Wild Wind

by Patricia Ryan

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "She said I had too...sensual a nature."

  "Ah, yes." His chest shook as he chuckled. "Your supposed weakness of the flesh."

  "I am weak. I...I feel things..." Her face stung. She pulled away from him and moved to the middle of the blanket. "I can't talk about such things."

  "Even with me?" Alex crawled toward her.

  "Especially with you." She tried to push him away when he reached for her, but he was far stronger, and before she knew it he had her on her back on the blanket, half covering her body with his.

  "I'm delighted to hear about this terrible weakness of yours," he said, grinning.

  She punched his shoulder. "Don't jest about it. I hate the way I am, and I don't want to talk about it."

  His smile dimmed. "Damn that mother of yours for making you ashamed of being exactly as you should be."

  "But that's just it, Alex. I'm not as I should be. Women ought not to..." She turned away from his all-too-direct gaze. "Women—good women—don't feel the things I feel."

  "You little idiot." He kissed her soundly. "Women lust, just as men do—even good women."

  She shook her head. "Not according to the priests."

  "What do they know of it?"

  "They're the voice of God on earth."

  Alex propped himself up on an elbow. "God wants us to be fruitful and multiply, does He not?"

  "Of course."

  "Then isn't it possible He knew exactly what he was doing when He made sex pleasurable? He wants us to lust."

  "He wants men to lust."

  Alex smirked. "And women to submit."

  "For the sake of having children."

  Alex groaned. "Nicki, for an intelligent woman, you can be remarkably obtuse."

  "Thank you, sir, for that instructive observation on my character."

  He settled down next to her, gathering her to him so that they lay facing each other. "I wish you had told me about Phillipe, that summer in Périgeaux."

  "I couldn't possibly have."

  He resumed combing his fingers through her hair. "Your mother swore you to secrecy, I take it."

  "Aye, but I wouldn't have told you, anyway. I was ashamed of having yielded to him, deeply ashamed. And I was no fool—I knew I'd be ruined if it got out that I'd been pregnant."

  He nodded. "It's all making sense now. At the end of that summer, when the message came about your uncle being close to death, you knew you'd have to marry."

  "And soon. Mama told Milo about the terms of Uncle's will, and that my husband would have de facto control of Peverell. He asked me to marry him that night. I was devastated. I didn't love Milo, and he didn't love me. I loved you. I wanted you, always and forever, but you were already married to your sword."

  "Aye," he said softly.

  "Even if you had proposed, I couldn't have accepted, knowing you would never give up soldiering. You would have been gone most of the time, following William from one battle to another. I couldn't have borne having months go by—or years—without seeing you. And I would have made myself sick, worrying about you."

  He nodded.

  "But you didn't propose. You tried to get me to run away with you, but without asking for my hand. I couldn't be your leman. I couldn't embrace a life of shame, especially not after Phillipe. But how could I explain it to you, make you understand, when I couldn't tell you about Phillipe?"

  "Oh, Nicki, I'm sorry." He held her more firmly in his embrace. "I was such a fool."

  "I married Milo in desperation. At first it wasn't too bad, being his wife. We always got along, and he wasn't very demanding. But then the drinking got worse, and..." She shook her head. "'Twas never a marriage of the heart, but eventually it became such a farce that I decided we would both be better off apart. And I thought perhaps if I could dissolve the marriage and take another husband, I'd be able to have children. I made discreet inquiries through Brother Martin, but there were no grounds for annulment. The pope wouldn't allow it."

  "But you still care for Milo," Alex said, gazing at her intently.

  "As a sister cares for an ailing brother," she said. "I never cared for him as I care for you."

  He smiled. Nicki stroked his cheek, skimming a fingertip along the worst of the faint scars that spoiled the perfection of his face, a puckered little gash that twisted down his forehead and through his right eyebrow. "I hate to think of you risking your life in battle all these years."

  He started to say something, but hesitated awkwardly.

  "Don't tell me." She smiled. "'Tis another of your many scars that weren't earned in battle."

  His smiled seemed sad. "That's right."

  "What caused it?"

  He rolled onto his back. "A club."

  She winced. "And this?" She touched an old wound on his jaw.

  He closed his eyes. "A club.

  "And this?" She swept her fingertip over an indentation at the bridge of his nose. "A club as well?"

  "Aye."

  "The same club?"

  He shrugged. "There were three of them, and I had my eyes closed at that point."

  "Mother of God." She leaned over him, pondering that. "Bandits?"

  He opened his eyes. "We should get on with my lesson. All we've done is talk."

  "We should have talked like this a long time ago."

  "Did you bring the tablet?"

  "Who beat you with clubs, Alex?" Nicki asked, uneasy now because he was evading the subject. Alex never evaded anything.

  He stroked her hair, which hung around his face like a curtain. "'Twas a long time ago, Nicki. It doesn't matter anymore."

  "Three men beat you with clubs, and it doesn't matter? You might have died. When did this happen?"

  "Nicki..."

  "Tell me!"

  "Come here." He drew her into his arms and cradled her head on his shoulder. "It happened nine years ago, the morning of your wedding."

  "What?"

  "Gaspar and his men were lying in wait when I went to—"

  "What?" She tried to rise, but he held her tight.

  "'Twas a long time ago, and it doesn't matter anymore."

  "What are you talking about?" She raised her head to look at him; how could he be so damnably calm? "How can it not matter? Why did he do this?"

  "To keep me from interfering with your wedding."

  "Oh, God." Shaken, she let him press her head back onto his shoulder. "Oh, God. Alex, I had no idea," she said in a wavering voice.

  "I know. Your mother ordered him to do it."

  Shock coursed through her. "Mama?"

  "Although, from what I know now of Gaspar, I suspect he put the idea in her head—or at the very least, encouraged her."

  Nicki felt ill, imagining Alex's broken body, the blood, the pain. "I would have come to you," she whispered, "if I'd known. Regardless of the consequences. I would have run to you. I would have taken you in my arms and...oh, God." She was trembling.

  "Shh..." He stroked her hair, her back. "It's all in the past."

  "I hate Gaspar," she said with feeling. "I despise him for having done this to you. There's no excuse. I'll hate him as long as I live. And Mama, too."

  He chuckled and rolled to his side, hugging her close. "I find your passion quite gratifying."

  "How can you laugh about such senseless violence, especially when it was directed at you?"

  "Life is senseless, Nicki. One deals with it as best one can. I'd rather laugh at my painful memories than weep fat, useless tears over them."

  Nicki took Alex's face in her hands and gazed into his eyes, wondering how she'd managed to get through the past nine years without him; why hadn't she gone mad? "I love you, Alex."

  He smiled. "I love you, too."

  She kissed the scar on his forehead, gingerly. "I'm sorry for this." Her lips brushed the nick on the bridge of his nose. "And this." Next, the little scar on his jaw. "And this." She kissed his mouth; his arms banded around her and he returned the k
iss with enthusiasm.

  They lay together beneath the rustling trees and lost themselves in the simple pleasure of kissing—a pleasure Nicki indulged in with some measure of guilt, given her married state, but little shame. It was, after all, just kissing. There was, in fact, a certain purity to it, reflective of the course their relationship had taken. It was as if they'd come full circle, she and Alex, and were reliving the innocent first bloom of their love in Périgeaux.

  Alex's mouth was so warm, his jaw slightly scratchy; the hard length of his body fit against hers so perfectly. Surely other women didn't feel this unbearable longing, this aching emptiness, this need to be penetrated, possessed. It must be sinful to yearn for Alex this way, but it was the sweetest yearning she'd ever felt; it surged through her like warm wine, heating her blood, making her reckless with desire.

  Without breaking the kiss, Alex skimmed his hand up from her waist to cover a breast.

  Her gasp became a sigh as he caressed her, very tenderly, his hand large and strong through her tunic and shift, all the while kissing her so softly, his breath coming a little faster now...

  "You shouldn't," she murmured unsteadily, looking into his fathomless brown eyes.

  "Don't make me stop," he whispered. "If you tell me to, I will, but please don't."

  Alex eased Nicki onto her back, moving down slightly so he could press his lips to her throat. He closed his hand more firmly over her breast, cupping its weight, his fingertips finding the little peak and rubbing it.

  Desire thrummed in Nicki's veins, settling low in her belly. His touch cast a spell on her, stole the breath from her lungs. She knew she should put a stop to this, but she lacked the will to do it.

  He glided his hand downward, over her belly and lower still. "Oh, God, Alex," she moaned as he caressed her through wool and linen, his touch gentle and inquisitive—too inquisitive. Could he feel her heat, the dampness between her legs? Did he know what he did to her?

  Shame swamped her. "No, Alex." She pulled his hand away. "Don't."

  His frank gaze disarmed her. "You don't really want me to stop."

  "What I want and what's right are two different things. If we take this much further, it's adultery."

  "It would be," he said, "if you were married in more than name only."

  "In the eyes of the Church," she said, "my marriage is as binding as any other, and what you want—want we both want—is wrong."

  "I can't believe God considers it wrong for two people who love as we do to share the pleasures of their bodies."

  She smiled wryly. "I didn't realize until this afternoon how deeply the Lord had taken you into His confidence."

  "Impudent wench." Alex trailed his fingers airily over her face, her throat, her breasts. "We don't have to make love," he said, his voice deep and low. "I can give you pleasure without even touching you beneath your clothes. It wouldn't be adultery, not really." He smoothed his hand down to rest it once more between her legs.

  "Alex..."

  "Do you ever touch yourself?"

  Nicki's face flamed. "'Tis a sin!"

  "Perhaps, but there are worse sins. You didn't answer the question."

  "Nor will I."

  He smiled. "Then I think I know the answer." His hand began to move, stroking her lightly. "All I want is to give you that same pleasure—and to show you that it isn't wrong, that it can be beautiful. I want to make you forget your misgivings and lose yourself in ecstasy. I want to hear you moan as it overtakes you..."

  "Alex," she gasped as he caressed her more deeply, in a rhythm that kept pace with her quickening heart.

  "I want to look into your eyes at the moment you come undone, and feel the tremors course through you, and know that I did that to you."

  She was so close to the crisis toward which he led her, mere moments away...

  "No!" she cried, trembling. "No, Alex, please."

  He withdrew his hand and wrapped his arms around her, whispering, "Shh, it's all right. I'm stopping. I'm stopping."

  "I just...I can't."

  "It's all right, love." He kissed her forehead, kneaded her back. "I didn't mean to upset you. I went too fast. It's just that I want you so much—any part of you you're willing to give."

  "I can't give what you want me to give."

  "Not yet, perhaps."

  "Not ever." She felt the hard column of his erection against her belly, through their clothes, and contrition stabbed her. "'Tisn't fair to you."

  "What isn't fair?"

  "This. My being here like this with you, letting you..."

  "Letting me kiss you?"

  "Not so much that."

  "Ah." His hand stole to her breast.

  She pulled it away. "No more. It's making you...want too much."

  Low laughter rumbled in his chest. "I'll want too much even if you don't let me touch you." He extracted his hand from her grasp and molded it to her breast again. "At least this way, I'll have a little taste of that for which I hunger so ravenously."

  "You said you'd stop if I wanted you to."

  "You don't want me to." He gently thumbed her nipple, making the breath catch in her throat.

  "But I'm asking you to," she said quietly.

  He withdrew his hand. "Nicki, I can't help wanting you. You're all I think about, you're in my blood. But I won't force myself on you. I'll try to content myself with your kisses...until you're ready for more."

  "I'll never be ready."

  He smiled devilishly. "I could change your mind."

  "I don't think so."

  He rolled on top of her, grinning, and bent his head to hers. "I do love a challenge."

  "You've got one," she said as his mouth closed over hers.

  And so do I.

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  "My son!" Father Octavian guided Gaspar into his office, a roomy chamber on the upper level of his private lodge at the abbey. "What an unexpected pleasure." He dismissed the soft little monk who'd escorted Gaspar upstairs and closed the door.

  Gaspar had never cared for being called "my son," especially by clerics, like this one, who were no older than he; there wasn't a hint of gray in the abbot's coppery hair, and his skin was smooth and unlined. It was neither experience nor wisdom that had earned Octavian the abbacy, but the sacks of gold his father had donated to the Church. His family's wealth was evident in the ornate tapestries that adorned his office walls, the massive desk with its intricate carvings, the luxurious Spanish rug underfoot—far from the Benedictine austerity of the rest of the monastery.

  An observant man, like Gaspar, could see beyond Octavian's severe black robe and tonsure to the pampered creature beneath. His gestures were those of a courtier, his gaze oblique. His fingernails gleamed, and Gaspar wouldn't be surprised if he buffed them every evening, like a gentlewoman—or had that soft young monk do it for him.

  "Wine?" Octavian lifted a two-handled clay bottle from his desk. "'Twas sent to me from Gascony. A bit sweet, but worth a taste, I think."

  "Thank you, Father."

  The abbot's gaze slid toward Gaspar as he filled a silver mazer from the bottle. "Pray, what glad design brings you to my door?"

  "It's about Peverell, Father." Gaspar accepted the bowl of wine and sipped from it, finding it unremarkable. "I hear tell you're considering its disposition, should the lady Nicolette not produce an heir by the appointed date."

  "I hardly think such an heir will be forthcoming at this point, do you?" Octavian poured a mazer for himself and nodded toward the nearest window, open to let in the early afternoon sunshine. "You don't mind if I close the shutters. This chamber becomes an oven on days like this."

  "As you wish," Gaspar said, although he didn't find the heat quite that oppressive. He rehearsed his proposal in his mind as the abbot secured the shutters on the three windows, immersing the chamber in a dusky halflight.

  "I'm glad you came, for you've been on my mind of late." The abbot sipped his wine, his gaze trained on Gaspar. "I have
a bit of a problem I've been meaning to enlist your aid with."

  "Yes?"

  Leaning against his desk, Octavian waved a pale hand toward Gaspar. "That tunic must be stifling. You needn't stand on ceremony. Take it off, for heaven's sake."

  Gaspar bought a moment by crossing to a small table in the corner, where he set his mazer. Weighing in his mind the magnitude of his purpose in coming here with the distastefulness of indulging the abbot in this small way, he opted for indulgence.

  Octavian watched with undisguised interest as Gaspar unbuckled his belt and pulled off his tunic, tossing both onto a nearby chair. "Isn't that better?" the abbot asked, surveying Gaspar's form through his shirt and chausses. Leaving his mazer on the desk, he approached Gaspar, who quickly moved away.

  Smiling as if at some private jest, Octavian picked up Gaspar's belt and turned it over in his hands, examining the heavy buckle, stroking the leather thoughtfully. "So. You've taken an interest in the disposition of Peverell."

  "I have, Father." Gaspar cleared his throat and launched into it. "I spoke to Lord Milo last night."

  Octavian looked up. "How does his lordship fare?"

  Careful here. Mustn't be too obvious in disparaging his master—it wouldn't look good—but it would be foolish to pass up the opportunity to reinforce the abbot's poor opinion of Milo. "He's much the same, I'm afraid. His lordship's infirmity worsens daily." That would do, since everyone in Normandy knew the true nature of Milo's "infirmity."

  Octavian nodded. "'Tis just as I feared. And her ladyship?"

  "Ah, her ladyship. In point of fact, 'tis a matter concerning Lady Nicolette that brings me here." Picking up the train of his prepared speech, he said, "His lordship took me into his confidence last night." In fact, Gaspar had wrested Milo's confidences from him with a bit of coaxing and two jugs of wine, but no need to mention that. "He's most troubled by some ploy of her ladyship's to trick the abbey into letting them stay on at Peverell."

  Octavian's gaze sharpened. "Go on."

  "It seems she intends to petition you to appoint her and her lord husband stewards of the estate after you assume control of the castellany." She had already made the request, of course, through that old maniac of a prior, but Gaspar had decided to feign ignorance of this. "Not that you'd grant such a petition, given his lordship's...feebleness. And, whereas her ladyship oversees the castle itself quite admirably, I can't imagine you'd grant her governorship of the entire estate." Gaspar smiled as if this were the most ludicrous possibility imaginable.