Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “What will sort itself out?” Had Luke discussed their sleeping arrangements with his brother?

  Alex cleared his throat. “I’ve got eyes and ears. I know how things are. Don’t worry. These situations have a way of righting themselves. It’s like steam building up in an untended kettle. There’s nowhere for it to go, and the kettle trembles and shakes and threatens to erupt, but finally the top flies off all on its own, and the steam comes shooting out.”

  Somehow that imagery provided little in the way of reassurance. “So… I should just wait for the top to fly off?”

  He shrugged, grinning carelessly. “Have you got a better idea?”

  *

  LUKE AWAKENED IN the moonlit bedchamber, facedown in the rushes, his body quivering, hips flexing involuntarily, ready to explode.

  Nay! Not again . He rolled over and sat up, drenched in sweat and painfully erect beneath his drawers.

  It had happened once before, several nights ago, during one of his dreams about Faithe, naked and glistening and writhing in his arms. Only that time he’d awakened to find his pleasure already shuddering through him. He’d swallowed a groan as his seed discharged, then lay there breathless, praying that Faithe was still asleep. He hadn’t been prone to this sort of thing since adolescence, and it shamed him to be subject to it now.

  Standing, he approached the bed stealthily, so as not to awaken his wife.

  Faithe lay on her back, her face turned toward him, mouth half open, arms and legs at odd angles. In deference to the warm night, she’d kicked the covers off, and her shift was rucked up around her thighs. Silvery moonlight caressed her lissome body, all too visible beneath the delicate linen. Her luxuriously round breasts rose and fell steadily. His palms tingled with the need to caress them.

  Instead, his hand stole to the rigid shaft between his legs. It jerked at his touch; he clenched his jaw against the pulsing need that hovered just on the verge of erupting.

  Not here . Yanking his chausses off their hook, he pulled them on and tied them, then tugged a shirt over his head. He’d go outside, find someplace private, and put an end to this excruciating ache himself.

  Treading on silent feet to the door, he slowly opened it, stilling when he noticed movement down in the main hall. He squinted into the vast semidarkness.

  Alex is awake , he thought. And then he saw that his brother was not alone. Two people occupied the pallet by the fire pit—Alex and one of his charmingly debauched twins.

  They were naked, both of them, their bodies locked together as they sat facing each other, moving in a lazy, sensual rhythm. Alex smiled and whispered something to her; nodding, she slid her hand between them, to where they were joined. Even from this distance, Luke could see the glitter in Alex’s half-closed eyes as he watched her pleasure herself, her head thrown back, her expression rapturous. Gripping her shoulders, he increased the tempo of his movements, every muscle in his body standing out in sharp relief.

  Luke closed the door and pressed his forehead against it. His cock felt like red-hot steel. He lay on his back in the rushes without undressing.

  Over the quiet breathing of his sleeping wife, Luke could just barely hear a series of soft, feminine cries from the main hall.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 9

  *

  SHE SAW HIM as she strolled along the narrow path that led past the small sheep pasture tucked between the village and the river. The pasture was empty, the sheep having been gathered for shearing into the sheepfold, an open pen with a wooden shelter at one end, surrounded by a scattering of shade trees.

  Her husband stood beneath an ancient oak, his back to her, his arms crossed, watching the annual shearing ritual. Even at this distance, Luke de Périgueux could not be mistaken for anyone else. His height, the breadth of his shoulders, and the uncommon stillness with which he held himself, distinguished him from other men.

  Next to Luke, sitting on a stump with his cane across his lap, was his brother. Faithe was pleased that Alex had walked so far from the house. The wound to his side had knitted nicely, but the deep gash in his hip was healing more slowly, and with a dreadful scar. Even now, more than a month since the attack, it pained him to put his weight on that side. He walked with a limp, but Faithe hoped that wouldn’t last.

  It was a clear, sunny morning, and sultry for early June. The brothers de Périgueux were in shirtsleeves and chausses, having abandoned their tunics as a concession to the heat. As for Faithe, she’d chosen her lightweight, front-lacing russet kirtle and dispensed with an undershift altogether.

  As she approached the men, Faithe noticed that they weren’t alone. Little Felix sat cross-legged in front of Luke, lining up his collection of clay soldiers in the grass. The fatherless boy had been Luke’s shadow for the past three weeks, tagging along with him whenever his mother would permit it.

  Alex pointed toward the sheepfold and said something to Luke, who nodded. Faithe knew what had caught their attention; a woman had taken up the shears, joining the half dozen men laboring industriously on the hard-packed earth outside the sheepfold to strip the animals of their wool.

  “That’s Elga Brewer,” Faithe said, coming up behind the two men and dropping her satchel on the ground. They turned to greet her; Luke’s expression of pleasure warmed her. “Elga takes time out from her ale making every June to help us with the shearing. Her father was a shepherd, so she grew up doing this.”

  Luke’s dark eyes sparked with amusement. “Why aren’t you pitching in yourself? I’ve seen you milk cows, rethatch roofs, weave wattle…”

  “She was spreading manure yesterday,” Alex put in with a grin. “I saw her.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Luke smiled at her, something he did more and more recently. “Why draw the line at shearing?”

  “Even if I had the skill, and I don’t,” Faithe said, “I’m not strong enough. Look at Elga.” The brewer was as big as the biggest man, with arms of solid muscle from hauling around full kegs.

  “She scares me,” Felix said.

  Luke chuckled. “She scares me a little, too.”

  They watched the shearing in silence from the tranquil shade of the old oak. Faithe smiled to herself. When the sheep were stripped of their winter coats, it meant that spring was drifting into summer, and there was no finer time of year than summer. Dunstan supervised the work, Orrik being off on one of his unexplained “errands.” Faithe wished he’d just go ahead and marry the Widow Aefentid and move her into his house. These increasingly frequent visits to her under the guise of estate business took him away from Hauekleah at inconvenient times.

  Not that Dunstan was unequal to the challenge of overseeing the workings of the farm. In fact, Orrik’s recurrent absences had provided the young reeve with the opportunity to prove his mettle. Despite his youth, he was more than competent, and a natural leader. Just as important, unlike Orrik, he appeared to harbor no ill-will toward Luke. In fact, from all appearances, he’d come to hold his new master in as high a regard as he’d held Caedmon—possibly higher, for Luke took a far more active interest in the affairs of Hauekleah than Faithe’s first husband had.

  The young reeve strode back and forth, keeping tally on a wax tablet and calling out instructions over the bleating of the sheep. Each shearer had a child working alongside him, gathering the shorn wool into giant sacks and offering the workers ladlefuls of water from buckets.

  “Why aren’t you helping to collect the wool?” Faithe asked Felix.

  The boy’s shoulders slumped. “Uncle Dunstan wanted me to, and I tried, but I’m no good at it. The other boys… they said… well, I’m just no good at it.”

  Alfrith and Brad and the others had eased up some on their incessant taunting of Felix—a result of Luke’s taking him under his wing—but it appeared they hadn’t abandoned the sport altogether.

  “You’re just not as big as those other boys,” Luke told him. “That’s why you had trouble. You’ll be better at it next ye
ar.”

  Felix shrugged and continued desultorily arranging his toy soldiers.

  Alex grinned up at Luke. “What’s stopping you from helping with the shearing? You herded swine yesterday.”

  Faithe raised her eyebrows at her husband.

  “I helped to gather up the pigs from the woods where they were foraging,” Luke explained to her. “That’s all.”

  “You’re so keen on finding out how everything is done around here,” Alex goaded. “Go on. Go ahead. Offer your services.”

  Luke hesitated.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t,” Faithe said. “‘Tis highly skilled work. An inexperienced shearer can cut a sheep pretty badly.”

  “He’s done it before,” Alex offered. “He told me.”

  “At the monastery where I was brought up,” Luke explained. “But I was young, and they trusted me only with the wee ones. I was passably good at it, though.”

  “A grown sheep is a handful,” Faithe said. “You’re best off—”

  “I’m best off seeing if I’ve still got the touch,” Luke said, rolling up his sleeves.

  Alex whooped. “That’s the spirit!”

  Luke nudged Felix with the toe of his boot. “What do you say, pup? Care to gather up my wool for me?”

  Felix sprang to his feet and hopped up and down. “Can I? Oh, milord, thank you! I’ll do a good job, I swear it!”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Luke walked up to the sheepfold, Felix in tow, and spoke briefly to Dunstan, who registered a fair measure of surprise.

  Faithe chuckled. “They’re not used to having a master who pitches in this way.”

  “Your husband didn’t?” Alex asked.

  Faithe expelled a long sigh. “Caedmon had other interests. He left the management of Hauekleah to me, and I was just as happy for it. I mean, I suppose I would have preferred if he’d at least cared about the land. But he didn’t interfere with what I thought was best, and I was grateful for that.”

  “Do you resent Luke for coming in and taking over this way?”

  Faithe thought about that. “Not really. ‘Tis odd. I suppose I should. Perhaps I can accept it because he hasn’t taken anything away from me, or tried to make me stop doing the things I did before.”

  “But you still think he’s going to tire of Hauekleah and go back to soldiering, don’t you?”

  Faithe chewed her lip as she watched Luke drag a big ewe out of the sheepfold by her front legs, a look of determination on his face. “I don’t know anymore.”

  The other shearers exchanged skeptical glances as Luke balanced the ewe between his legs, grasped her front hooves, and took the shears from Felix. He paused. His gaze flicked toward Faithe, just for a moment, and then he began cutting the wool away from the animal’s belly.

  Alex gave her a knowing smile. “He’s trying to impress you, you know.”

  “Nonsense.” But her cheeks grew warm.

  Alex chuckled.

  Luke alternatively clipped and pulled the wool from the sheep’s body, exposing its creamy underbelly. He worked more slowly than the others, and a bit awkwardly. The wool came off in small, ragged pieces, which Felix grabbed eagerly and stuffed into his bag.

  Gesturing Dunstan over, Luke asked him something. The reeve took the shears from him and neatly sliced the rest of the wool away from the ewe’s belly.

  “He’s asking for advice,” Alex murmured.

  This display of humility would serve him well with the men, Faithe knew.

  The other shearers watched this demonstration as they worked, still somewhat bemused, but interested. Taking back the shears, Luke turned the big ewe over and set to work on her back. His cuts were smoother than before, the wool pulling away in large sheets. Dunstan offered praise along with more instruction.

  Tendrils of hair came loose from Luke’s braid and stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. His shirt stretched across his shoulders as he hunkered down over the writhing animal, struggling to control her while he stripped her of her wool. With every movement, the hard bands of muscle in his forearms bunched and flexed, veins standing out beneath the brown skin.

  Luke wrapped a big hand around the ewe’s snout and cut the wool away from her neck. Squatting down, a leg on either side of her, he sheared her hind end, tossing the filthy wool aside for Felix to lift gingerly and stuff into his bag.

  Flipping the animal over, he sheared her side. Patches of sweat soaked the front and back of his shirt. Shearing was hard work, especially in this kind of heat.

  Luke pulled the ewe up by her front legs, rolled her over onto her feet, and slapped her on her rump, sending her scrambling back into the sheepfold.

  “Well?” Alex grinned at her. “Did he impress you?”

  “He impressed the men.” Cries of “Well done!” and “Good work, milord!” rose above the incessant bleating. Dunstan slapped Luke on the back. He deserved their praise. He’d shorn that sheep without so much as a nick, and had the good sense to ask for help—and take it.

  Luke’s gaze sought out Faithe. She saw the pride in his eyes, half hidden beneath something that might almost have been shyness, and smiled at him. He smiled back, then took the ladle Felix offered him and drained it in one tilt of his head. Whipping his shirt off, he tossed it onto the fence, then opened the gate and dragged out another ewe, this one a giant.

  “He’s a quick study,” Faithe said as he propped the ewe between his legs and swiftly stripped her belly of its wool.

  “I told you,” Alex replied. “When my brother chooses to do a thing, he likes to do it well. He commits himself entirely to everything he does.”

  The fierce concentration in Luke’s eyes attested to that. He worked faster than before, but with enormous grace and control. His movements were elegant in their economy, the very image of calculated strength. The wool came away in heavy mats, which Felix could barely squeeze into the bag.

  Faithe couldn’t wrest her gaze from Luke as he manipulated the huge animal, every part of his body coming into play to control her. His cross dangled down, getting in the way, so he flipped it behind him, then leaned down to straddle the ewe, immobilizing her with a firm grip on her front legs while he wielded the shears. Sweat dripped off his face, trickled down his bare chest and belly, soaked the waist of his chausses. The brown woolen hose clung to his legs, highlighting muscles taut with the effort of restraining the sheep.

  A whisper of heat tickled Faithe as she watched her husband shear, his expression that of a man intent upon his work. He turned around as he tossed the animal onto her side, the muscles of his back and buttocks and thighs straining as he wrestled the big ewe.

  He commits himself entirely to everything he does . Not for the first time, she wondered if he would bring that same intensity to their marriage bed, when the time came.

  Faithe hadn’t made any more sexual overtures since that night, and wasn’t about to. Not only had she bungled her one invitation quite badly, but it seemed he truly meant it when he told her he didn’t want her on just any terms. She had to learn to trust him; she had to give herself to him because she truly wanted him.

  She’d made some progress in that direction. In her heart, she now knew that he wouldn’t annul their marriage, regardless of whether it was consummated. One thing she’d learned about Luke de Périgueux in the five or six weeks since he’d been here was that he was, as Alex claimed, a man of honor.

  But could she trust him to remain here once he’d gotten a thorough taste of farm life?

  Having shorn the enormous ewe, Luke righted her and shoved her back into the sheepfold. The men cheered him enthusiastically. He accepted their accolades with what looked like a mixture of pride and embarrassment.

  Faithe and Alex watched him shear two more sheep, and then Dunstan called a break for the noon meal. Luke turned Felix over to his mother, snatched his shirt off the fence, and strode back toward the oak tree.

  Alex stood, leaning on his cane. “Well done, brother.”

>   “Very well done,” Faithe said, lifting her satchel off the ground.

  “Thank you.” Luke tilted his head toward the satchel. “What have you got there?”

  “Some bread and cheese and wine,” she said. “I need to inspect Norfeld and see how the crops are coming in, so I thought I’d eat my dinner in the field.”

  Luke wiped his face with the shirt and draped it around his neck. “I don’t imagine you have enough food there for two.”

  “Ardith Cook packed it. If I know her, there’s enough here for ten.” Willing away an absurd wave of shyness, she said, “Would you care to join me?”

  “If I may.”

  Faithe smiled, straining to keep her gaze from his bare torso, still damp with sweat. “I’d be glad of the company.”

  Luke turned to his brother. “If you were up to it, I’d ask you to join us.”

  Alex laughed. “Then you’d be a fool, giving up the opportunity to have such an enchanting woman all to yourself.”

  Faithe rolled her eyes. Alex bid them good day and limped away in the direction of Hauekleah Hall. Luke and Faithe walked past the sheepfold to the river, strolling in silence along its grassy bank until they came to the bridge, on the other side of which lay Norfeld.

  They were halfway across the bridge when Luke stopped and handed her his shirt. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll wash off some of this sweat.”

  “No, not at all. I’ve never known a man to bathe as often as you, though.” Every evening after supper, Luke disappeared for a while, always returning with his hair wet and slicked back.

  He grinned as he squatted down to remove his boots. “I’m teaching Felix to swim.”

  “Truly?”

  He stood and untied his chausses, stripping them off and giving them to her to hold. Beneath them he wore loose linen drawers with a drawstring waist. “I take him here and give him lessons. Soon I hope he’ll have the courage to jump off this bridge. And next year, that boy won’t scream when Orrik throws him into the river.”

  Faithe smiled to think of the Black Dragon taking such pains over an undersized little boy. “The others still tease him sometimes,” she observed.