Wild Wind

by Patricia Ryan

  He shifted to get comfortable; damned bed sores. "You do know what they'll be whispering behind your back," he felt obliged to warn her. "They'll be asking how an invalid like Milo de St. Clair—bed-ridden with wine sickness for months—has managed to get that pretty wife of his with child after nine years. They won't say anything to your face, of course, but they'll wonder."

  "They may wonder all they like. As you say, no one would say it to my face. No one would make a fuss. My reputation would be tarnished, but I could brazen it out, and in time the whispers would die down, especially if you acknowledged the child as yours." She drew in a breath. "If I were to stay here."

  If I were to stay here...

  Milo let his breath out in a long, shaky sigh. "Jesu. This is what you came to tell me, isn't it?"

  She felt in the dark for his hand and closed hers over it. "I'm sorry, Milo. I love Alex. I have since that summer in Périgeaux. If he'll have me, I'm going to leave with him."

  "You really will be ruined then, you know."

  "I know. I'll have abandoned my husband for another man, one I can't even marry, but whose child I'm carrying. I'll be the worst kind of fallen woman. The funny thing is, I find I can live with that more easily than I can continue in this marriage."

  "It never was much of a marriage," Milo conceded. "But what will become of you?"

  "Alex will find a way to take care of me and the baby—I'm sure of it. Nine years ago I was afraid—I hadn't enough faith in him. And there was my reputation to think of."

  "It truly means nothing to you anymore?"

  "I wouldn't say that. But it's just not enough anymore. I gave Alex up once in order to salvage my good name. I'm not willing to make that sacrifice again."

  He squeezed her hand. Could he blame her? If his Violette were still alive, and he had the opportunity to be with her, would he remain here in this mockery of a marriage just for appearances?

  "You do know," she said hesitantly, "that my leaving this way means that Peverell will go to the Church. You won't be able to stay here."

  Grim laughter rattled in Milo's chest. His clever little scheme to secure himself an heir for the sake of Peverell seemed to have turned itself against him quite dramatically. Served him right for conjuring up such shameless intrigue.

  She leaned close to him, touched his face. "I want you to go back to Périgeaux. You can live with your brother."

  "What? Nay!"

  "Peter and Phelis will take care of you, Milo. They love you."

  "I'd rather die than live under Peter's thumb again."

  "Milo, you can barely feed yourself. What would become of you if I left you on your own? I won't leave until you're on your way to Périgeaux, and that's all there is to it."

  "Nicolette, your concern is touching, it really is. But I'll be all right. Don't worry about me. I meant it when I said you owe me nothing. I daresay I haven't been much of a husband to you."

  She ducked her head. "I don't suppose I've been much of a wife. Especially...since Alex came."

  "The last thing that should trouble you is your conscience," he said. "Love doesn't always understand about such things as marriage vows. It doesn't always grow where we plant it. Sometimes it pushes up through the soil in some other place entirely." He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. "Go downstairs now and wait for Alex. You should be there when he comes back."

  Milo lay awake in the dark after she left, contemplating her absurd guilt. Would it ease that guilt if she knew that Alex had bedded her with his blessing? Perhaps, but then wouldn't she feel deceived—not only by Milo, but by Alex? Milo didn't want to consider her pain should she discover that Alex had pursued her at Milo's request, for the sole purpose of getting her with child.

  No...he couldn't tell her. He wouldn't. And he hoped to God she never found out.

  Curious...He'd thought his conscience had long ago dissolved in a wine-soaked haze. Who would have expected it to make one last, feeble stand?

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  Alex was exhausted and quivering by the time he returned to the keep, sometime during the night. He'd ridden for miles, guided by the moon and a sense of grief so overwhelming that it felt like the wailing of a thousand demons in his ears.

  He climbed the turret staircase to the solar, never needing Nicki more, now that the end had come. On discovering her bed unslept in, he descended to the great hall, hoping he wouldn't find her in the arms of her husband, because he didn't think he could take that tonight of all nights, he couldn't stand seeing it...But when he parted the curtains of Milo's bed, she wasn't in there.

  Milo was asleep on his side, his mouth open, his bony chest rising and falling in a hitching snore.

  "God be with you, cousin," Alex whispered, and closed the curtains.

  Where the devil was Nicki? Filled with disquiet, he went downstairs to his chamber. The little room was very dark, save for a ribbon of moonlight filtering through the arrow slit. The ribbon painted a silvery path across his bed...and over the form lying upon it. He saw a glimmer of pale gold, and sagged with relief.

  "Nicki," he breathed, but she didn't stir. Lying on her back in her white gown, with her incredible golden hair spread all around her, she looked like an angel newly fallen to earth. He approached her slowly, so gratified that she had come to him; she never came to his chamber. She would have wanted to talk to him, of course, about the fact that she was with child.

  Alex's gaze strayed to her abdomen, flat as ever beneath the white wool. His child. She was carrying his child.

  Kneeling at the side of the bed, he very carefully lowered a hand onto her belly and rested it there, feeling the gentle rhythm of Nicki's breathing, the sweet warmth of her body, and fancying that he could sense the spark of new life glowing deep inside.

  "God be with you, too," he whispered to the baby—a baby he would never see. Would it be a son or a daughter? Would it be healthy? Would it look like him? Would he ever find out? He'd sworn an oath to leave here as soon as Nicki became pregnant, and never attempt to contact her or the child.

  An oath which, God help him, he must now fulfill.

  Tonight. He'd come to that conclusion during his frenzied ride over the moonlit countryside. He must leave tonight, not draw it out. The anguish of parting from Nicki would only escalate the longer he stayed. If he waited until tomorrow, would he even have the strength to do it? And how could he ever say goodbye to her? How could he look into her eyes, hold her in his arms, knowing it was the last time? What would he say to her if she asked why he must leave? He was sworn to secrecy, for her own good.

  This was all for her own good, he reminded himself as he lightly stroked her hair, smooth as satin beneath his palm. He came here and swore that blasted oath and sired a child on her, to protect her—not only from homelessness, but from Gaspar. He'd thought it would be easy.

  No attachments... What a fool he'd been to think his attachment to Nicki, forged so long ago in a moment of mystic unity, had ever ceased to be. The bond between them had only grown stronger, to the point where they were now truly of one flesh and blood. Severing that bond would make his heart bleed.

  But sever it he must—not only because he'd vowed to God that he would, but because it was best for Nicki. He did what he'd set out to do. He gave her the gift of a child, and in doing so, saved her from destitution. Now he must remove himself from her life so that she could go on with hers—so that she could reap the benefits of what he'd sown.

  It's for the best, he told himself as he shoved his clothes and belongings into his traveling satchel. For him as well as for Nicki. She was married to his cousin. Only grief could come of their love. He must ride to Fécamp and board a ship bound for England. He must leave here and never see her again, or he would surely go mad, wanting her so much—all of her, forever, not just her body from time to time—and knowing he could never have her.

  He stood over her with his satchel in his hand, his throat tight with sorrow. If he hadn't sw
orn that oath, he might be tempted to wake her up and beg her to come with him. She wouldn't, of course. He was still a landless soldier, and she belonged to another. She'd tried in the past to annul her marriage, and it hadn't worked, so there was no way they could wed.

  He would be asking her to be his leman, just as he'd unwittingly done nine years ago. Once again she would be obligated by her sense of righteousness and propriety to refuse. It was just as well that he was bound by his oath, because he couldn't bear her telling him a second time that she must choose Milo over him.

  Just as he couldn't bear to say goodbye to her face. But there was, he realized, a less agonizing way.

  Setting the satchel in the rushes, he opened the little corner door and climbed the service stairwell to the solar. He lit the lantern above her writing desk, sat down and uncovered the ink horn. Choosing one of the fatter quills—they were easier for him to handle—he laid a fresh sheet of parchment before him, dipped his quill in the ink and took a deep, thoughtful breath.

  How he wished he had Nicki's gift with words. She would know how to say this; he was incapable of anything approaching her eloquence. All Alex could hope for was that his crude, childlike handwriting would be legible and his spelling not too atrocious.

  To my belovid Niky, from Alex.

  When you awakin I will be gone. I am sory, Niky. I must leve now. I can not wate.

  It hurts my soul to be partid from you. Yet it gladens my hart to know that my childe sleeps inside you.

  Thank you for teching me to read and write. Thank you for loving me. I am sory I can not think of beter words for what is in my hart. I am not clevir like you.

  I will sail home to England. It is for your sake that I leve this way. We can nevir see eche other again. I am sory I can not explane. Forgiv me, Niky. Plese know that I love you. I know you will be a good mothir to our childe.

  May our childe be strong and helthy, and may God bless and protect you always.

  Alex read the letter over and then added, at the very bottom, a post script: You wood do well to dismis Gaspar. Do it today, Niky, so that I need not wory for you. He is dangerus.

  He blotted the ink as Nicki had shown him and carried the letter back down to his chamber. Nicki had rolled on to her side, although she still slept peacefully, unaware of his presence. How he would have loved to kiss her awake tenderly and slide his body into hers and love her one last time. But it would not be worth the heartache, for either of them.

  He folded the sheet of parchment in half and tucked it gently under her hand. She twitched, and he held his breath, praying she didn't wake up, hoping she did.

  She sighed, but did not open her eyes. He waited until her breathing grew deep and steady once more, and then he leaned over and touched his lips as lightly as he could to her temple. "Farewell, Nicki," he whispered, and rose.

  Alex lifted his satchel, his gaze still trained on her, his heart screaming for him to stay, his rational mind urging him to leave before the sun rose and the castle woke up.

  He would survive this, he told himself as he crossed to the door. He was the Lone Wolf. He'd been alone for years, and liked it that way. He'd be alone again, and he would learn to like it again. No complications, no responsibilities.

  At the door, he paused for one last look at Nicki so that he could sear her image into his memory, and then he turned and walked away.

  * * *

  Chapter 27

  "Milo!"

  Milo looked up from his first goblet of the morning, which Gaspar had just poured him, to see Nicolette flying into the hall. She had on yesterday's white tunic, and her hair fell in a flaxen tangle.

  When she got close, he saw that she was flushed and puffy-eyed, her face wet with tears. Something trembled in her hand—a sheet of parchment. "What does this mean?" she demanded in a wet, rusty voice.

  "What is that?" Milo reached for the parchment, but she snatched it out of his reach. Gaspar eyed it intently.

  "It's a letter. From Alex. He's gone."

  "Gone!" Milo groaned. That blasted oath. Damn, why couldn't he have waited just one day?

  Dragging her hair out of her eyes with a jittery hand, she read from the page. "'It is for your sake that I leave this way. We can never see each other again. I am sorry I cannot explain.'" She looked up. "And then he asks me to forgive him. Forgive him for what, Milo?"

  Oh, God, she knew—or at least suspected. She must be very much beside herself, Milo knew, to have read that in front of Gaspar. He scratched his prickly chin, searching for some plausible response, praying she wouldn't find out why Alex had come to Peverell.

  Gaspar cleared his throat. "I think perhaps I can enlighten—"

  "You shut up!" she yelled, wheeling on Gaspar. "Just keep your goddamn mouth shut!"

  Milo and Gaspar both stared at Nicolette in wordless astonishment. The breakfasting soldiers fell silent.

  "Order them out of here," she commanded Gaspar, pointing to the men.

  His face an impenetrable mask, Gaspar nodded to Nicolette and did as she bid him. The men, clearly sensing something amiss, filed out quickly.

  "That," Nicolette informed Gaspar in a voice tight with strain, "was the last service you will perform for us."

  "Milady?"

  "You are no longer needed at Peverell. Pack your things and be gone by tonight."

  Clearly astounded, Gaspar looked to Milo to counteract the dismissal. "Christ." Milo wished she wouldn't push the issue this way. It wasn't that he wanted to keep Gaspar. He'd come to view him as ruthless, almost demonic. But for that reason alone, they should be exceedingly careful in their dealings with him. "My dear," he said soothingly as he pushed himself into a sitting position, "you're obviously out of sorts today. When you're yourself again, we can talk about—"

  "I want him out of here!" she exclaimed, as if Gaspar weren't standing right next to her. "I'm sick of his meddling, his brutality, his insolence."

  Gaspar's hands curled into fists.

  Please don't start in about the insolence, Milo silently begged, wary of the seething anger that welled within Gaspar at any hint that he was exceeding his station. "Nicolette, calm your—"

  "How can I be calm?" she demanded, gesturing with Alex's letter. "He's gone! He says we can never see each other again, but that he can't explain, and that I should forgive him. For what, Milo?"

  "I...I don't know," Milo lied, unable to look her in the eye. "Nicolette, please pull yourself—"

  "Oh, for pity's sake," Gaspar snapped. "Why don't you just tell her?"

  Nicolette spun to face him. "I told you to shut—"

  "Your husband brought his cousin here," Gaspar said with horrible calm, "to sire a child on you."

  "Jesus, Gaspar," Milo muttered.

  Nicolette shook her head, fresh tears trembling in her eyes. "Liar."

  "As I understand it," Gaspar said, "he was to seduce you without letting on what he was about—"

  "You goddamn liar," Nicolette rasped, her face going as white as wax.

  "—and then leave and never have anything to do with you again once his seed had taken root. Your husband made him swear an oath to make certain he abided by their agreement."

  "Milo." She came to stand over him, her eyes wild. Not once during the course of their marriage had he seen her so distraught. "Tell me this isn't true."

  Milo opened his mouth to speak, but his throat seized up. His eyes stung; he rubbed them. "I'm sorry, Nicolette."

  A harsh sound came from her throat. Milo opened his eyes and reached for her with the hand that wasn't holding the goblet. "Nicolette, please listen to—"

  "Damn you!" She swatted at his hand, jarring him and spilling wine all over the bedclothes. "Milo, how could you perpetrate such a...my God, what kind of man are you?"

  "Not much of one," he admitted gravely.

  She sank down bonelessly on the edge of the bed, pale and dazed. "And Alex, he...he came here just to..."

  "'Twas a favor for his cousin," Gaspar said,
his eyes glinting. Milo had never hated him more. "But I don't imagine he found it too onerous a task."

  "That's enough, Gaspar," Milo managed, setting down his goblet. The rebuke seemed to surprise Gaspar. Milo savored the anger coursing through his veins. For the first time in years, he felt a strong emotion, and it felt good. Leaning toward Nicolette, facing away from him, Milo laid a hand on her shoulder. "He didn't do it for me. He did it for you. You must believe that."

  Gaspar snorted. "A pretty tale, but I don't think her ladyship is quite that naive, do you? Seduction is a game to some men, an amusement—like chess, or draughts. And, as with any game, there are those who particularly relish it, who become so adept at the playacting, the little strategies and deceits—"

  "Shut up," Nicolette said hoarsely.

  "—that their opponents hardly even know the game is being played, and thus are all the more easily vanquished. Alex the Conqueror they call him. They say half the women in England have lifted their skirts for—"

  "Shut up!" Nicki screamed, bolting to her feet.

  "Don't listen to Gaspar," Milo said. "Alex didn't deceive you about his feelings. He's a man of honor."

  Gaspar laughed incredulously. "Unless I'm mistaken, this is the second time this particular 'man of honor' has compromised her ladyship. If you ask me, milady—"

  "I can't recall having done so," she retorted.

  "You'll forget him. Anyone can see he's the lowest form of knave."

  "Have you studied a looking glass of late?" she asked him acidly. Before Gaspar could summon a response, she turned to Milo. "I need to talk to Alex. I'm going to saddle up and ride north on the road to Fécamp. He couldn't have left that long ago. If I ride hard, perhaps I can overtake—"

  "Nay!" Gaspar grabbed her arm. "You mustn't be riding off alone after him. How would it look?"

  She twisted out of his grip. "Do you think I give a damn how it looks? I'm well beyond caring how things look. I want the truth."