Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “I’ve never seen anyone lose as much color as you did and stay on her feet,” he said, his voice rumbling softly in his chest.

  “I had to get away from them. I couldn’t let them see.”

  A little amused huff shook his chest, just one. “In truth, I would have done the same thing.”

  She looked up at him. “Really?”

  His expression softened into something that might almost have been a smile. “When one is in command of others, there’s the tendency to want to appear invincible.”

  She nodded, pleased that he viewed them as alike in this way. Perhaps she shouldn’t want to have anything to do with the Black Dragon, but he was, after all, her husband. It couldn’t hurt to acknowledge some common ground. “I make it a point never to let them see that I’m tired or ill,” she said. “Or out of sorts. They’ve never seen me upset about anything. They’ve never seen me cry. Not since I was a child, anyway.”

  “Even… when your husband died?” he asked quietly.

  A slight pause. “I came here. I always come here when I need to be alone.”

  “What if there’s already someone here?”

  “They almost always leave right away. They know this is my refuge.”

  He seemed thoughtful for a moment. “A woman shouldn’t feel the need to be so… sewn up inside herself.”

  “Should a man?”

  He didn’t answer that, and they sat in silence. From this new vantage point, Faithe could see into the rough wooden box tucked into a corner of the stall. Clover, the slate gray mother cat, reclined in heavy-lidded contentment while most of her litter suckled energetically. Faithe wondered how it would feel to have a baby at her breast, drawing sustenance from her very body. How complete mothers must feel, how indispensable, how satisfied with their lot.

  A pang of wanting burned through Faithe’s belly. The greatest regret of her first marriage was that it had produced no children. Although she’d never said as much to Caedmon, she suspected the fault for their barrenness lay with him. He’d had several mistresses and numerous brief liaisons before wedding her, and yet no bastards had resulted from those unions.

  Sir Luke began stroking her hair, his hand caressing her back as it glided downward again and again. The effect was hypnotic, and she nestled against him, wanting it to go on and on. Beneath her palm as it rested on his chest, she felt the quickening of his heart. It did not surprise her.

  Something unspoken had coursed between them since the beginning, hiding behind their eyes, whispering softly in the background as they talked—knowledge, a sexual awareness, a hot pulsing beneath the cool surface. When he looked at her with those penetrating eyes, she felt as if he were looking for something, searching inside her. For what? Her feelings? Why should he care how she felt, about him or anything? He was the triumphant invader—her lord and master, her husband. All that was hers—her home, her lands, her livestock… herself—belonged to him now. He’d taken it all and mastered it. All except for her. He’d not claimed her body, not used her as was his right.

  He wanted her, but hadn’t taken her. Why not, when he had every right to do so? It didn’t make sense, and that made her uneasy. Edging away from him, she said, “I need to return to my chores.”

  He tried to tug her back. “Nay, you’re still white as a—”

  “Please, my lord.”

  His eyes darkened at her use of the formal title. His jaw tightened. He looked as if there were something he wanted to say, but in the end he merely released her, his gaze remote and shadowed with melancholy.

  She rose slowly on wobbly legs and quickly made her way out of the barn.

  *

  “A PITY ABOUT VANCE, but not exactly a surprise.” Orrik paused midway through the apple orchard to run his hand over a scarred trunk while Lady Faithe inspected the tree’s buds.

  Luke regarded the bailiff and his young mistress thoughtfully as he rubbed his still sore arm. During the noon meal, when he’d ordered Orrik to give him a tour of Hauekleah, she had insisted on accompanying them, probably to make sure they didn’t end up coming to blows. She needn’t have worried—Luke had vowed to be civil to the man—but he let her come along anyway, after she’d managed to convince him that she’d recovered from this morning’s fainting spell.

  In truth, he relished her company. That she hardly relished his—as evidenced by her abrupt departure from the barn when his touch became too familiar—was sobering but understandable. It would take time for her to lose her innate fear of him and come of her own free will to their marriage bed. In the meantime, he must strive for patience. Tempting though it might be to simply throw her on her back and have his way with her, such lack of restraint would only reinforce his savagery in her eyes. He wanted her willing, not resigned—and certainly not fearful.

  Luke asked the question Orrik clearly wanted him to ask. “Why is it not surprising that Vance took his own life?”

  Orrik straightened slowly and continued down the tree-lined corridor without looking at Luke. “Might you not hang yourself, if the alternative was days of unrelenting torture, and you knew you’d still die by the noose?”

  “But he wasn’t going to be tortured,” said Lady Faithe, hurrying to catch up to him. Luke followed them, his long legs quickly making up the distance.

  Orrik snorted derisively. “The Normans torture all their prisoners before they execute them, my lady. ‘Tis their way.”

  “But Sir Luke was going to try Vance in the hallmoot.”

  Orrik stopped at the east edge of the orchard and turned to Luke, his expression bemused. “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “A ploy to ingratiate yourself with your villeins?”

  “An attempt to see justice done,” Luke said, “nothing more, nothing less.”

  “I wonder why he did kill himself, then,” Lady Faithe said. “He’d been assured of mercy if he talked, and it seemed as if he had every intention of doing just that. Now we’ll never find out why he and Hengist turned so murderous.”

  Orrik grunted and continued on, pointing out the beehives at the edge of a patch of woods to the north and the dovecote directly ahead.

  “Straight through those woods to the east,” Orrik said, “is Middeltun, the demesne field. It’s worked partly by demesne staff and partly by bondmen owing week work to her ladyship. Middeltun’s right in the elbow of the river. Within that horseshoe, you’ve also got Hauekleah Hall and the village proper. Then there’s Norfeld and Surfeld.”

  Luke must have looked puzzled, because Lady Faithe said, “Those are the two fields that the villagers share. They’re both on the other side of the river, accessible by bridges. One is north of the horseshoe, one south.”

  “Surfeld’s right over here.” Orrik led them to the edge of the river. On the south side lay a great expanse of unplowed earth.

  “Why has this field not been planted?” Luke asked.

  Orrik rolled his eyes.

  “For the same reason half of Middeltun lies fallow,” Lady Faithe explained. “‘Tis how the soil is kept fertile. Each season, one field is given a rest, while the other is divided up into furlongs and cultivated by the villagers.”

  Luke couldn’t imagine his father having granted so much autonomy to his serfs. “And they cooperate in this with no supervision?”

  Orrik grumbled something about soldiers playing farmer without learning the role properly.

  “I oversee things to some extent,” said Lady Faithe with a warning scowl in Orrik’s direction. “But for the most part, they handle it all themselves. It works out rather well, actually. Last year we produced eighteen hundred bushels of barley—”

  “And nine hundred of wheat,” Luke interrupted, “plus a goodly harvest of oats, peas, and beans. I know. And I know prices were high last year. You got a shilling for a bushel of wheat, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Lady Faithe blinked at him. Orrik’s poleaxed expression evolved into a grimace, and he looked away.

  “
The dairy produces about two hundred cheeses annually,” Luke continued, “and a good deal of butter for the market. Fifty piglets, thirty goslings, and eighty chicks are born in the average year.”

  His wife was unnerved, but impressed; he could see it in her eyes and in the smile that kept tugging at her lush mouth. He liked to see her smile; he especially liked to make her smile. “How many eggs?” she challenged.

  “Four hundred. And you collect annual cash rents of twenty-six pounds.”

  “I take it Lord Alberic gave you this accounting when he offered you my hand in marriage,” she said.

  “Nay, I had to ask for it. He assumed I wouldn’t care, but I do. This is my home now. Hauekleah is mine,” he said pointedly, taking in both of them with his gaze, “and I want to find out everything I can about it.”

  Lady Faithe pressed her lips into a thin line and wrapped her arms around herself. So—she didn’t like him referring to Hauekleah as his. Yet, by law and custom, it belonged to him now. Didn’t she want him to show an interest in it? Would she prefer he governed her estate in ignorance?

  “It’s getting late, my lord,” she said. “Orrik and I both have things to attend to before nightfall, if you’ve seen enough…”

  My lord . “Enough for now,” Luke said tightly. “I’m going to saddle up my mount and do a little exploring on my own. I’ll be back in time for supper.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  *

  FAITHE PICKED AT her supper of rabbit stew and toyed with the rim of her goblet, her husband’s words from this afternoon echoing in her head: Hauekleah is mine.

  She glanced at him as he distractedly sipped his wine.

  He’s too interested in Hauekleah , Orrik had said as they’d watched him walk away this afternoon. I don’t like it.

  She’d reminded Orrik that Caedmon had never been interested enough, and he hadn’t liked that, either.

  This is worse , he’d said. Luke de Périgueux is a Norman, and they’re a sly breed. It doesn’t sit well, him coming in here like this and telling us how many eggs we produce, and what we got for wheat last year. Why does he need to know all that, if he’s got you to keep running things for him?

  And then he had nodded slowly, his keen gaze narrowing on the spot where Sir Luke had disappeared into the orchard. Unless he means to cast you aside.

  Faithe had stared at him, the blood chilling in her veins.

  I’ll wager that’s exactly what he’s got in mind, the shameless bastard.

  Faithe had been preoccupied all afternoon, performing her chores numbly as she replayed Orrik’s comments over and over in her mind. Despite the rage that had simmered within Orrik ever since Hastings, he was a wise man; Faithe had relied on his counsel for years, and he’d never let her down. She couldn’t remember his ever having been wrong about anything.

  Part of her still wanted to believe that Sir Luke was too honorable to stoop so low, yet how well did she really know him? The more she thought about it, in a panicky daze, the more likely it seemed that Orrik was right—that her husband meant to find out everything he could about Hauekleah, in preparation for the day when he would pack her off to a nunnery. By refusing to bed her, he was essentially stripping her of her rights as his wife. He could toss her aside at a moment’s notice. She would have no security whatsoever. And she could lose Hauekleah.

  She couldn’t permit it, couldn’t simply stand by and let him steal her ancestral home from her. Today’s tour of Hauekleah only served to remind her of all she’d be giving up if she allowed that to happen.

  Her problem was a simple one: Her husband was scheming to secure an annulment, and therefore steal Hauekleah from her, by refusing to bed her.

  The solution? Force him to bed her. It was the only way to protect her rights.

  “Why do you frown so?” asked Sir Luke.

  She flinched. “Sorry.” Fool. She sounded like some meek little child. Why shouldn’t she frown, if she was so inclined?

  “Is there something wrong with the ring?” he asked, eyeing the emerald encrusted band as she twirled it around her finger.

  “Nothing.” She released it. “Sorry.” Idiot.

  Force might not be the best approach. How did a mere female force a man of his size and strength to do anything? She smiled as it came to her. One place she’d never felt like a mere anything was in bed. It was during lovemaking with Caedmon that she’d discovered the true power of being a woman—the power to arouse and delight and finally satisfy. She’d learned to enjoy that power, to use it for her own pleasure and his. She’d learned how to be seductive.

  She knew she was comely; she saw her beauty reflected in the eyes of nearly every man who looked at her. And in Sir Luke’s eyes she saw not just attraction, but longing. The feeling, of course, was quite mutual; to deny it would be absurd. Every time he looked at her, with that probing gaze, her skin grew tight and shivery; her lungs felt as if they were being gently squeezed, leaving her starved for breath.

  Faithe stole another glance at her husband, who was leaning forward to listen to some story his brother was telling. His gaze was focused, his eyes intent. He seemed to bring that fierce concentration to everything he did. She wondered if he would bring it to lovemaking as well.

  She lifted her goblet with an unsteady hand and drained it, setting it down with a determined thunk.

  That was it, then. There was no other solution to her problem. She’d have to make Sir Luke want her so badly that he had to bed her, regardless that it meant throwing aside his plans to take Hauekleah from her. She’d have to seduce her own husband.

  She could do it tonight, when they retired to bed. She’d tease him a little, entice him a little… just enough to get under his skin. He wanted her already; it shouldn’t take that much effort on her part for his simmering desire to escalate into a roiling boil. And then, when his need was too great to deny any longer, she could roll up her sleeves and finish the job.

  A simple problem with a simple solution.

  No great challenge, and she might—probably would—enjoy it quite a bit.

  If she could stop this incessant shivering.

  Don’t be nervous , she chided herself. You want him and he wants you. You’re already married to him, for pity’s sake. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

  She could do this. This could work.

  Chapter 7

  *

  “MILADY’S OUT OF her bath now, milord.”

  “Thank you, Moira.”

  The stout maid bid Luke and Alex good night and left for her own home, leaving the two men alone in the vast and silent great hall. “Are your wounds healing well?” Luke asked his brother, reclining on his pallet in a shirt and loose braies.

  “Very. That disgusting muck Faithe keeps slathering on seems to work.”

  Faithe . His wife and his brother had called each other by their Christian names since the beginning. Luke envied Alex his easy relationship with her.

  “Now that you’ve expressed a measure of brotherly concern for my welfare,” Alex said with a half smile, “I suggest you go upstairs and help that lovely bride of yours to dry off.”

  “I’m sure she can manage on her own.”

  “Perhaps not. Ladies tend to have trouble reaching the most interesting places—”

  “I said she can manage,” Luke bit out.

  Alex fixed his all-too-knowing gaze on Luke. “This isn’t right, brother.”

  Luke’s hackles rose. “Who are you to scold me about right and wrong? I’ll go up when I’m good and ready.”

  One of Alex’s industrious twins emerged from the buttery, bearing a flagon and a cup. “Some brandy before bed, milord?” She glanced at Luke as she knelt at Alex’s side, unable to completely disguise her disappointment at his presence. “I mean, milords. I can fetch another cup.”

  Alex turned doleful eyes on Luke as he rested a hand on the wench’s bottom. “Are you good and ready yet?”

  Luke rose from his bench. “It
seems I am.” He bid the couple a perfunctory good night. They were locked in an ardent embrace almost before he’d turned away. He took the stairs to the bedchamber slowly, letting Lady Faithe hear his footsteps so she’d know he was coming. When he got to the landing, he knocked softly.

  “Enter,” she said in French.

  Luke opened the door. She sat on a stool next to the big wooden tub in the corner, a threadbare linen towel wrapped around her, pouring something from a green vial into her palm. Setting the vial on the floor, she rubbed her hands together, then leaned over and slid them up one leg from ankle to thigh, leaving a gleaming liquid trail.

  Swallowing hard, Luke turned and shut the door, then stood facing it for a few moments to collect himself. She had extraordinary legs, as lithe and shapely as her arms, and surprisingly long. He almost wished he hadn’t seen them, for the sight sorely undermined his resolve to keep his distance from her until she’d ceased to tremble at his touch.

  Forcing himself to face her again, he saw that she’d finished her legs and was now rubbing the contents of the vial onto her arms. Her skin gleamed like polished ivory in the golden half-light from the oil lamps scattered around the room.

  He cleared his throat and nodded toward the vial. “What is that?” he asked, just for something to say.

  “An oil I use after bathing to keep my skin soft.” Flipping her wet hair behind her, she tilted her head back and lazily worked the emollient into her throat and upper chest. The towel was so old and thin that he could almost, but not quite, see her nipples through it. “I extract the essence from almonds and thyme, and add a little to the oil. Not too much—just enough to lightly scent it.” She held the vial toward him. “What do you think?”

  He approached her almost warily and took the little bottle from her, bringing it to his nose. So this was the source of the enigmatic scent that always tickled his nerve endings when he was near her. Breathing in so much of her fragrance at once caused his senses to reel drunkenly. “It’s quite nice.”