Secret Thunder

by Patricia Ryan

  His gaze lingered on her wet hair, her face, her breasts cresting the surface of the water. "So have I. All the way back from Cottwyk."

  She grinned indulgently. "Not that. I've been thinking about Caedmon."

  His smile faded. She sat up and wrapped her arms around her updrawn knees.

  "The men you've appointed to investigate his murder," she said. "They're to leave for Hastings on the morrow, is that not right?"

  "In the morning, aye."

  She shrugged. "Perhaps we oughtn't to send them. Perhaps we ought to" —she let out a long sigh— "simply let the dead rest. Let Caedmon rest. Let the whole thing go."

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then he came and squatted down next to the tub. Running a finger along her chin, he asked, "Why this change of heart?"

  "I found out everything I needed to know today in Cottwyk."

  "But we didn't find out anything, not really."

  Smiling into his eyes, she cupped his beard-roughened cheek with her wet hand. "I saw where he died, and I found out that I didn't want to know any more. I don't need to seek out his killer and see that he's punished. God will exact His own vengeance. 'Tis time for me to leave the matter in His hands and get on with my life—with our life."

  Luke closed his eyes and leaned into her palm, whispering something.

  She leaned closer. "What?"

  "I love you." He took her face between his big hands and kissed her. "I love you." Smiling, he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, "I love you so much, and I'm so happy. I used to think I didn't deserve such happiness. But now I think perhaps I do, and that makes it all the better."

  They kissed again, sweet and slow. When they drew apart, Luke looked down and said, "Is that water still warm?"

  "Aye. I'm finished here if you want a bath."

  Gaining his feet, he unbuckled his belt and hung it on a hook. "I'd like one." He whipped off his tunic, shirt, and crucifix and hung them next to the belt. The muscles in his back and shoulders flexed as he moved. Unshaven, his hair loose and disheveled, and wearing only his chausses and boots, he looked savage and virile and incredibly provocative. Heat pulsed in her lower belly; she didn't think she'd ever grow tired of looking at him.

  Faithe stood and twisted the water out of her hair. He paused in the act of untying his chausses and stared at her—her breasts, hips, arms, and legs—his dark gaze caressing her until her skin erupted in gooseflesh and her nipples tightened.

  "Cold?" He lifted her towel from the stool next to the bathtub and shook it out. "But it's so warm in here."

  She stepped out of the tub, the rushes crackling beneath the soles of her bare feet. "I'm not cold, but I wouldn't mind getting dried off."

  "I'm at your service." Crossing to her, he wrapped her in the towel and rubbed her arms and back through it. He pulled her toward him, kneading her with his strong hands until she sighed with gratification.

  "Mmm. I like that."

  "So do I." He kissed her as he massaged her breasts through the damp linen, then lowered his hands to her bottom. "I love touching you."

  Dropping to his knees in front of her, he stroked the towel over her legs, his breath hot on her most sensitive flesh. He passed the towel between her thighs, dried the wet curls there. The soft friction was sweetly maddening. Did he know the effect this was having on her? She smoothed wayward strands of hair off his forehead, the better to see his eyes.

  He looked up at her. He knew.

  Draping the towel over his shoulders, he opened her with gentle fingers, studying her intently, as if he'd never seen a woman's mysteries this close before.

  Perhaps he never had, given what he'd told her about his sexual past—the swift couplings with anonymous whores.

  He drew closer, his breath coming in quickening rushes of heat that made her tingle. He looked up at her again, almost bashfully. "Would it be all right if I..."

  "Yes," she breathed, burying her hands in his hair to urge him closer still.

  "Tell me if I'm doing it wrong."

  She chuckled breathlessly. "I don't think it can be done wrong."

  Closing his eyes, he touched his lips to her very softly, almost tentatively. She gasped at the hot tickle of pleasure. Looking up sharply, he opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself and smiled. She returned the smile. "Yes, I'm all right," she murmured.

  "I know. I'm learning." Closing his hands over her hips, he glided his tongue over her aching flesh until she moaned and clutched at his hair. He kissed her, suckled her, even nipped her lightly with his teeth. Her climax approached swiftly, exploding with luxuriant intensity as he continued to pleasure her, gripping her hips tightly to hold her still.

  He nuzzled her lightly as the blood slowed in her veins and her breathing steadied.

  "Are you certain you've never done that before?" she breathed as he stood and took her in his arms.

  "I think I would have remembered." He kissed her, and she tasted herself on his lips.

  "Would you like me to do that to you?" she asked him.

  He chuckled deep in his chest. "Yes, and possibly a few other things—all in good time. Right now I'd like to know where you keep that oil that smells like almonds and thyme."

  She pointed to the green vial on the floor near the tub. Bending to retrieve it, he removed the cork and poured some of the fragrant balm into both palms. Standing behind her, he slid his rough, oily hands over her back and hips and waist, working it in with lazy, circular strokes.

  "You're using too much oil," she murmured.

  "You can wash it off."

  "You mean to tell me I'll have to bathe all over again?"

  "Indulge me."

  She felt like indulging him. If the visit to Cottwyk had altered her outlook, it had, from all appearances, done the same to him. He seemed changed, at peace with himself. She sensed a deep and real contentment in him that only served to reinforce her own sense of rightness, and she treasured it as much as she treasured her own happiness.

  Luke glided his slick hands around to the front and upward, until they touched the undersides of her breasts. He paused while her heart pounded in her chest, and then he circled each breast slowly, caressing the pliant flesh with strong fingers.

  The hair on his chest prickled her back; she felt the dampness of the towel over his shoulders and the slightly scratchy wool of his chausses against her bare bottom and legs. He lowered his head, his breath tickling her ear. "I've wanted to do this ever since that night."

  She knew which night he meant—the night she'd tried to seduce him. The night she'd teased him by asking him to rub oil into her back.

  "I was wild with wanting you that night," he rasped as he caressed her breasts with a firmer touch, circling closer and closer to their rigid tips.

  "What did you want to do to me?" she breathed, closing her eyes and letting herself back fall onto his shoulder as he stroked her languidly, getting closer, closer...

  "This." Capturing each nipple, he pinched them slowly, until she moaned his name like a plea.

  "And this." He molded himself against her from behind, smoothing one hand down her belly until a slippery finger probed her damp folds.

  "Oh, God." Reaching behind her, she pressed her hands to his wool-clad hips as they rocked against her. With every thrust she felt the thick column of his erection against her bottom. He curled a finger inside her, and then another, caressing her from within as his breath came hot and ragged in her ear.

  "What else?" she asked as a second climax gathered inside her.

  "I wanted to take you," he said gruffly. "I wanted to bury myself in you, possess you. Again and again. I wanted you every way a man can want a woman."

  "How do you want me now?" she asked, teetering on the edge of fulfillment. "Tell me."

  His heart thundered against her back. Whipping the towel off his shoulders, he flung it onto the rushes. He urged her downward until she knelt on the rushes with her knees apart, then bent her forward, curling he
r hands over the edge of the tub. There came a moment's pause, when all she could hear was his breathing, and she knew he was untying his chausses and kneeling behind her. Grasping her hips with both hands, he pushed into her, moaning with the effort. He felt so immense, so hot and sweet and perfect inside her, that a raw sob tore from her lungs.

  He didn't say Are you all right? He didn't stop, or even slow down. He drove into her, over and over, faster and faster, groaning harshly with each fierce stroke. She held on tight to the edge of the tub, one shoulder thudding against it repeatedly as he pounded into her, feeling the blissful panic of impending orgasm.

  Luke wrapped his strong arms around her, his hair falling over her face, his body pumping against her in a delirious frenzy. He was engulfed in sensation, she realized. He'd given himself up to it, handed over the reins and let it command him. Never before had he loved her with such violent abandon, and she found that it thrilled her in a deep and primal way.

  He squeezed a breast with one hand, while the other slid between her legs to the quivering little knot of pleasure there. She cried out at the first rough touch, her body convulsing beneath him as her climax erupted.

  Through the riot of sensation that gripped her, she felt him bite her neck, just hard enough to restrain her while he forced himself deep, deep inside her. She knew then that he was truly lost in his animal passion.

  He stilled, every muscle in his body rigid, a low, guttural sound emerged from deep in his chest. And then she felt the hot, frantic pulsing within her, and she smiled as tears stung her eyes.

  They collapsed into the rushes together, slick with oil and sweat. He wiped her tears away with a shaky hand and whispered breathlessly, "Why are you crying?"

  "This is perfect. A perfect moment."

  He chuckled tolerantly as he drew himself out of her and gathered her in his arms. "That's what you said after the first time, in the barn."

  "I was wrong. That was a very good moment—excellent. But this is perfect. Everything is wonderful. Naught is amiss."

  "You're right," he said wonderingly. "Everything is perfect—or as close as one could reasonably hope for. And 'twill remain that way. Now and forever."

  "Now and forever," she murmured against his lips.

  * * *

  Things remained perfect for another twelve days.

  Chapter 20

  After supper on the last day of July, as Faithe's house staff and the village children busied themselves decorating Hauekleah Hall for tomorrow's Lammas Day songfest, little Felix appeared in the doorway.

  Luke could tell he'd been swimming, which he did more and more by himself lately, ever since Luke taught him how. His hair was wet, and his clothes clung damply to his small body. Grinning excitedly, he scanned the activity in the great hall until his gaze lit on Luke, at the rear, enjoying a game of draughts with Alex.

  "Milord!" the boy shouted over the commotion and waved a small object in the air. "Look what I found!"

  Luke squinted at the object, which gleamed in the early evening sun streaming in through the doorway.

  "I found it at the bottom of the river! I saw it shining!"

  "Luke!" Alex whispered.

  Luke stood. He held out his hand. With all the calm at his disposal, he called out, "Bring it to me, Felix."

  Luke held his breath as Felix darted between two groups of children sitting on the floor, tying ribbons around sheaves of wheat. Waving to Alfrith and Bram, he jumped over several long garlands of midsummer blossoms stretched out across the floor waiting to be wound around posts and hung from rafters.

  As he passed Faithe, strewing mint and wormwood among the rushes, he paused.

  "Nay," Alex murmured.

  "Felix, bring it here!" Luke demanded loudly. He couldn't hear Faithe's voice from across the huge, crowded room, but he could read her lips: "What have you got there?"

  "Look." Felix handed her the mantle pin.

  Orrik came up behind Faithe and peered down over her shoulder.

  Alex stood up. His right hand automatically touched his hip, where the hilt of his sword would have been had he been wearing it.

  Luke muttered a brief, heartfelt prayer.

  Faithe smiled when she saw what it was she held, and ruffled Felix's wet hair. The other boys gathered around him, stealing glances at the pin and patting him on the back. "Good work," Orrik said. Felix puffed up his little chest with pride.

  Luke's gaze was riveted on Faithe as she studied the onyx dragon imbedded in the golden disk, her smile never wavering. Meeting his eyes across the room, she held it up and cupped her hand around her mouth. "Look what Felix found!"

  Luke circled the table and strode toward her through the preholiday mayhem, his hand outstretched. "I'll take that."

  As he watched, she turned the pin over and held it close to her face. Halfway across the hall to her, Luke paused and glanced back at Alex, still standing next to the table where they'd been playing draughts. He held Luke's gaze for a grim moment and then lifted his cup of brandy and drained it.

  When Luke looked back at Faithe, he saw that her smile had turned into a frown of puzzlement. Her lips moved slowly as she read the inscription—identical to that on the white wolf pin, save for the words that prefaced the quote. Luke's was inscribed To my middle son, Alex's To my youngest son.

  Luke felt starved for air.

  She looked up at him. The bewilderment in her eyes made his heart splinter into a thousand fragments. He crossed to her until they were close enough to touch, but he didn't touch her. Around them, Faithe's famuli—mostly kitchen wenches and serving girls—stopped what they were doing to stare at their lord and lady. The tapestry of chatter became muffled and then faded away. Orrik snagged Baldric by his tunic and whispered something in his ear. Baldric grinned maliciously and raced out the back door.

  "'Tis a quotation from Deuteronomy," Luke said, very softly, knowing she didn't care about that, but not knowing what else to say. "Moses' counsel to the people of Israel. 'Be strong and of good courage. Have no fear or dread, for the Lord your God goes with you. He will not fail you or forsake you."'

  She just stared at him.

  "My father was a pious man. He..."

  She was shaking her head. "I don't understand."

  The young boys gaped, clearly sensing that something momentous was happening, but not sure what it was—except for Felix, who looked back and forth between Luke and Faithe with a heartbreakingly flustered expression. A few of the serving girls, including Lynette and Leola, edged closer, straining for a look at what Faithe held in her hand.

  "Faithe." He took a step toward her, but she backed up, and he knew then that she did understand. God help him, she understood perfectly. "Faithe..."

  "I don't understand," she repeated, her voice wavering. "Explain it to me. Just explain it to me, please!" Desperation glittered in her eyes.

  Luke closed his eyes briefly. "I'm sorry, Faithe. Whatever happens, know that I love you, and that I'm—"

  "Explain it!" Her face turned a scalding pink; her eyes were wild. "Tell me this isn't what it looks like. Please! Tell me that other pin isn't Alex's!"

  "Yes, do." Orrik crossed his arms, his eyes like newly minted silver shillings.

  "It's my pin."

  Luke turned to find Alex behind him.

  "I'm the man you were looking for, Faithe," Alex said.

  Faithe shook her head again. "No, Alex."

  "'Tisn't how it seems," Luke said.

  Orrik snorted disgustedly.

  "Then tell me how it is," she demanded shakily. "Explain it."

  Luke scoured his mind for the right words. Felix sniffled pathetically.

  "Oh, God." She fisted her quivering hands in her skirt. "Alex, please tell me you didn't... please!"

  "We can't talk about it here," Luke said, indicating their audience. "Let's go outside and—"

  "I'm sure you'd like that." Orrik nodded toward the herd of brawny men being led through the back door by Baldric. They
'd been rebuilding the cookhouse, and they still gripped their tools in their meaty fists. Luke saw augers, chisels, and various axes, hammers, and saws of all shapes and sizes. "See that this murdering cur" —he pointed to Alex— "doesn't go anywhere."

  Faithe opened her mouth to speak, but seemed at a complete loss; Luke had never seen her look so helpless. The men blinked at Orrik and exchanged looks. Alex was well liked by everyone at Hauekleah.

  Obviously sensing their hesitation, Orrik said, "'Twas he who murdered our Lord Caedmon. He all but admitted it."

  The men murmured darkly. One of them grabbed Alex by the arm and held a carpenter's axe to the back of his neck.

  Pulling herself together, Faithe ordered her staff and the children out of the great hall. They all dropped what they were doing and left quickly, save for Lynette and Leola, weeping piteously, and Felix, who lingered unnoticed behind Orrik.

  "You" —Orrik jabbed Firdolf on the arm— "go fetch a good, strong length of rope, and tie it into a noose. Bring it back here."

  Firdolf's mouth dropped open.

  "Do it!"

  The young bondman backed up slowly, glancing back and forth between Leola and Alex.

  "Now!" Orrik ordered.

  Firdolf turned and lumbered off to do the bailiff's bidding.

  "Nay!" Lynette, crying hysterically, clutched the front of Orrik's tunic. "Let him go! He didn't do it! He couldn't have!"

  "Stop this!" Orrik slapped the young woman's face.

  "Orrik!" Faithe gasped.

  "You bastard!" Alex screamed, leaping toward the bailiff. Three of the men seized him and wrestled him back. "Don't you touch her!"

  Orrik sneered at Alex's rage. "Nyle! Baldric! Take these wenches outside."

  The two brothers grabbed the twins, who began to struggle frantically, biting and lashing out with their fists. Leola broke free and hurled herself toward Alex. Baldric pounced on her and lifted her roughly off her feet. She kicked him in the shin. He yanked her braid, causing her to howl in pain.

  "Stop it!" Alex bellowed. The girls quieted; their captors held on tight. "Lynette... Leola. Go home."

  They shook their heads, tears streaming down their crimson faces.