Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01]

by Falcons Fire

  Through the hush of rain outside the window came the distant chanting of the long midnight service, dreamy and hypnotic.

  He looked down at the woman in his arms, so warm, so sweet. Against his bare chest, through the thin sheet, he felt the delicious roundness of her breasts, the thrumming of her heart... She still quivered with anxiety.

  To be here with her this way, in her chamber at midnight, sharing her bed, was insanity. He knew he should leave, but he couldn’t, not while she was so overwrought.

  He would try to ease her mind, to soothe her enough for her to get back to sleep, and then he would leave. He lifted her braid, which felt remarkably heavy, pulled off the ribbon that held it, and began unweaving the plaits. In a few moments she relaxed in his arms, and her breathing steadied.

  She said, “Do you ever think about fate?”

  “Fate?” He trailed his fingers through her loosened hair, a blanket of golden silk.

  “I do,” she murmured. “I think fate is like a ribbon, a long, golden ribbon. It trails through our lives, and at first we just notice it slipping around us every now and then. We don’t give it much thought until one day we discover that we’re completely bound by it, wrapped tightly within its power, incapable of breaking its bonds.”

  He smiled at such fanciful imagery from such a rational woman. “Hasn’t Rainulf told you about free will? ‘Twas my very first lecture from him.”

  She chuckled. “Mine, too. Free will exists, make no mistake. That makes it all the more frustrating to find oneself a prisoner of fate.”

  He pulled his fingers lazily through her hair. “I like to think I have more command over my destiny than that.”

  “Everyone does. But haven’t you ever felt as if you were being carried along by forces you couldn’t control?”

  He instantly pictured the raging, tormented bear within him. “Nay,” he lied. Well, not entirely a lie. Yes, he was being carried along by unwanted feelings for Martine, but they were feelings he could control. The bear wouldn’t break free if he had the strength to hold it back.

  “My mother was a victim of fate,” she said. “Her love for Jourdain kept her captive for years. ‘Twas only at the very end that she was able to break free. Drowning herself was the first, and last, independent act she ever performed.”

  His hands stilled in her hair. “You praise her suicide as an act of free will?”

  “I don’t praise it, but I do understand it. In a way, I even admire it. ‘Twas the only way out, and she made the decision and acted on it.”

  “There was nothing admirable about what she did, Mar... my lady. I know she was miserably unhappy, but you’re wrong to misinterpret her weakness as strength. She surrendered. And in doing so, she condemned her child to almost certain death.”

  “Then it wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t been responsible for me? If she hadn’t had a child?”

  “This isn’t some academic dispute, my lady. Don’t set up hypotheticals. The fact is, she had a daughter for whom she spared not a single thought when she took her own life.”

  “I survived.”

  “Thanks to Rainulf. But you carry deep, unhealed scars, do you not? These nightmares of finding her body... ‘tis a wonder they haven’t driven you mad by now.”

  After a moment, she said, “The worst part isn’t the body. I usually don’t even see that. It’s the water itself. In the dream, it turns to blood. A lake of blood.” She shivered and wrapped an arm around him. “I’ve been terrified of water ever since that day. As a child, I swam constantly, but I haven’t in years.”

  “But you did,” he pointed out. “When you saved Ailith.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Ah, but you did have a choice. You could have given in to your terror and let her die, but you didn’t. You exercised your free will and overcame your fear and saved her.” She seemed to ponder that. His fingers entwined themselves in her hair once more, and she sighed.

  “You should swim again,” he said, “just for your own pleasure.”

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  “Fear exists to be conquered.” He stroked her scalp, massaging with his fingertips. “You should swim.”

  “Mmm.”

  “You should.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She grew heavy in his arms.

  “Tell me you will.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Tell me you’ll swim again, soon. It’s important. Once that fear is conquered, you can work on the rest. Promise me.”

  She mumbled something blurry that sounded like “I promise.”

  He smiled ruefully. “You’re humoring me.”

  She didn’t answer that, merely snuggled against him, warm and drowsy.

  “You are,” he said, “but that’s all right. I’ll take what I can get.”

  * * *

  Men were laughing.

  Martine opened her eyes. Someone was in bed with her, his arms enfolding her, one long leg thrown over hers. She breathed in his familiar, masculine scent.

  Thorne.

  From the other side of the curtain, she heard voices. More laughter, followed by muffled conversation. “What—” she began.

  Thorne clamped a hand over her mouth. Even in the half-light from the lantern, she could see his incandescent eyes, read the warning in them. She nodded, and he took his hand away.

  Bringing his mouth to her ear, he whispered, “They came back while you were asleep, Rainulf and Matthew. They’ve been talking out there ever since. I can’t very well let them see me leaving your chamber in the middle of the night.”

  Again she nodded. It was still dark outside, but raining harder, and she had the impression that she had slept for a while.

  She lay nestled snugly within his embrace, her outside arm draped over his waist. Her hair was loose, and he had a length of it wrapped around one hand. He was bare from the waist up, and they were crushed together like lovers. She felt a surge of panic before recalling that nothing had happened between them, nothing like that.

  He had listened to her, had soothed her fears, had held her until she fell asleep in his arms. He hadn’t kissed her. No, she was sure he hadn’t. She would remember that. And she would remember if he had taken advantage of her in any way, done anything he shouldn’t have.

  It would have been little trouble for him, had he wanted to. A simple matter to pull the sheet aside and do as he wished. He was not a saint, but a man, with a man’s appetites. And he was strong. She could feel the long, hard muscles of his legs, the unyielding planes of his chest. He could easily have overpowered her, had his way with her.

  Or perhaps he wouldn’t have had to force her. A man like Thorne would know how to coax a woman into giving herself to him. He would know how to touch her, how to caress her secret places until she begged him to take her. She grew warm thinking of the things he might have done, the things she might have wanted him to do.

  His breath ruffled her hair. He held her so tightly that she couldn’t tell whether the racing heart that shook her chest was her own or his. When his breathing quickened, hers followed suit. Her skin had never felt so tender, so ultra-sensitive. Every part of her that he touched burned with a strange and thrilling pleasure.

  She turned to look at him. When their eyes met, she saw in his a raw and desperate need that exactly mirrored her own. He knows how I feel, she thought with amazement. He knows because he feels it, too.

  She felt his hand tighten its grip on her hair, and then something else, a movement against her belly, his body stirring, growing hard. Her own body throbbed in response, needing him there, between her legs, needing him to fill her, to possess her.

  She tensed, her mind a pandemonium of confusion, as he abruptly drew back from her.

  What she wanted, she mustn’t want. If his restraint failed, would she have the will to resist him?

  More laughter from the main hall. Thorne pulled his arm out from beneath her, propped himself up on an elbow, and reached toward the leather
curtain. With deliberate care, he pulled aside an edge and looked out, then closed it.

  He sat up and rubbed his arms, the muscles jumping in his back and shoulders. With a ragged sigh, he dragged his fingers through his long hair.

  She reflected on his reputation for self-control. He exercised it this night, she knew, for both of them. Part of her felt disappointed, another part relieved.

  He had been a friend to her. Not just tonight, but all during this past month while they had been guests at St. Dunstan’s. Granted, it was not a simple friendship. In truth, it had become quite complicated, even dangerous. Nevertheless, they shared something remarkable and precious and thrilling, something they would have to give up when they returned to Harford tomorrow.

  Already she mourned the loss of that intimacy, grieved for its passing. She needed to thank him for his friendship, to tell him how much she would miss their time together.

  “Sir Thorne—” Even before he whipped around and pressed his fingers to her mouth, she realized she had spoken too loudly. She heard the conversation cease in the main hall, and then the scrape of chair legs on the floor.

  Thorne lowered his mouth to her ear, his weight on his elbows, one to each side of her head. “For God’s sake, keep him out!”

  “R-Rainulf?” she called.

  “Martine?” She could hear the worry in her brother’s voice. “Are you all right? Is it the dream?” From the sound of it, he stood just outside the doorway.

  She took a deep breath and answered with studied nonchalance. “Nay. Nay, I’m fine. Just talking to myself.” Thorne nodded his approval, and she smiled.

  There came a short pause. “I’m going to bed now. You get some sleep. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us.”

  “All right. Good night.”

  Thorne and Martine listened carefully as the men on the other side of the curtain retired to their chambers. When quiet descended once more, she looked up into the infinite blue of Thorne’s eyes as he held himself over her. Her heart twisted to think that in two weeks she would be Sir Edmond’s wife. Nothing could ever come of her feelings for Thorne. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to share her feelings with him, even if it was foolish, even if there were consequences.

  “Thorne,” she whispered.

  Again he touched his fingertips to her lips, but this time his eyes were filled not with caution, but with regret. His gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth as he stroked his callused thumb across her lower lip. She thought he was going to speak, but he seemed to think better of it. Instead, he bent to retrieve his lantern from the floor and rose to his feet.

  At the doorway, he parted the curtain and stood for a long moment with his back to her. Finally he glanced quickly over his shoulder, said “Good night, my lady,” and left.

  * * *

  Sleep eluded Martine, although she hovered for some time in a dreamy, half-wakeful haze. Long golden ribbons and yards of apple-green silk swirled around her while muted voices whispered of fate and free will, fear and courage.

  She saw the lake in Normandy from the perspective of a child standing at its edge. The water was the fathomless blue of Thorne’s eyes, and very still, reflecting the cloud-speckled sky like a giant looking glass. It beckoned her so invitingly, as it always had when she was a child. It had beckoned her mother, too, but with a darker invitation, the comforting seduction of eternity.

  In her mind’s eye, she stepped into the water. Cold fear clutched at her chest, but she gulped it down and took another step.

  Her conversation with Thorne had enlightened her. She knew what she had to do. If she didn’t, she would always regret her cowardice.

  Having made her decision, she lay awake the rest of the night, eyes wide in the dark, waiting for dawn.

  * * *

  Stretched out naked on his little cot, his crossed feet hanging off the end, his hands clasped behind his head, Thorne watched the first pale hint of dawn wash the blackness from the sky outside his chamber window. He wondered if he would ever sleep again.

  He frowned in puzzlement at the muffled sounds from the main hall. Someone had gotten up early. They hadn’t even rung the bell for lauds yet. He reached over and pulled the curtain aside just in time to see a black-clad figure disappear down the stairwell.

  Presently he heard footsteps in the courtyard. Rising, he looked out the window.

  It was still dark, but no longer raining, and he could clearly see Martine, in her hooded mantle, entering the stable. He watched until she reappeared, leading her saddled dun mare. Where could she be going at this hour? She mounted, rode out through the main entrance, then headed north. There was nothing of interest north of the priory except the river. Was that where she went?

  He pulled on his chausses, sat on the edge of the bed, and thoughtfully scratched his morning stubble. She had never gone to the river without him, not that he knew. Why had she decided to go now, when it was barely light out, and they had to prepare for the ride back to Harford?

  She wouldn’t be eager to return, with her wedding, which she dreaded, but a fortnight hence. It was curious that the married state Adela had so coveted should be viewed by Martine as such a curse. What the mother saw as heaven, the daughter saw as hell, a hell she voluntarily condemned herself to for the rest of her life.

  There is no rest of my life, she had said. I’ve made my decision.

  Decision. She had used that word in regard to her mother as well, Thorne recalled. She made the decision and acted on it. In a way, I even admire it.

  A chill crawled up Thorne’s back and clutched at his scalp. ‘Twas the only way out, she had said. She made the decision and acted on it...

  I’ve made my decision... There is no rest of my life.

  Thorne stood up.

  I’ve made my decision.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, grabbing his shirt off its hook and sprinting from the chamber.

  * * *

  Thorne slid off the bare back of his white stallion and left the animal untethered above the river while he made his way swiftly down to the water’s edge. It was barely light out, and a thick mist filled the gorge, trapped within its mossy walls. He could see nothing but what was close enough to touch.

  “My lady!” he yelled, and waited, hearing nothing. Was he too late? Had she already done it? His heart filled his chest, pounding like Spanish drums.

  He whipped off his shirt and waded hip-deep into the river, looking wildly around. Even without the mist, he wouldn’t have known which way to turn.

  “My lady!” he shouted. “My lady!”

  Dear God, please don’t let this happen, he prayed. You’ve punished me enough. Don’t take Martine.

  He imagined finding her, cold and limp, and a scream tore from his lungs. “Martine!”

  A soft ripple from behind. He wheeled around and saw a form in the mist, pale and luminous and very close.

  Her eyes, like lakes, met his through the swirling fog. She stood waist-deep in the water, her arms crossed on her bare chest, clothed only in long wet ribbons of golden hair.

  “Martine! Thank God.” In a heartbeat he closed the distance between them and gathered her in his arms, relief overwhelming him. “I thought you were dead.” He held her tight and kissed the top of her head.

  “Dead!” She looked up at him, her eyes betraying confusion and then understanding. “You thought I—you thought...”

  His face must have mirrored the torment in his heart, because she reached up to comfortingly stroke his cheek. He closed his eyes, straining for composure. Such fear, then such joy. It was more than he could bear.

  “I swam,” she said, and he opened his eyes. She stood so close, her face inches from his. “You said I should swim, that I should face my fear. I did. ‘Twas wonderful. I felt so strong.” Her arms encircled him.

  He laughed in relief, pulling her close. She had been swimming. Of course. She had just been swimming.

  He kissed her forehead, her temple. He laced the fingers of one ha
nd through her hair while the other kneaded her back, smooth and wet, pressing her to him.

  Her hair covered her like a mantle. Where its cool strands parted, he could feel her breasts, warm and soft, against his bare chest. A small, civilized voice told him to pull back. I will, he thought. Just let me feel her, just for a moment.

  Cradling her head with both big hands, he tilted her face up and pressed his lips to her eyelids, then to the skin stretched taut over her high cheekbones. Her eyes were closed, her lips so ripe and inviting. No, he wouldn’t kiss her mouth. Then he would truly be lost.

  I won’t kiss her, he thought, lowering his mouth to hers.

  Just a touch... He brushed his lips against hers and heard her sigh unevenly.

  These are Martine’s lips touching mine, he thought dizzily. Again, slowly, warm flesh against flesh, a fleeting caress. Not a kiss, not really, just a caress of the lips, nothing more.

  Through his ragged breathing he thought he could hear the drumming of his heart, feel its driving rhythm in his loins. He closed his mouth gently over hers... not a kiss, not really. His tongue parted her lips, seeking her heat, the sweet, intoxicating taste of her. She trembled ever so slightly, and he felt her nipples stiffen against his chest.

  There was no sound in the gorge save their breathing. But deep inside, heard only by him, rose an untamed howl, the roar of the bear straining at his tethers.

  He had to touch her. Without moving his mouth from hers, he bared her by gathering her hair to the back, then brought both palms to rest on her breasts, which made her gasp. He filled his hands with her, stroking, caressing, thrilling to the pulse of her heart through the warm flesh, thumbing the rigid nipples until she moaned.

  His body responded, rising and straining against his wet woolen chausses. He knew she felt it, but she made no move to back away, so he reached down beneath the water, closed his hands over her cool bottom, and pressed her to him. She molded her body to his, her own hands gliding down to the small of his back to urge him against her.