Wild Wind

by Patricia Ryan

  He limped over to a stack of pallets in the corner, pulled the top one off and dragged it close to the fire.

  "Are you all right?" she asked. "Did you hurt yourself?"

  "Nay. It's just my hip." Grimacing, he lowered himself onto the pallet and patted it. "Sit here with me."

  She sat next to him, bundled in his mantle. "I hope we won't have to spend the night here."

  "I hardly think we'll have any choice. This storm shows no signs of easing up."

  Consternation furrowed her brow. "'Twill be scandalous, my staying out all night with you."

  "Milo won't mind."

  She appeared to mull that over. "Probably not. He isn't like other men. And, of course, our marriage isn't like other marriages."

  "He's your husband," Alex said. "He's the only one who matters."

  She gazed into the flames, her gaze unfocused and melancholy. They listened in silence to the shrieking wind and driving rain. When the pear wine was steaming and fragrant, Alex lifted the cup from the trivet and handed it to her. She wrapped her hands around it, took a small sip.

  Alex moved behind her and pulled her braids out from under the lambskin collar of the mantle, unweaving them and draping the damp tresses over her shoulders so they could dry. He rubbed her arms and back to ease her shivers. "You've had a hard afternoon, Nicki."

  "Marjolaina, she—" Nicki drew in a deep breath. "She wasn't a young horse. I shouldn't take it so hard."

  "You have every right to take it hard." He moved closer, tucking her up against him, his bare legs on either side of her. Circling her with his arms, he urged her to lean back against his chest. "Not just what happened to Marjolaina, but...the stewardship."

  She sipped her wine thoughtfully. "I can't believe Gaspar went behind our backs that way."

  "I can—all too easily."

  "I'd release him from our service," she said, "but 'twould serve me poorly with Father Octavian. I mustn't vex him. There still may be some way to...to convince him to let us stay..." Her voice had a desperate, brittle edge to it that Alex had only ever heard in her mother's presence.

  "Nicki..." He tightened his arms around her and kissed the back of her neck. "Don't dwell on this tonight, love."

  "If I put my mind to it," she said shakily, "I can think of a way. I thought of the stewardship—I'll think of something else."

  There was nothing else, of course—no magic scheme that would save her from homelessness and destitution. There was only Alex—and the oath he'd sworn to Milo. He was her only hope now.

  "Yes, love," he murmured, nuzzling her. "You'll think of something. I'll help you. We'll think of something. 'Twill be all right."

  "Say that again," she pleaded. Her shivers were worsening, although it was warm now in the cottage—almost too warm.

  "'Twill be all right," he whispered, and kissed her ear lightly. "Everything will be all right."

  Her shoulders shook.

  "Nicki?" Alex reached around to touch her cheek, damp with silent tears. "Nicki, Nicki..." He took the cup from her and set it on the floor, then rocked her, stroked her hair, her face, her throat. "Don't cry. I won't let any harm come to you."

  "You can't prevent it," she said in an raw whisper.

  "I can help." He could give her the child she longed for, and save her from ruin in the bargain, if she would let him. And then it wouldn't matter who Father Octavian had bestowed the stewardship on, because Nicki and Milo would remain at Peverell. He wished he could tell her that. How he loathed the secrecy he was sworn to, even as he recognized its necessity. Despite Nicki's desperation, he knew she wouldn't cooperate with his true purpose.

  "You help by being here. It comforts me to have you near, to feel your heat, your touch." Still weeping, she brought his palm to her mouth and kissed it. "I need that now. Just that. I've never needed it so much."

  She lowered his hand, moving the mantle aside to press it to her upper chest. He felt the racing of her heart, the uneven rhythm of her breathing. Slowly she guided his hand lower still, beneath the mantle with its sleek lining, and over the trembling curve of a breast.

  The room seemed to spin slowly. "Nicki...?"

  Her breath hitched; a hot teardrop fell on Alex's hand as she molded it to her breast, so impossibly warm, so round and perfect. She lightly stroked his fingers and the back of his hand. Knowing what she wanted, he caressed her as tenderly as she caressed him. Her nipple stiffened against his palm as he glided his fingertips over the irresistibly soft flesh.

  Alex reeled with the joy of touching her this way, of knowing that she wanted him to. It comforts me to feel your heat, your touch...

  It was comfort, just comfort—but the purest, most perfect kind. It was the comfort of another body next to one's own, someone's warm hand soothing, stroking, coaxing pleasure from pain.

  Alex realized she wasn't shivering anymore.

  With his free hand he gently eased the mantle off her shoulders, letting it pool at her waist. She was exquisite, slender and womanly, her skin luminous in the firelight. He held his breath, waiting for her to cover herself, but she merely closed her eyes and rested her hands on his updrawn knees.

  "You're so beautiful, Nicki," he murmured, trailing the fingers of both hands over her breasts. "And I love you so much."

  She laid her head back on his shoulder. He kissed her face and her hair as he touched her, delighting in her soft, spontaneous sighs.

  Very slowly he slid one hand down over her flat belly, slipping it beneath the mantle that blanketed her from the waist down. She gripped his knees a little harder, but made no move to stop him as his fingers brushed soft curls.

  Gradually he deepened his caress, thrilled to find her so wet, so ready. She wanted this. She wanted him.

  He fondled her breasts more firmly as his intimate caress became more rhythmic, more purposeful. Her breathing grew harsh, her grip on his knees almost painful. She arched back against him, shaking.

  Her sensual surrender was so sweet, and so unexpected. His body reacted predictably, swelling and rising as she writhed to his touch. With a groan, he pressed himself against her, instinctively seeking a joining, a completion.

  Something cracked overhead, landing with a thud on the thatched roof. Nicki gasped and bolted upright. Alex gathered her in his arms. "'Twas just a tree limb breaking in the wind."

  "Oh, God." With quivering hands she yanked the mantle back up.

  "'Twas nothing, Nicki, just a—"

  "What am I doing?" She wrested out of his grasp, pulling the mantle tight around her. "This is...God, I am weak. I'm just a—"

  "You're not weak, Nicki—you're wonderful." Alex lowered her to the pallet as she tried to scramble away. "It's all right to want this...to need this."

  "It's sinful," she said tearfully.

  Alex took her damp face in his hands. "No real act of love is a sin, Nicki. I think you know that in your heart." He kissed her softly, tenderly. He'd never pressed his attentions on a weeping woman, but this was different. He could stop her tears forever, if only she would let him. She'd lost so much today. In her pain, she had forgotten her misgivings and reached out to him, knowing instinctively that his loving touch had the power to heal her.

  "Let me love you, Nicki," he implored. "'Twill make everything better—you'll see." It would—especially if their lovemaking bore fruit.

  "It's...it's wrong."

  "It's perfect." He dried her face with an edge of the mantle. "Look into your heart, Nicki. Doesn't it feel perfect?"

  She closed her eyes. "Too perfect," she whispered raggedly.

  "This was always meant to be," he whispered against her lips. "You know that. You feel it here," he said, resting a hand over her heart.

  "Yes." She looked into his eyes. "Yes."

  He kissed her while the tempest roared outside, and she kissed him back, drawing her arms out of the mantle to wrap them around him.

  "I need to feel you," he said, loosening the mantle so that he could relish the soft
weight of her breasts against his chest, the taut peaks of her nipples. They kissed again, Alex cupping her head with one hand while the other stole to a breast. She let him caress her until every breath was a sigh of pleasure, and when he reached down to push the rest of the mantle aside, she did not resist.

  Alex untied his drawers and kicked them off, then rested his weight on her carefully. He was awed to be lying with her like this, to feel her naked beneath him. She felt so warm, so astonishingly right.

  He settled against her, his body conforming perfectly to her, hips aligned, legs entwined, his rigid length pressed against the soft juncture of her thighs. He kissed her with all the tenderness at his disposal, anxious to reassure her that this was good, that it was right, that they should be together like this.

  For some time he lay still atop her, but finally desire overcame him, and he had to move. He did, but just barely, his hips flexing slowly, measured strokes of his aching flesh against hers. He knew she ached, because she moaned when he thrust against her.

  "Alex," she said in a wavering whisper.

  "Don't be afraid of what you feel, Nicki." He moved in a steady, deliberately slow rhythm, gradually parting her, gliding against her slick heat. Reaching down, he eased her thighs open and nestled snugly between them. "Give in to it," he murmured, throbbing with the need to bury himself in her, in pain from the waiting.

  Her breathing grew ragged, her gaze unfocused. She whispered his name, and other things he couldn't make out over the drumming of rain on the thatch. Her fingernails bit into his shoulders, and he realized she was lifting her hips to meet his.

  It was too much. He was too close; there was no turning back. His body tensed involuntarily as the crisis approached. "Let me inside," he whispered desperately, tucking his hands beneath her to tilt her hips. "Nicki, let me in."

  She threw her head back, a dark flush sweeping over her face, and he knew she was as close to the edge as he.

  "Now, Nicki" he panted, shifting to seat the head of his quivering sex in her. "God, Nicki, please."

  She moaned something.

  "Nicki?"

  "Yes. Oh, God, yes, Alex. Yes."

  He groaned as he pushed into her, swore at the excruciating pressure, the slippery walls of flesh so tight around him, so perfect, too perfect, because he couldn't wait, he couldn't wait.

  She cried out, bucking beneath him, her climax shuddering through her from within, squeezing his own pleasure out of him.

  His body took over, arching, driving hard. He shouted as his seed discharged deep, deep inside her. Shocked at the violence of his release, he could only groan, over and over again, with each convulsive tremor.

  They clung to each other, their breathless cries mingling as they rocked together, slower now, letting the excruciating pleasure subside, hearts thundering as one, their bodies at long last united, in harmony with their souls.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  "Wake up!" Gaspar swept Milo's bed curtains open and shook the drunken bag of bones until his teeth rattled. "Wake up, damn you."

  "What?" Milo blinked, grimacing at the morning sunlight steaming in through the windows of the great hall. "Gaspar? What's the matter?"

  Gaspar looked around and lowered his voice to avoid being heard by the breakfasting soldiers. "I think your wife may have run off with your cousin."

  "What?" Milo struggled to sit upright. "Jesu!"

  "That decrepit old maid of hers came downstairs a little while ago in a dither because her ladyship wasn't in her solar. Her bed was still turned down for the evening, and her night shift laid out. I just checked de Périgeaux's room, and his bed hadn't been slept in either."

  "I don't understand." Milo rubbed his forehead with a quavering hand. "Wasn't my wife at supper last night?"

  "Nay." Gaspar sighed in irritation. As usual, Milo had passed out drunk toward the end of supper. His memory of recent events was getting worse and worse. "And neither was your cousin. They hadn't come back from their afternoon lesson, remember?"

  Milo ran a hand over his mouth. "Where's my wine? Did you bring my wine?"

  "Bloody hell! Do you think of nothing but your damned wine?"

  "Nay. Not if I can help it."

  Gaspar grabbed the bedpost and leaned in close. "Well, think about this, you worthless sot. Your wife and your cousin were last seen around noon, at dinner. Presumably they then met in the woods for their daily tumble under the guise of reading lessons. That storm hit in the late afternoon. You do remember the storm."

  Milo frowned, as if trying to recall.

  Gaspar spat out a ripe oath. "When they didn't show up for supper, it was assumed they'd gotten caught in the rain and sought shelter somewhere between the woods and here. They would have had their pick of places to stop—the mill, the church, a dozen different cottages. Everyone thought they'd show up eventually, and we all retired for the evening."

  "Did you ask Edith whether she got my wife ready for bed?"

  "Do you take me for a simpleton?" Gaspar demanded, a red fury mounting inside him. "Of course I asked her. And of course she doesn't remember. I'm trying to solve mysteries with the help of blithering thickwits who can't recall the last thought that passed through their moronic minds, and quite frankly, it's making me want to take both you and that crazy old bitch and slam your skulls together!"

  "There's wine in the buttery, Gaspar." Milo licked his lips. "I'll concentrate better if I have some—"

  "Does it ever occur to you," Gaspar asked softly, "that I might, from time to time, grow weary of playing errand boy to a pathetic wastrel who wants nothing more out of life than to lie in bed sucking on a wineskin as if it were his mother's teat? A creature who's handed over his castellany to one man and his wife to another? You make me sick."

  Milo's rheumy gaze suddenly focused in a way that reminded Gaspar of the sharp-witted man he used to be. "I'll be damned. You despise me. I really had no idea."

  Gaspar clenched his fists, striving for the pretense of civility when his very blood bubbled red-hot in his veins. "Of course I don't despise you, milord," he said tightly. "It's just that...well, my nerves are a bit frayed of late."

  That was no more than the truth, of course. Yesterday there'd been that sealed letter from Father Octavian summoning Gaspar to his office tomorrow afternoon for more help with his "problem" in accordance with their "arrangement," and hinting that the assignment of stewardship to Gaspar could be ripped up and replaced with one naming the Lady Nicolette if Gaspar proved uncooperative. Appalled that what he'd thought would be a single afternoon of depravity would be an ongoing liaison, for pity's sake, and knowing he had no choice but to indulge the abbot, at least until the castellany was officially his, Gaspar's mood since then had hovered between panic and rage.

  And now Nicolette and Alex de Périgeaux had disappeared together. At best, they'd spent the night somewhere, which meant their passion had grown to the point where they risked discovery and disgrace just to tup undisturbed from dusk till dawn, a troubling complication; it would be so much simpler if de Périgeaux simply deposited his bastard in her belly and left, as he'd vowed to do.

  That was the best possibility. At worst, they'd fled to parts unknown, a development that could devastate Gaspar's well-laid plan.

  Either way, Peverell's young houseguest had ceased to be a mere irritant, and become instead a problem to be dealt with—a most vexing problem.

  Gaspar smiled as the seeds of a solution to the problem of Alexandre de Périgeaux began to germinate in his mind. Best not to broach his idea to Milo while he was sober. And, too, Gaspar would be in a better position to gauge the extent of de Périgeaux's threat after he figured out where the devil they were.

  "I can't believe it," Milo muttered. "I don't. Alex wouldn't have run off with her. 'Twould be dishonorable."

  Gaspar laughed shortly. "He had no such compunctions nine years ago. You do know he tried to steal her away the night before your wedding."

  Milo gaze
d at him with such stunned, watery eyes that Gaspar almost felt sorry for him. "Nay...I..." He rubbed his eyes. "I knew they'd been...in love. I mean, I know it now. But I didn't know...I had no idea he'd wanted her that badly." In a sudden flare of wrath, he snarled, "Bring me my goddamn wine and stop tormenting me, you son of a bitch."

  Gaspar smirked. Big talk from a dissipated creature like Milo de St. Clair. "If he's talked her into running away with him, we may never find them. He's a clever bastard."

  "They haven't run away," Milo persisted. "I made Alex swear an oath to leave here once she's pregnant and never seek her out again. I know him. He'll die before he breaks an oath. Nay, they've merely spent the night together—perhaps innocently. You mentioned a storm. Could be they got caught unawares, as you say, and—"

  "Nay, they'd be back by now."

  "You're assuming they were here, on our lands, when it started raining. Perhaps they were somewhere else, somewhere farther away."

  Gaspar stared at Milo, astounded that such a revelation should come from the mouth of such a sorry sot. Of course. They might not have been in Peverell's woods at all when the skies opened up. And if not, he had a fairly good idea where they might have been.

  "The abbey," Gaspar murmured.

  "Quite right," Milo said. "She's friendly with that old...Where are you going?"

  "To find them," Gaspar said as he walked away, "and...escort them home."

  "What do you mean?" Milo called after him. "What are you going to—"

  "Don't you want me to find them?" Gaspar asked over his shoulder.

  "Aye, but I don't want any harm to come to Alex."

  Gaspar just laughed; any other man would want the knave who was tupping his wife to have his balls cut off, his bowels ripped from his belly, and his head stuck on a pike. Gaspar didn't plan on going that far; after all, de Périgeaux still had to be able to get her ladyship with child, a critical component of his plan. But it wouldn't hurt to go out and meet the lovebirds on the path they'd be taking as they returned from the abbey, assuming they'd spent the night somewhere in that direction, which seemed increasingly likely. It should be little trouble to take Alex aside and explain a few things to him, using his efficient new mallet to reinforce his points—that his job was to impregnate Nicolette, not court her; that he ought to practice discretion and not make his seduction of her obvious to the world by keeping her out all night; and, above all, that he wasn't to let himself get so sweet on her that he'd decide he can't leave without her once his seed takes hold in her belly.