Secret Thunder

by Patricia Ryan

  "I can't think I'd object to the situation," he said wryly, "if you could think of some way to arrange it."

  She chuckled, trying to keep her mind on their banter even as she reveled in his touch. "I shall put my mind to the matter."

  "I've never been with a woman when... that happened to her."

  "Never? Alex said you'd been with many women."

  He grimaced, but she sensed amusement in his eyes. "I must have a talk with Alex. Yes, I've been with many women. Most soldiers have."

  "Prostitutes," she said.

  He nodded. "They like to get things over with and get their coins. There's little pleasure in it for them, from what I've been able to gather. Nor do they seek it. 'Twould only slow things down."

  "How sad."

  He seemed to ponder that. "Yes, I suppose it is sad. I never thought about it much at the time. I mean, I knew they were missing something by not... finishing. But it never occurred to me that I was missing something as well. I reckoned 'twas enough that I took my pleasure. I never knew how it could feel to be inside a woman when she..." His eyes grew dark, his blush deepened.

  "What are you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking I'd like to feel it again."

  "Would you?"

  "Oh, yes." Luke nudged her slightly. She felt an insistent stirring against her thigh, and her heart sped up.

  She'd never known anyone so thoroughly masculine. His body thrilled and intrigued her—especially now that he'd been inside her. He was sizable everywhere, she now knew, including that part of him steadily hardening against her.

  "Tell me how to touch you," he said, rolling her onto her back, "to make it happen."

  Faithe covered his big hand with hers and guided a fingertip to the half-hidden little knot of flesh where her desire was concentrated. She sucked in a breath when he stroked it.

  "Here?" he breathed raggedly. "Like this?"

  "Mmm... but perhaps a little softer, and to the side a bit. You need barely... yes..."

  He caressed her until she writhed, handfuls of straw clutched in her trembling fists. "Like that. Yes."

  "And this?" he asked, circling the little nub with quickening fingers. "Is this—"

  "Yes!" A tempest of sensation gathered inside her, like a storm ready to explode from the heavens. Insensible with pleasure, she moaned unself-consciously.

  "Oh, Faithe." He kicked off his braies. "Not yet. I want to feel it when it happens." She thought he was going to mount her, but instead, he lay on his side next to her. Draping her outside leg over his, he pushed into her, just enough to stretch her open, all the while pleasuring her with his hand.

  Her body expanded around him as he entered her by maddening degrees, enhancing the stimulation. Her breath came in harsh gasps; her head rolled back and forth in the straw. "Luke... Luke..."

  "Now," he gasped, sliding in to the hilt. "Come for me now." Luke touched the little knot directly, and her body convulsed around him, rioting with pleasure. "Oh, God." He grabbed her hips, pounding into her, his head thrown back. With every stabbing thrust, he groaned harshly, until the groans merged into a single strangled cry of fulfillment. His body tightened as he rammed himself deep inside her, his seed pumping against her womb.

  Gasping for air, Faithe collapsed in the straw. Dull thunder filled her ears, overpowering all her other senses. Presently, she became aware of trembling fingertips on her face. "Are you all right?"

  She growled contentedly. "Oh, yes."

  He sighed in evident relief and drew himself out of her, gathering her up in his arms. "I was too... rough at the end. 'Twas wonderful." He dragged a shaky hand through her hair and kissed her forehead. "Too wonderful. I was afraid I'd hurt you, or... upset you." Shaking his head, he added, "I shouldn't have lost control like that."

  "Foolish man." She curled into his embrace. "You're supposed to lose control. That's the point. We're supposed to lose control together."

  He chuckled breathily. "You do have a way of putting things."

  "You could never hurt me—or upset me."

  He stiffened slightly. "I've spent a lifetime hurting and upsetting people. 'Tis a difficult habit to break."

  "That wasn't you," she said resolutely. "'Twas the Black Dragon, and he doesn't exist anymore. He vanished when you ceased chewing those herbs of yours."

  He lay quietly for a moment, lightly rubbing her arm. "Perhaps. Still, I dread what might happen if I don't keep myself reined in."

  She pulled back to look at him. "Even when you're inside me?"

  "Especially then. You're not like... the women I'm used to. I'm not quite sure how to make love to someone like you."

  "You seem to have managed fairly well so far," she said dryly.

  He snorted. "Merely because you're so forgiving of my lack of delicacy."

  She laughed outright. "There are many things I might want from you in bed, Luke de Périgueux, but delicacy isn't one of them!"

  "Exasperating wench!" He chuckled. "You know what I mean."

  "Unfortunately, yes. And I want none of it. Lovemaking should be joyous and without restraint."

  "I've trained myself to exercise restraint," he said. "I'm afraid to abandon it now. You mean too much to me."

  "Foolish, foolish, foolish man." Rising onto an elbow, she ran a light fingertip down his forehead and nose; when it reached his lips, he kissed it. "One of these days," she threatened softly, "I shall have to seize those reins you've got such a tight grip on, and show you what it's like to let go of them."

  His gaze darkened. "Are you sure that would be a good idea?"

  Smiling, she lowered her mouth to his, whispering against his lips, "Quite sure."

  Chapter 15

  Luke came awake slowly, as if he were drifting to the surface of a warm, clear pool, drifting toward the sunlight...

  He blinked and yawned. It was sunny, more so than when he usually awoke. He'd slept late, then. Little wonder, since he and Faithe had spent the night—most of it, anyway—making slow, spellbinding love while the rest of Hauekleah slept soundly.

  A glance at Faithe's side of the bed revealed that she'd already awakened and gone downstairs. He'd never known her to sleep past dawn.

  He stretched luxuriously, growling with contentment. The linen sheets shifting over his bare flesh reminded him that he was naked; his nakedness reminded him of last night—and yesterday afternoon in the barn.

  Luke smiled. He was going to like being married to Faithe of Hauekleah.

  He washed and dressed quickly, eager to see his wife again, to put his arms around her and feel her arms around him. Such need, such desire, such euphoria. It was like a drunkenness of the soul—a state of ecstatic inebriation. He couldn't wait to be with her, to touch her, to bury his face in her hair and inhale her very essence.

  I'm lost, he thought as he descended the stairs into the main hall, and I'm glad of it.

  Joy rose within him when he saw her standing near a window, inspecting something in her hand. His cheer faded when he saw that Orrik was with her, pointing to what she held and saying something Luke couldn't bear. Baldric, his arms crossed, leaned against the wall.

  His brother sat on a bench nearby, getting a haircut from one of his twins—to the obvious displeasure of young Firdolf, who eyed them sulkily as he stacked firewood on the hearth. Of course, it was the twin with one braid, the one of whom he was so enamored, Leola. Luke wondered why he'd taken a fancy to just the one and not the other, since they were so very much alike. Love, he decided, knew no logic nor reason.

  Alex grinned when he saw Luke. "Good day to you, brother. You've awakened just in time for the midday meal." Alex's eyes sparkled with secret humor, as if he could guess why Luke had slept so late.

  Faithe smiled with unabashed pleasure when she noticed Luke. He smiled back, feeling, already, that tingle of gratification he felt whenever he was near her. She waved him over, and he crossed to her.

  "What do you make of this?" she asked, holding out the shiny object
in her palm.

  Luke reached for it, stilling when he saw what it was—a golden disk inset with tiny pearls in the shape of a wolf's head. Alex's mantle pin. He cut his eyes toward his brother, who met his gaze with a fleeting quirk of the mouth, a twitch of an eyebrow.

  He finds this amusing, Luke realized, summoning enough presence of mind to take the pin and make a show of examining it.

  Orrik scowled. "That belonged to the Norman devil who murdered Caedmon." The bailiff cast an uncomfortable look in Faithe's direction, and received a rather chilly gaze in return. Faithe had told Luke of her intention to dress Orrik down for keeping the truth from her all these months; it appeared she had already done so.

  Alex gestured toward the pin. "'Tis of Frankish origin."

  Luke glared at his brother, appalled that he would offer any such helpful insight.

  "Well, it is," Alex said nonchalantly. "Anyone can see that."

  "He's right," Orrik agreed. "'Tisn't English-made. That was obvious just from the design. And there's that inscription in French on the back."

  Luke turned the pin over numbly, knowing perfectly well what was inscribed there: To my youngest son: Be strong and of good courage.

  "It looks like your mantle pin," Faithe said.

  Luke stared at her.

  "Does it?" Orrik asked, his voice soft, his silvery eyes glinting.

  "So it does," Alex said easily as he brushed bits of snipped hair off his face. He smiled mischievously at Luke, who glowered back. "They're the same size and shape, and the design around the edge is nearly identical. We should compare the two. Where is yours?"

  At the bottom of the river, as you know very well. "I've lost it," Luke ground out, vexed by his brother's flippant attitude. This was all a game to him, though clearly both Orrik and Faithe took it very seriously.

  "You lost your mantle pin?" Faithe asked, reaching out to touch Luke's arm. "The one your father gave you? I'm so sorry. I'll tell everyone to look for it. 'Twill turn up."

  I sincerely hope not. For the two pins to be compared would be disastrous. "That would be... good," he said, guilt twisting in his stomach. "Thank you."

  "It matters not whether we find your pin," Orrik snapped. "This one" —he jabbed a finger at the wolf pin— "is Frankish for sure."

  "For sure," Baldric echoed.

  "Aye," Faithe said, "and most likely it came off the mantle of a Norman soldier. After all, 'twas found in a..." Her composure faltered slightly, just for a moment. "In a brothel," she said briskly. "Soldiers frequent such places, do they not?"

  She paused, looking around at the four men. They all cleared their throats and muttered in the affirmative.

  "All we know about this pin's owner," she said, "is that he's someone's youngest son."

  "And that he's a whorin' murderer," Orrik snarled.

  Faithe's cheeks stained pink, and Luke guessed why: If the murderer had been whoring that night, so had his victim. One of the many regrets consuming him of late was that this gentle, loving woman had been forced to confront the unsavory circumstances of her husband's death.

  Faithe took the pin out of Luke's hand and flipped it over thoughtfully. "I mean to find the man who lost this," she said, softly but firmly.

  Luke glanced toward Alex to see a flicker of unease in response to Faithe's quiet resolve.

  She looked up and met Luke's gaze, her expression sad and intent. "He was my husband, Luke. I can't let this pass. I have to find the man who killed him. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."

  "I understand," he said, because it was clearly what she wanted to hear. She needed his approval. She needed to know that he accepted her decision to apprehend the man who'd murdered her first husband. That Luke himself was the man she sought was a fact he intended to keep from her at all costs. It would devastate her; it would ruin him. And he would lose her.

  He would lose her. He couldn't let that happen. All that mattered now was keeping the truth from her, though doing so would only further tarnish his soul.

  "I must find out why Caedmon disappeared from Hastings," she said, "and why he lived... and died... as he did. And I must and will bring his killer to justice. Nothing will deter me."

  Luke risked another glance at his brother. Alex's subtly arched eyebrow conveyed no humor this time, and his mouth was set in a grim line that Luke didn't often see on the affable young man's face. It was clear that he discerned, as Luke did, the very real threat behind Faithe's quiet resolve, so different from Orrik's fierce but unfocused bluster. Her determination could not be dismissed, and should not be ignored.

  "I will continue my inquiries," Orrik said. "I'll show that pin in every village the Normans have passed through—"

  "Isn't that what you've been doing all along?" Faithe asked.

  "Aye, well, I'll step up my efforts. I'll talk to every Englishman between here and—"

  "Every Englishman?" Faithe asked.

  "Aye. Every man, woman, and—"

  "Why not the Normans?"

  "The Normans! The soldiers?"

  "Aye."

  "You mean for me to question Norman soldiers?"

  "You're looking for a Norman soldier, are you not? Who better to identify the man who wore the insignia of the white wolf than one of his colleagues?" Faithe spoke quietly, but there was a layer of steel underlying her words.

  "Milady, I—"

  "If you've restricted your efforts to the English, 'tis little wonder you've been unsuccessful."

  "I'll be damned if I'll go begging information from those bastards. 'Tisn't worth it."

  "It is to me," Faithe said softly.

  The bailiff's face grew dark. "What makes you think they'd cooperate? Why should they implicate one of their own in the murder of a Saxon?"

  "There are ways to get information from unfriendly people. But you didn't even try."

  "And I won't. Even for you, milady."

  Luke took a deep breath. "I will."

  Everyone looked at him. Alex's eyebrows shot up.

  He thought fast. "I'm one of them. They'll talk to me. And I'm expendable here. It matters not if I'm away from Hauekleah from time to time, but Orrik is indispensable, especially with Dunstan away."

  Alex nodded slowly, clearly perceiving the reason for Luke's offer. If Luke did the investigating, he'd have control over what was discovered—and revealed. Engaging in this charade would only compound his guilt over misleading Faithe, but what choice did he have? Left to her own devices, she could ferret out the truth, and he mustn't let that happen.

  Faithe stepped toward him and laid a hand on his chest. "You would do that for me?"

  Contrition flowed hot through Luke's veins. "Aye. Of course."

  She touched his cheek. "You're a good man, Luke. Thank you."

  Christ. All he could do was nod.

  "Perhaps you could start by questioning Lord Alberic's men at Foxhyrst," she suggested. "Those men were your friends—you fought alongside them. Surely they'll tell you who the pin belonged to."

  "If they know," Luke said. "There are thousands of Norman soldiers in England, Faithe. Trying to locate one based on nothing more than a mantle pin..." He shrugged, hoping he seemed convincing.

  Faithe turned the gleaming object over and over in her hand. "Perhaps if we knew more about the pin itself, its origins..."

  Orrik snorted. "It came from France. We know that."

  "The Frankish Empire is huge," Faithe said. "This could have been made in Normandy, Anjou, Poitou... anywhere. If we knew where it was made, that would help us to identify its owner."

  She was smart. Too smart. "An excellent suggestion," Luke allowed, "but I couldn't begin to tell you where it came from. I don't know anyone who could."

  "I do," she said thoughtfully.

  Luke sighed. "Do you?"

  "He's a goldsmith with a shop in Foxhyrst," she said. "I commissioned this from him." She fingered the chain around her neck.

  Baldric frowned and cleared his throat to get Orrik's
attention. "The only goldsmith I know of in Foxhyrst is an old Jew."

  "That's the one," Faithe said. "Isaac Ben Ravid is his name."

  Orrik shook his head. "Nay. We don't need help from infidels."

  "This particular infidel," she said icily, "happens to have been quite a renowned jeweler in his day. He served most of the royal houses of Europe before he got too old to travel."

  "How do you know this?" Orrik demanded.

  "We talk whenever I go marketing in Foxhyrst," she said defiantly. "I like him. He told me every region has its own distinct style—that the differences between a piece of jewelry from Paris and one from Rouen might be subtle, but they were there. He said he'd gotten to where he could pinpoint not only the city of origin of a piece, but sometimes the craftsman who'd made it."

  Luke exchanged another uneasy glance with his brother. Faithe noticed. "Don't tell me you refuse to talk to Jews!"

  "Of course not," he answered automatically. "I'll go to Foxhyrst on the morrow." Best to get this out of the way. He could simply stay the night in an inn and return the next day, claiming he'd had no success.

  "And while we're there, we can question the soldiers garrisoned at Lord Alberic's castle."

  Damn. "We?"

  "Of course. I'm going with you."

  "That's really not necessary," Luke said.

  "Nay, but 'twould help. Isaac knows me. He might be more forthcoming with me than with a stranger. And I... I need to do this. I need to be a part of this. Can you understand that?"

  Luke admitted truthfully that he could, knowing that nothing he could say would persuade her not to accompany him. The apprehension of Caedmon's murderer had become a crusade with her. Her eyes glittered with determination. He respected her for it; it showed the fortitude of character he'd come to love in her. And it heartened him to think that if he were the one found dead in some dark little loft somewhere, she wouldn't rest until she'd avenged him.

  But it chilled him to the bone to think of that vengeance directed toward him.

  * * *

  Luke couldn't get to sleep that night. The lovemaking that should have left him pleasantly exhausted only deepened his remorse over the deceit he was perpetuating against Faithe. After several sleepless hours, he rose and opened the window shutters, letting the watery moonlight bathe him. He breathed deeply of cool night breezes perfumed with the mingled scents of Hauekleah, and thought, I can't lose this. I can't lose Faithe.