Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “Begging your pardon, my lady,” Orrik said, “but that’s a damned foolish notion, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Actually,” she informed him coolly, straining for composure despite her wooziness, “I do. I mind it very much. He’d my husband, and I’m going to speak to him.”

  She tried to brush past him toward the storehouse, but he seized her arm; his grip was surprisingly steely for a man his age.

  “He’s a vicious murderer,” Orrik said. “A man of ungovernable rages—no better than a mad dog. And now that he’s been caught and locked up, he may have snapped completely.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Orrik.” She tried to push past him, but he held her tight.

  “I’d hate to have it on my conscience if anything happened to you.”

  “I absolve you from responsibility,” she said. “Now, get out of my way.”

  “He’ll poison your mind,” Orrik warned. “Twist the truth.”

  “You ought to know a thing or two about that,” she replied archly.

  Orrik glowered. “If you insist on going in there, I’m going with you.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m not some child who needs—”

  “I’ll brook no argument about it, Faithe.” His hand tightened painfully on her arm; his metallic gaze bored into hers. He only used her Christian name when he was really upset about something. “You’re my responsibility, whether you realize it or not. Always have been, always will be. I will not allow you to go in there alone.”

  She swallowed hard. “Your fingers are digging into my arm.”

  He looked down at his hand and blinked, then released her abruptly. “I mean it. I’m not letting you go in there by yourself, Faithe.”

  Faithe willed calm into her voice. “‘Tisn’t your place to let me or not let me do anything, Orrik. Now, stand aside.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a charged moment, and then he abruptly turned away. “Do as you please.”

  Clutching her skirt, she stalked up to Baldric. “Give me the key.”

  Baldric looked toward Orrik, who nodded sullenly, then handed over the key. She twisted it in the lock and pushed the door open. No sound came from within the storehouse.

  Faithe took a hesitant step inside. “Luke?” Looking down, she saw him lying on his side on the earthen floor, his back to her, his hands tied together with rope. “Luke.” Kneeling, she touched his shoulder; he didn’t respond. She shook him. “Luke!”

  “He’s not dead,” Orrik assured her from the doorway.

  Faithe untied the ropes that bound Luke’s hands.

  Orrik made a sound of disgust. “I’ll just have to find some more and tie him up again when you leave.”

  “You won’t be here when I leave. I’m relieving you of all responsibility in this matter.”

  “What?”

  “You’re to go home and go to bed. You and Baldric both. Neither of you is permitted anywhere near the storehouse or Luke.”

  “Who’s to stand guard then?”

  “He doesn’t need a guard. Look at him.” He still hadn’t moved or responded in any way to her touch.

  “He’ll come to eventually. I can’t let you leave the man unguarded, Faithe.”

  Faithe sighed, knowing Orrik would just sneak back here unless she posted a man. “I’ll have Nyle stand watch. I can trust him.”

  “You can’t trust me?”

  “After you tried to hang Luke?” Gently turning her husband onto his back, she saw that one of his eyes was badly swollen and that he had an ugly wound on his forehead. “Look what you did to him. You had no right to do this.”

  Orrik snorted contemptuously. “‘Twas less than he deserved. How can you bring yourself to ask after him? How can you want to speak to him? The man butchered your husband in a jealous rage.”

  She peeled strands of hair from the dried blood on Luke’s forehead. “That’s not the way Luke tells it.”

  Orrik rolled his eyes. “All that blather about how Caedmon was attacking that woman—beating her savagely? Think about it, Faithe. No one knew Caedmon better than you did. Search your soul. Was he capable of that kind of viciousness toward a woman?”

  “The Caedmon I knew,” she said, “could never have done that. He never once struck me in the entire time we were together. He never even seemed tempted. He had no temper to speak of.”

  “You see?” Orrik crossed his arms, his expression smug.

  “But he’d been ill.”

  “According to whom?”

  “The people of Cottwyk.”

  “Did they tell you this?”

  “Nay. Luke did.”

  “Aye.” He nodded, as if a point had been proven—and indeed, there was a certain heartless logic to his reasoning. “And after you left the hall this afternoon, he started humming a different melody. Claimed Caedmon was mad.”

  “Mad!”

  “A raving lunatic, to hear your lord husband tell it.”

  “Mad…” Faithe murmured. She had to speak to Luke; it was imperative that she sort through all the hearsay and find out what really happened, and why. Two weeks ago, after returning from that troubling visit to Cottwyk, she’d lost interest in the details of Caedmon’s death; all she’d cared about was Luke and moving forward. Now she was forced to confront the ugly past again, and dig and dig until she found the truth.

  “Sickened me to hear our Caedmon maligned that way, in front of the men, yet.” Orrik shook his head disgustedly. “The man’s dead, by de Périgueux’s own hand, and he still can’t let him rest in peace! Has to sully his character for all to hear. But I’ll tell you what’ll really do some damage—that’s if we let those Norman bastards try your precious Sir Luke, and he comes out and makes these claims publicly. Then we can just kiss Caedmon’s good name goodbye and be done with it!”

  “What are you saying?” Faithe rose to her feet, suddenly suspicious. “Wasn’t your intention to hand Luke over to the Normans for trial?”

  “Is that really what you want?”

  “Is there a choice?” A fair trial would resolve things once and for all. Matters that had been cloaked in secrecy for long months would be examined out in the open, and her heart told her that Luke would be found innocent of wrongdoing, regardless of Orrik’s cold-blooded logic.

  “There is a choice,” Orrik said, lowering his voice as he steered her by the arm past the door and out of earshot of Baldric. “There need never be a trial. This entire business could be over by tomorrow morning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He closed a hand over her shoulder. “I mean there’s Norman justice, such as it is… and then there’s Saxon justice.”

  The only way to see justice served , Orrik had said after Luke confessed to the killing, is for us to hang the bastard ourselves, even if we have to do it in the dead of night and burn the body afterward.

  She twisted out of his grip. “You can’t mean—”

  “You need have naught to do with it,” he said, his voice reasonable, even gentle, like a father telling his little girl that Papa would take care of everything. “You’ll know nothing about it.”

  “I already know about it,” she reminded him.

  “Put it out of your mind,” he soothed. “Go to sleep tonight, and in the morning ‘twill all be—”

  “For God’s sake, Orrik, have you no decency left at all? I used to be able to trust you, and now—”

  “You can trust me!” He looked genuinely stung. “I’m the only one you can trust. I’m the only one who looks after you, who makes sure things are taken care of.”

  He seized her arm; she shook him off. Baldric was staring at them. Orrik noticed this and glared at him; he hurriedly looked away.

  He rubbed his eyes. “Faithe,” he said wearily. “I’m sorry, truly I am. I know I shouldn’t talk of taking matters into my own hands. ‘Tis just so vexing to see my little girl illused and be powerless to set things right. That Norman bastard” —he jabbed a finger toward the stor
ehouse— “murdered Caedmon and then deceived you about it. I can’t help but want to punish him. Perhaps I’m overzealous.”

  She began to speak, but he cut her off. “I am overzealous. I’m half mad with outrage, if the truth be told, but only because of my concern for you. I hate to see you hurt.”

  He chucked her under the chin, as he used to do when she was little. “You’re my fair-haired lass, my wee Faithe. The child I never had. Perhaps I go too far at times, but it’s only because I care for you. Please believe that.”

  “I do.” She did. Orrik had always been there for her, the most rock-solid presence in her life, especially after her father died. She would have been alone if not for him. He did take care of her, completely. He’d represented her interests with their overlord, arranging for her convent education and helping to negotiate her marriage to Caedmon. He’d kept Hauekleah productive and efficient during her years at St. Mary’s, and relinquished control willingly when she returned. But it was the little things that had earned her undying affection. It was the time he’d taught her how to ride, leading her pony around by the reins for weeks until she felt confident enough for him to let go. It was the way he would put aside his work to play blindman’s buff with her when she was bored. It was the tales of romance and adventure he’d spin for her when she was too wound up to get to sleep.

  He had been like a father to her, truly. But those years were over. She’d warned him many times not to force her to choose between loyalty to him and loyalty to Luke. He hadn’t heeded her, though, and now the bond of affection they’d shared was irretrievably broken.

  “Where is Alex?” she asked. “Did you lock him up somewhere else?”

  Orrik’s smile thinned out. “Nay.”

  “Where is he, then?”

  Orrik pulled on his beard and avoided her gaze. “He saddled up and rode off.”

  Faithe let go of the gate. “Rode off. Left? He just—”

  “Just left.” Orrik cleared his throat. “Probably scared we’d lock him up, too, but he’s not the one who did murder.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  Orrik shook his head. “Just rode off into the woods to the west.”

  “Oh.” The idea of Alex abandoning his brother to his fate didn’t sit right with Faithe. An uneasiness gnawed at her.

  “There, there.” Orrik chucked her under the chin again. “You look exhausted. It’s been a trying evening all around. Why don’t you go to bed and get some sleep?”

  Her gaze stole to the storehouse, which Baldric was relocking. “I couldn’t possibly sleep with him in there.” Faithe wanted to stay here and watch over Luke, but she also felt an obligation to find out what really happened to Alex. She must saddle up and ride west as hard as she could. If he’d simply ridden away, as Orrik claimed, she might overtake him. But if she didn’t, and if she could find no one in that direction who’d seen him pass, perhaps Orrik was lying to her and some other fate had befallen him.

  Faithe ordered Orrik and Baldric to go home and assigned Nyle the job of guarding the storehouse. “Put some straw in there,” she told him. “I’ll bring him a wineskin and something to eat when he’s awake.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  *

  COME TO ME. Please, Faithe …

  Luke paced the storeroom like a caged beast. His head throbbed from the blow Orrik had dealt him, and his left eye was swollen shut, but otherwise he was unharmed. He’d been surprised to wake up in this place, and with no noose around his neck.

  Pride kept him from pounding on this door and screaming for Faithe. He didn’t want to plead with her to talk to him if she didn’t want to, and he certainly didn’t want her to see him like this—held prisoner by the very men he had commanded that morning. But deep inside, in a dark and needy place where there was no room for dignity, he’d begged her. Please come to me, Faithe. Talk to me. Please.

  It was quite possible, even likely, that she hated him now. Not only had he admitted to killing her husband, but God knew what Orrik was telling her. And after the shock of Luke’s confession, she’d be in a vulnerable state…

  “Christ.”

  He had to explain things to her, had to make her understand. He never should have withheld the truth in the first place. She was strong; she could have handled it if he’d explained it right. After all, what happened to Caedmon wasn’t a murder, but a tragedy. Luke had been the instrument of his death, but in a way he’d died of the thing growing inside his head, for that’s what had driven him to attack that whore.

  But he hadn’t trusted her to understand. He’d underestimated her, and by doing so made himself vulnerable to Orrik’s vengeance. In a way, it was his own fault that he’d ended up in this storehouse, awaiting his uncertain fate.

  There wasn’t much room for him to move around in here. The walls of the cool stone hut were lined with barrels and bundles and sacks: malt, flour, dried fish, salted pork, honey, wax, cheeses, ale… Just dim shapes against the walls, for the only light came from the vent hole—an opening on the back wall rather like an arrow slit on its side, up high near the raftered ceiling. And that light wasn’t much, with night falling. Soon it would be black as pitch in here. There was straw to lie on, but sleeping would be out of the question.

  Stopping in his tracks, he turned and rammed a fist against the door. “Guard! Who’s out there?”

  A pause, and then, “‘Tis me, milord, Nyle.”

  “Why am I not dead? Why didn’t the bastard hang me when he had the chance?”

  “He wanted to, sire,” Nyle replied. “After he knocked you out, he tried to get us to drag you out to the big oak outside the sheepfold. Only one sorry cur was willing to do it, and I’m ashamed to say ‘twas my own crawlin’ louse of a brother, Baldric.”

  Luke grunted, unsurprised.

  “Anyways,” Nyle continued, “the rest of us, we put a stop to it. We thought you deserved a fair trial, ‘specially after what you said, about disobeying Lady Faithe, and Caedmon bein’ out of his senses and all—”

  “Hold your tongue,” came a muted voice, accompanied by footsteps—Orrik. “Didn’t Lady Faithe warn you not to talk to him?”

  “N-nay, she didn’t say nothin’ about talkin’.”

  Another voice, Baldric’s: “You haven’t got the sense of a squirrel, Nyle. Listenin’ to his lies…”

  Luke swore softly, discouraged by the appearance of Orrik and his minion. This could only bode ill.

  “We don’t know as they’re lies,” Nyle said defiantly. “We don’t know nothin’. Lord Caedmon may well have gone mad. Folks do. We don’t—”

  Baldric muttered something else; Luke thought he heard the words “… hang him anyways.”

  “He’s to stand trial,” Nyle insisted. “Orrik promised.”

  “Not if he turns up danglin’ from them rafters in the mornin’.” Baldric snickered.

  Luke looked up at the beams that supported the roof of the storehouse and remembered the morning they’d found Vance, dead and bloated and crawling with flies. He’d wondered at the time why Vance would hang himself when he’d been assured of a fair trial by his Saxon peers. I’ll tell you everything, a grateful Vance had promised. I’ll tell you why we done what we done.

  Suspicion tickled Luke’s scalp. When Luke first threatened to hand Vance over to Alberic’s hangman for torture, the bandit had asked for Orrik… He’ll see things are done right.

  Was it possible the bandits had ambushed Luke and Alex on Orrik’s orders—or more likely, in exchange for Orrik’s silver? The Saxon bailiff had been outraged at the prospect of a Norman master, and Luke was certain he wouldn’t stop short of murder to achieve his ends.

  If Orrik had arranged for the attack, he would want to keep his involvement a secret at all costs, knowing how the Normans would punish him if he were found out. Vance would have to have been eliminated before he could testify at the hallmoot.

  Luke hadn’t suspected Orrik of killing Vance at the time, because h
e wasn’t anywhere near Hauekleah that night… or was he? According to what the Widow Aefentid had told Faithe, Orrik often spent the night with her on the way home from his trips. Her inn was just on the other side of the woods. Baldric could easily have ridden there and reported Vance’s capture to Orrik. Who was to say the bailiff hadn’t sneaked back to Hauekleah in the dead of night, hanged Vance, and returned to the widow’s inn, only to drive his new cart back in the morning as if he hadn’t been here in days? Baldric might have helped him execute the ugly deed, or perhaps he’d merely stood guard; Orrik was strong enough and vicious enough to hang a man all by himself, especially if he knocked him unconscious first.

  Luke shook his head, disgusted with himself for not having figured it out sooner. Of course Vance’s “suicide” was Orrik’s doing; it was the only explanation that made all the pieces fall into place. Perhaps if he’d come to this conclusion sooner, he’d not be waiting here for Orrik to come back in the middle of the night and attempt the same thing with him.

  He brought his ear close to the door again. “I’m tellin’ you, Sir Luke wouldn’t take his own life!” Nyle was saying. “‘Tis a mortal sin, and anyway, he ain’t the type for it.”

  Baldric just laughed, as if tickled by his brother’s naiveté. Indeed, Nyle was good-hearted, but rather simple, and far too trusting.

  “Nyle, you go home,” Orrik said. “Baldric will keep guard tonight.”

  Damn . Nyle would have been far easier to manipulate than his brother.

  “But… Lady Faithe told me to—”

  “She’s changed her mind,” Orrik said smoothly. “She sent me to replace you with Baldric.”

  Luke doubted that, but Nyle accepted it without question. He bid his brother and the bailiff good night, and then Luke heard his footsteps retreating up the garden walk.

  When it was quiet once more, Orrik said, “I’ll be back around matins. With rope.”

  Baldric chuckled.

  “He’s a shrewd bastard,” Orrik warned him. “Don’t you talk to him, and don’t open that door for any reason, do you hear me?”

  “Of course not.” Baldric sounded genuinely offended.