be alone, and I've got nothing better to do."

  "I want to be alone," she said resolutely. "I...I like being alone. If either of you insists on accompanying me, then I simply won't go."

  Alex sighed. "Very well, my lady."

  Gaspar fixed his dead eyes on her in a way that made her shiver. "Your lord husband must be better today, for you to travel so far from the castle."

  "He is, thank the saints. He's still dreadfully weak, of course, and I don't know when he'll get out of bed, but he's sitting up for longer stretches. And yesterday I got him to eat a few bites of sausage." She raised her hand to her mouth to cover a yawn.

  "You look tired," Alex said, studying her in that all-seeing way.

  "Aye. That pallet is lumpy, and I keep waking up, thinking Milo needs me. He doesn't anymore, of course. After the first couple of nights, he's slept quite soundly. But I wake up anyway, and then I can't get back to sleep."

  Alex frowned. "Has it been like that all week?"

  "Aye." She yawned again. "Pardon me."

  "You should have asked me to take over for you," Alex scolded.

  "He's my—"

  "He's your husband." Alex smiled wearily. "Yes, I know."

  "Well," Gaspar said, "there's no need for you to be putting up with all that anymore. His lordship's resting well—you said so yourself. If you don't mind my advice, you should go back to sleeping in your solar. 'Tis nice and quiet up there, and you've got your own bed with a feather mattress on it."

  Alex cast a wry look in Gaspar's direction. "I hate to say it, but he's right."

  Nicki nodded. "Milo's been saying the same thing. I suppose you have a point. There's nothing to be gained from lying awake all night if Milo doesn't need me. I'll return to the solar tonight."

  "Good," the two men said simultaneously.

  Nicki arched her brows. "How very novel to find you two so agreeable."

  Alex and Gaspar moved away from each other. Nicki chuckled. "Good day, gentlemen," she said as she guided her mount toward the drawbridge.

  "Good day, milady," they called after her.

  * * *

  Gaspar reined in his mount at the edge of the woods and watched Lady Nicolette ride up the dusty road toward the Abbey of St. Clair. She waved to someone as she approached the entrance in the stone wall surrounding the neat cluster of low buildings.

  So. Her ladyship was doing some marketing, eh? Gaspar had
followed her—at a discreet distance—all the way from Peverell, and she hadn't so much as ridden through St. Clair. She'd taken the road that led around the town, not even slowing down.

  The funny thing was, she visited the monastery frequently, to see that half-mad old prior, Brother Matthew. No one had ever tried to stop her. Why the deception now?

  No one had tried to stop her, but she'd always been given an escort—and she'd never objected to it, that Gaspar could recall. Whatever her purpose for coming here was innocent or not, she was going to some pains to keep it a secret.

  A secret it might be well to unearth. If he was clever, Gaspar thought, turning his horse around and retracing his route through the woods, he could get his answer tonight, while Nicolette was under the influence of the valerian. She'd be bereft of her senses, of course, but that might make her all the more malleable. He could wheedle the truth out of her if he did it right.

  And then he'd do the rest of it.

  Gaspar smiled in anticipation all the way back to Peverell, thinking of tonight.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  "I...have...a...horn," Alex said slowly, frowning in concentration over the primer as he lay on his stomach beneath the gnarled old oaks. "My horn is...shiny. I have a..." He mouthed the word as he squinted at it, stringing the sounds together in his mind. "Drum. My drum...is...red."

  He scanned the rest of the page; almost done. At least it was musical instruments now. He'd hated the part about the dolls and toy soldiers. "I have a...I have a...." Shit.

  He turned the book toward Nicki, lying next to him. "I'm sorry, but I haven't the faintest...Nicki?"

  She was asleep, facedown on the blanket with one arm cradling her head. Her back rose and fell slowly, her breath fluttering a few stray hairs that had sprung loose from her braid and fallen over her face. Alex reached out tentatively, lifting the errant strands and smoothing them back.

  No wonder she was exhausted. Not only had she slept poorly all week, but there was that trip into St. Clair this morning.

  He scooped a finger under one of the earrings she'd bought there, a delicate, dangling confection of gold and pearls. A soft sigh—almost a moan—rose from her as his fingertip grazed her throat. He stilled, hoping she didn't wake up.

  She didn't.

  He could kiss her, he thought, laying the earring back down carefully. Now, as she slept. It might be his only chance for a while, the way things were going.

  By rights, he should be filled with happy anticipation, inasmuch as she'd be returning to her solar tonight. It would help, having private access to her. But the notion of bedding her with her husband sleeping downstairs felt so fundamentally wrong that he knew he couldn't do it.

  He could tup her anywhere, of course—even out here on this blanket. He'd imagined it many times as they bent their heads over their lessons. The real problem wasn't finding a place, but finding a way to breach that inviolable wall of propriety she'd built around herself.

  Alex rolled onto his left hip, swallowing a gasp as his old wound—reawakened this morning by Gaspar's viciousness—pulsed with sudden pain. Flopping back onto his stomach, he caught his breath and then sat up slowly, searching for a comfortable position.

  A week ago, he'd resolved to be patient, to make her trust him, to win her over with subtlety. He'd done his best to be attentive without scaring her off, but it didn't seem to be working. Although in general she seemed wonderfully relaxed in his company—much like the old Nicki when they used to meet in their cave—she turned prickly the moment his touch became too familiar.

  Perhaps he was doing it wrong. Alex hadn't had much practice wooing women subtly. The laundresses who trailed around after the king's retinue would raise their skirts if he but smiled at them. Some of them had a few years on him, but he liked the older ones, because they were at ease with themselves. His favorite, Margery, was nearly twice his age, but he savored her husky laugh and her stout thighs, and the way she'd lightly scratch his back while he took his pleasure with her.

  Now and then he'd get bored with the laundresses and want a fresh face. No matter where he was camped, there was usually a willing wench somewhere in the vicinity; rarely anymore did he bother with whores.

  According to Luke, women liked him because he like them. He did. He liked them enormously, all of them. Plump ones, with bodies like warm bread dough. Slight young things with firm bottoms and dainty little breasts. Old ones, young ones. He was particularly fond of the plain-faced women. Oftentimes they had cultivated some interesting quality—a whimsical sense of humor, a beautiful singing voice, sometimes even a repertoire of erotic antics—to compensate for their lack of comeliness. He adored them all, wholeheartedly, and they rewarded his devotion with that most treasured of offerings, their bodies—a gift he strove to repay by coaxing from them the pleasure they so generously gave him.

  His comrades envied his success with women, and he was not unappreciative of it himself. Women were plentiful, and if he was forced, from time to time, to store his seed longer than he would like between bed partners...well, that only made the tupping better when it came. For years, his sexual needs had been met with a minimum of fuss and a great deal of unabashed pleasure, a boon no man should take for granted. And, although he'd genuinely liked every woman he'd ever lain with, there had never been one who'd felt special to him—which, of course, was all for the good.

  Sexual frustration, if not unknown to him, was enough of a rarity to be disconcerting. And frustration of the type he'd known this past week—interminable, overriding need with no end in sight—was completely foreign to him, and absolutely maddening.

  It had become too much for him last night. He'd awakened soaked in sweat, as he had most nights since his reunion with Nicki, but this time his loins throbbed with the fiercest cockstand he could remember. It actually pained him; he was desperate for relief.

  He briefly considered seeking out the red-haired dairy maid who'd taken to flirting with him. But, although she was pretty in an earthy way, he found the notion of releasing his seed in her no more attractive than releasing it into his own hand. In the end, he opted for his hand, because it was less trouble and because he didn't want the dairy maid; he wanted Nicki.

  He'd hated himself for resorting to self-abuse, a sin which his father had always counseled him to avoid, and which, for the most part, he did. In an effort to mitigate the sin, he was quick about it, concluding the deed with a few swift strokes of his fist as he imagined it to be the snug embrace of Nicki's body.

  Afterward, he reached onto the floor for his money pouch, pulling out the white satin ribbon and winding it around his hand, as had become his habit when he awoke during the night. For some reason it felt comforting, and he always fancied that it helped him to get back to sleep.

  Lying on his back, he'd held his hand up to the shaft of bright moonlight from the arrow slit above his bed. The ribbon glimmered softly in the silvery beam.

  Never had there been one woman, alone among the rest, whom he thought of day and night, dreamt of, contrived to be alone with and touch, whose scent transfixed him, whose laughter made his heart swell with joy, who made him ache with longing...

  Except for Nicki. His feelings were overwhelming his reason. No attachments, remember? His passions had gotten the better of him, just as they had nine years ago. He ought to have learned his lesson. He ought to remember her duplicity, and the fact that she was married to his cousin, and that he'd sworn to impregnate her then never see her again.

  He damn well ought to seize control of the situation, do what had to be done, and ride away.

  Lying in bed last night watching the moonlight play over the white satin ribbon, he'd made himself a promise. Before midnight the next day—today—he would kiss Nicolette de St. Clair. It was just a promise, of course, not a solemn oath to God, of which he'd been making entirely too many lately. But Alex de Périgeaux did not take promises lightly, even to himself, and he meant to keep this one.


  But how? She bristled every time he came near her.

  Alex gazed down at Nicki as she dozed beneath the cool shelter of the trees, oblivious to his roiling emotions and secret vows. He could kiss her now, while she slept unawares. Her mouth would be a bit of a challenge, given her position, but he could kiss her cheek. It would fulfill his promise, if somewhat ignominiously. It had been a rash promise, as are most that are made in the middle of the night. She'd never let him kiss her, not yet. His only hope was to do it before she awoke.

  Alex leaned over her and slowly lowered his mouth to her cheek. He breathed in her scent, heady and sweet on this warm afternoon, imagined how soft her cheek would feel beneath his lips.

  She twitched, and he saw that a lock of his hair had fallen from behind his ear to brush across her temple. It must have tickled her, for she stirred, growling in a kittenish way that sent a hot little spark of desire crackling through him.

  He backed away slowly as she blinked and yawned. "I must have fallen asleep," she murmured in a voice all soft around the edges, but a little rough.

  "I told you." Alex patted the cushion of ferns through the woolen blanket. "Soft as a feather bed."

  Smiling blearily—God, he couldn't take his eyes off her—she sat up, absently smoothing her rumpled tunic. Her face was ruddy where it had rested against the blanket, and imprinted with little creases. Alex's gaze was drawn to her lips, which had become suffused with color. They would feel soft, he thought, leaning toward her, just slightly. Softer than her cheek, soft as warm silk, and hot...

  She turned her head to drape her braid over her shoulder—probably a deliberate ploy to evade him. Alex cursed inwardly.

  "'Twill rain soon," she said, glancing at the overcast sky. "We really ought to go back."

  "It's not raining yet," he said, stalling for time. "And our lesson's not over."

  She lifted the open book. "Did you finish all the pages I'd asked you to read?"

  "Aye. Well, almost." Taking the volume from her, he pointed to the word that had stumped him. "What does this say? I have a..."