Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  She looked as if she wanted to say more, but after a brief glance toward Alex, she left. The two men watched her carry the child across the field toward the castle.

  “She’s good with children, is she not?” Milo asked, speaking slowly in an apparent attempt to counteract the thickness of his speech. “Patient, understanding.”

  “Almost as good as she is with you,” Alex said. “And you’re a damned sight more trouble.”

  Laughing raspily, Milo lifted his ever-present wineskin to his mouth and took a drink. “She’d give her soul to have a child of her own.”

  Alex sighed wearily. “Well, she won’t get one from me.”

  “‘Twould mean the world to her,” Milo said. “And you’d be saving her from homelessness in the bargain.”

  Alex reflected on Robert’s charming little poem, indecipherable to him until it was read aloud. “What do you think of me, Milo?”

  Milo seemed to be struggling to focus his gaze on Alex. “I love you like a brother, Alex. You know that.”

  Alex nodded. “A slow-witted little brother, good for a bit of company now and then...or the occasional very special favor. Is that it?”

  “What are you driving at, cousin?”

  “I’m no more than breeding stock to you, am I?”

  Milo made a face of derision. “Alex—”

  “A stud bull. Witless, to be sure, but he’ll mount any female put in front of him. Good for his seed but—”

  “You are witless,” Milo said, choking with laughter, “if you think that’s how I view you.”

  “What else am I to think?”

  Milo clamped a bony hand onto Alex’s shoulder. “Don’t you remember how it was, back in Périgeaux those last few years? You were more than my cousin—you were my confidant, the friend of my heart. I needed you. You had a way of looking at things straight on, where I was always peering around corners, making everything vastly more complicated than it needed to be. I questioned everything. I needed your clear vision, your sense of rightness and honor, to remind me what was important. You kept me from all my little dishonesties and self-indulgences.” Grimly he said, “If you’d been around these past nine years, I doubt I would have deteriorated into the sorry wastrel I am today.” He was slurring badly, having abandoned his effort to appear sober.

  “But that’s just it, Milo. I wasn’t around. For almost a decade you made no attempt to contact me. When you finally sought me out, ‘twas to ask the most obscene ‘favor’ imaginable.”

  “I needed you then, and I need you now. More than ever.”

  “I’m sorry, Milo, but I can’t stomach what you’re asking of me. Find someone else.”

  “Actually,” Milo said, “I already have. If you won’t do it, Gaspar will.”

  Alex gaped at him. “Gaspar?”

  A roar from the crowd around the fighting pit made both men turn to see what had prompted it. It was the arrival of a new opponent, a monstrous brute—some sort of infidel judging from his dark skin and the gold ring in his ear. He was entirely as tall and broad as Gaspar, every muscle on his torso clearly defined. The spectators cheered wildly as the savage dodged Gaspar’s first two punches, landing him a punishing blow to the stomach that doubled him up. He turned to acknowledge the hurrahs of the crowd, only to have Gaspar leap on him from behind and tackle him to the ground.

  Gaspar and Nicki? God’s eyes... “He wouldn’t do it,” Alex said.

  “He already offered to,” Milo retorted. “And if I need him, I’ll order it. He may be the apothecary castellan, but he hasn’t forgotten how to follow an order.”

  “Christ, Milo.” Down in the fighting circle, the competition had evolved into a wrestling match, with the two sweaty behemoths grappling furiously for dominance. “Was it his idea?”

  “Nay,” Milo said quickly—too quickly, perhaps. “‘Twas mine. We were drinking one evening, after supper. I was...perhaps a bit loose-tongued.”

  Alex grunted; easy to imagine.

  “I confided in him about the inheritance problem, the need for a son. And he offered...” Milo frowned uncertainly, as if trying to remember. “But mind you, the idea came from me. He offered to sire the child. For the sake of all of us. If we’re forced to leave Peverell, he might have to leave, too. At best, he’d lose the authority he wields now, and one can hardly blame him for wanting to hold onto it—a man of his humble origins.”

  “I daresay,” Alex murmured, wondering how much of this scheme had come from Gaspar. “She’ll never allow it. She’d never let him seduce her.”

  Another chorus of cheers rose from the crowd. The barbarian had Gaspar pinned on his back. Gaspar thrashed and grunted. Finally he hooked a leg around the other man’s and, with a howl of effort, wrested him loose and flipped him face-down. Throwing himself on the dusky giant, he pinioned his flailing limbs. “Surrender!”

  The infidel twisted and writhed.

  “Surrender, you black beast.” Gaspar ground his opponent’s face into the dirt. “Surrender!”

  “You’re right, of course,” Milo said, swaying slightly on his feet. “Nicolette would never submit to Gaspar. I told as much. He took offense, I could tell. He’s rarely angry, but I could see it in his eyes. I probably worded it poorly—I was in my cups.” Milo paused, squinting at the two sweat-slicked, writhing bodies in the fighting ring. “He does, however, have other means at his disposal—means that wouldn’t depend on my wife’s permission.”

  The dark-skinned man screamed invective in his native tongue while he bucked and rolled. Gaspar held on tight, grunting as he struggled to keep his foe immobilized. Grabbing a fistful of hair, he lifted his opponent’s head, slamming it hard into the packed earth. “Give in, you godless pagan!”

  “You can’t mean...” Alex began. “You wouldn’t let him...take her by force.”

  “Rape her? I’m not quite that depraved, cousin. Nay, but there’s a way he could do it that wouldn’t require her cooperation...or even her knowledge.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He knows how to make a potion that will induce a deep sleep.”

  “Oh, for God’s—”

  “Nicolette wouldn’t even know what was happening.”

  “Jesu! You’re capable of such...Milo, have you descended so low?”

  “Desperation drives men to low acts, cousin. Yes, I’m capable of ordering my lovely lady wife to be so ill used. Absolutely. I’m at the end of my tether. I’ll do anything.”

  The crowd was pleading with Gaspar, who continued to pound the now-insensible wretch’s head against the earth, to stop. Finally, dripping sweat, his chest heaving, he climbed off the unconscious man and raised both fists in the air, beaming. A smattering of applause and a few cheers, mostly from Vicq and Leone, acknowledged his victory. The onlookers dispersed.

  “Of course,” Milo said, “I would rather avoid such unpleasantries. My feelings for Nicolette may not run as deep as a husband’s should—we never had that kind of marriage—but I’ve always been fond of her.”

  “Doesn’t seem that way at times.”

  “When one loathes what one has become,” Milo said with drunken solemnity, “that loathing tends to break free from time to time and seek the most convenient target. In my heart” —he tapped his chest with a palsied hand— “I care for her almost as one would a sister. She has a good soul, and she’s remarkably gifted, and...well, ‘tis a rather unsavory business, his drugging her wine and...”

  Alex closed his eyes and saw Gaspar, grunting and straining atop his helpless opponent.

  “But make no mistake, cousin,” Milo said softly. “If it comes to that, I’ll order it. Don’t doubt that for a moment.”

  “I don’t,” Alex whispered, rubbing his eyes.

  “Do you see why I asked you to father this child?” Milo squeezed the wineskin into his mouth, frowning to find it empty. “‘Twould be ever so much more civilized, having you do it—much better for Nicki. And, of course, there are all the reasons
I pointed out before—the de Périgeaux blood, and our resemblance, the fact that you live so far away... That’s important. Gaspar would always be about, and what if the baby looked like him? Not good, not good at all.”

  Alex watched Gaspar wipe down his face and chest with a rag, which he then traded to Leone for his shirt.

  You haven’t changed a bit, he’d remarked to Gaspar yesterday.

  Yes I have.

  “Does Gaspar know you’re asking this of me?”

  Milo’s eyebrows drew together. “Nay.” He tried again to make the wineskin produce wine, grimacing when he remembered he’d run out. “‘Twould irk him, I think, that I chose someone else over him. As I said, he took offense when I told him Nicolette would never have him. I was too soused at the time to realize why, but I understand now. He doesn’t like reminders of his station, and he assumed the only reason I rejected him is that he’s baseborn. I told him I’d decided entirely against the idea of another man siring her child.”

  Gaspar donned his tunic, buckling his belt over it, and ran his hands over his close-cropped hair. He noticed Milo and waved, and Alex was struck by how tame and civilized he appeared. Alex looked away to find Faithe, carrying the baby and accompanied by Robert, crossing the field toward them.

  “Whatever you do,” Milo said in a heated whisper, “don’t let Gaspar know that I’ve asked this of you. He wouldn’t take it kindly if he found out I chose you over him. Hopefully you’ll get the task done and neither he nor Nicki will ever know it was by my design. They’ll think it...just came about.”

  “Just came about...” Alex muttered, musing on this elaborate and ignoble scheme.

  Milo gripped Alex’s shoulder; his breath stank of sour wine. “Cousin, I know this business doesn’t sit well with you. I can appreciate your misgivings. But think of what will happen to us if we’re cast away from Peverell. Look at me. I’ve no skills, no trade. I never learned how to fight, and my hands shake too badly to hold a sword even if I had. I’ve turned into an old man, and old men like to stay where they are. Take pity on both of us.”

  They descended the knoll to greet Faithe, and were soon joined by Gaspar, whom Milo congratulated for his defeat of the black giant. The big man greeted Alex coolly. Alex merely nodded.

  Alex observed with interest Gaspar’s transformation from bloodied brawler to cheerful retainer—his deference toward Milo, his politeness toward Faithe, his easy way with Robert. Gaspar’s gaze, however, kept straying toward something in the direction of the castle, which seemed to absorb him. Alex doubted he would have noticed this had not his own attention been fixed on Gaspar. Turning casually, he found the object of Gaspar’s covert preoccupation to be Nicki, walking toward them.

  “Hlynn was fast asleep by the time I put her on her pallet,” she reported to Faithe as she joined them. “Your maid is watching over her.”

  During the ensuing small talk, Alex noticed Gaspar’s gaze crawl over Nicki very briefly, almost imperceptibly, when he thought no one was looking. Alex’s hands curled automatically into fists.

  Milo broached the subject of Alex’s furlough, prompting Faithe to say, “The children will be thrilled to have their Uncle Alex for such a long visit. As will Luke and I.”

  “‘Tis most gracious of you,” Milo said in the measured way that meant he’d resumed caring about appearances. “But I was thinking perhaps my young cousin might prefer a change of scenery.” He turned to Alex, his bleary gaze sharpening, becoming almost smug. “I thought perhaps you’d like to come stay with us at Peverell. My lady wife and I would relish the company...wouldn’t we, my dear?”

  Nicki blinked at her husband, and then at Alex. “I...yes, of course. But I’m sure Sir Alex would prefer—”

  “You see, Alex? We’d love to have you. You can return with us to St. Clair and remain there through Christmastide. We’ve got a nice, private guest chamber for you,” he added significantly, “very quiet and cozy. What say you, cousin?”

  Faithe smiled and shrugged. “We’ll understand if you choose to spend your leave at Peverell, Alex. I’m sure you’ve missed your cousin.”

  Gaspar stared at him with a cool lack of expression.

  Nicki studied him in that still, wide-eyed way of hers, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

  “‘Tis a kind offer,” Alex said tightly. “And one which I find myself...helpless to refuse.”

  Grinning broadly, Milo landed Alex a good-natured but feeble punch to the arm. “I knew I could talk you into it.”

  * * *

  “More wine, milord?” inquired Gaspar, offering the jug as he stood over the table at which Milo sat in a drunken stupor.

  Milo lifted his face from the table to gape at him in the jittery, open-mouthed way that meant he’d long since forgotten where he was or what he was doing. The sorry sot would be out cold soon enough, Gaspar knew, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want a refill. Milo de St. Clair always wanted a refill.

  The lady Nicolette, sitting next to her husband, caught Gaspar’s eye. “He’s had enough,” she said softly. Judging from the expressions of the others at the dinner table—the de Périgeaux brothers, the lady Faithe, that witch Berte de Bec and her fat toad of a husband, even those blasted children—they concurred with her ladyship’s assessment.

  Gaspar couldn’t wait to get back home, where he wouldn’t have a dozen pairs of eyes scrutinizing his every action. He liked things as they were at Peverell. He particularly liked not having to play the fawning lapdog, except perhaps with the lady Nicolette, who still fancied that she exercised some measure of authority over her subordinates—even him.

  Of course, things wouldn’t be quite the same, with that irksome young cousin of Milo’s spending the next six bloody months with them. Milo wouldn’t be so hospitable if he knew the bugger had almost stolen his bride away before he could marry her. Gaspar could share that fascinating bit of de Périgeaux family history with his master, but then Milo would surely question why his trusted retainer had waited so long to do so. If Gaspar were to reveal the truth—that he made it a practice to tell Milo only enough to keep him from interfering with Gaspar’s authority—it wouldn’t go well for him. He would tell Milo about his wife and his cousin if and when it became useful to do so.

  “Gaspar,” said Lady Nicolette, “my lord husband is tired. Perhaps you’d like to help him to—”

  “Meddling bitch!” Milo’s slammed his open palm on the table, his face contorted in a drunken rictus of indignation. “Jus’ need s’more to drink.” Milo tried to push his half-full goblet toward Gaspar, but it toppled over, soaking the oaken table with wine. “Damn. Fill that up.” He grabbed his wife’s goblet, as he was wont to do, and gulped down its contents.

  Alex de Périgeaux stood. “I’ll take him to bed, my lady.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, “but Gaspar doesn’t mind. Do you, Gaspar?”

  God’s bones, but he wished she wasn’t so bloody beautiful. When she looked at him like that, with those haughty eyes and those silky pink lips, he felt something wind up tight inside, coiled for release. He wanted to slap her; he wanted to grind his mouth against hers and shock the chilly complacency out of her.

  Patience...

  “Certainly not, my lady.” Hauling his insensible master off his bench, Gaspar dragged him up the tower stairs to his chamber and dumped him unceremoniously on the bed.

  Her ladyship’s night shift had been laid out, he saw, folded up all nice and tidy on a pillow. Gaspar rubbed his hand across it, his calluses snagging on the delicate silk. It got him hard, remembering how she’d looked in this the other night, her tits as round as a young girl’s, and those long, shapely legs—the kind that could wrap good and hard around a man’s back.

  He could filch the shift. It would be easy, just shove it into his tunic and bring it out later, when he was alone. Take it back to Peverell and keep it hidden in his quarters with the other little souvenirs he’d been squirreling away all these years—the garnet earring, the
satin slipper, the beaded girdle, and his favorite, the chemise sleeve. He liked that one, because it smelled like her. This shift would smell like her, too, he reckoned. He could rub it on his face, his body...

  Milo mumbled something. It sounded like “Violette.”

  “She’s dead, you pathetic souse.” To ravage yourself with grief over some chit from the past when you had a woman like Nicolette de St. Clair in your bed struck Gaspar as the height of lunacy. Setting himself to the task of undressing this drunken wretch, he pondered his role in bringing about Milo’s marriage to Nicolette nine years ago.

  It was obvious that Nicolette had taken a fancy to young Alex that summer in Périgeaux. Nothing about her escaped Gaspar’s notice for very long. Still, he’d been astounded when Lady Sybila had come to him in one of her dithers, screeching that Alex was threatening to steal her daughter away before she could wed Milo.

  Gaspar had shared in his mistress’s alarm. It was imperative that Nicolette’s marriage to Milo proceed as planned. Not that he was happy about it. He’d wanted her for himself, of course—he always had—but given his station, she’d been unattainable. Since it was inevitable that she marry, better Milo than Alex de Périgeaux.

  Despite his youth, the young knight had all the hallmarks of a natural soldier and leader of men. If he were ever to become castellan of Peverell, he would command with an authority Gaspar could never hope to usurp. Not so the weak and harmless Milo.

  Just as galling, a marriage between Nicolette and Alex would have been a union of passion, not property. It was clear that she was well on the road to falling in love with him, if she hadn’t already. He represented a threat not only to Peverell, which Gaspar aspired someday to command, but to Nicolette’s affections, which he’d been determined—in his foolish naiveté—to capture.

  She would eventually come to care for him, or so he’d thought, when she accepted that he was the true lord of Peverell, and her equal in spirit if not by birth. Not that she would ever agree to marry a lowborn apothecary’s son, sensitive as she was to the opinions of her aristocratic peers. But if she lost her heart to him, she could most likely be persuaded into his bed—perhaps even consent to become his mistress, if he promised secrecy. That had been his plan, and he’d intended to see it to fruition.