She cleared her throat. “Has Milo told you we may lose Peverell?”
For some reason, Alex hesitated uneasily. “Aye.”
Nicki nodded; she thought so. “Did he tell you why?”
Alex rubbed the back of his neck. “Aye.”
She touched his hand, the first she’d done so since Gaspar caught them holding hands two weeks ago. “Can I trust you, Alex?”
He closed his fingers over hers. “Of course.”
“If I tell you something in strictest confidence, you won’t reveal it, even to Milo?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
She took a deep breath. “Because what I’m going to tell you would make Milo very angry. He’s forbidden me to...” She shook her head. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“Does this have to do with keeping Peverell?”
“Aye.” Nicki tightened her grip of his hand. “We’re to be cast away from here in fourteen months unless I produce an heir—which, of course, is impossible.”
To her surprise, Alex withdrew his hand from hers, raking it through his hair. It almost seemed as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t.
“So, we’re bound to relinquish the castellany. I can live with that—Milo hasn’t ever really been a true castellan—but I can’t give up Peverell. You may think the castle is old and gloomy, and I suppose it is, but it’s my home, mine and Milo’s. We have nowhere else to go.”
“You have a plan?” Alex asked.
“I want the Church to appoint Milo and me stewards of Peverell. Father Octavian, the abbot of St. Clair, would have to sign a document granting us the stewardship, and he’s...a bit difficult to deal with. The only person who seems to get along with him is my friend, Brother Martin, Octavian’s prior. I visited him two weeks ago, against Milo wishes—”
“The day you went marketing in St. Clair.”
“Aye—my true purpose was to talk to Brother Martin. I had tried to arrange an interview with Father Octavian to discuss the disposition of Peverell, but he wouldn’t even see me. He said a woman had no business meddling in such affairs. So I went to Brother Martin and asked him to present my case to Father Octavian. He said he’d see what he could do, but that it might take time to get Octavian accustomed to the idea, and that I should come back in a fortnight to see if he’d had any success.”
“So you’re due for a visit to the monastery.”
“I’m going tomorrow morning. I thought perhaps you’d consider canceling your swordsmanship lesson and accompanying me.”
His gaze turned penetrating. “Why?”
She shrugged. “It does make me uncomfortable to take long trips unescorted. Bandits prowl the woods.”
“Is that the only reason?”
She looked away, suddenly overcome by shyness. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind your company.”
When she looked back at him, he was smiling. “I don’t suppose I’d mind yours, either.”
* * *
That evening, a pair of traveling minstrels stopped at Peverell on their way to the ducal court at Rouen. Milo offered them supper and sleeping accommodations in the great hall in return for the evening’s entertainment, which they cheerfully agreed to, erecting a little portable stage at the far end of the hall from Milo’s bed. Alex and Nicki sat on a bench near Milo, while the soldiers, including Gaspar, watched from the tables at which they had supped.
Alex was grateful for this respite from his usual routine of draughts with the soldiers after supper, and at first he found the two performers—brothers from Brittany, one enormous and one small—diverting enough. The big fellow had a tiny dog that jumped through hoops. His brother juggled knives and ate live coals out of the hearth—or appeared to. But their musical offerings—a series of interminable chansons de geste—left much to be desired. The smaller man played the harp passably well, but his brother sang like a wounded bear. One chanson—about King Artus of Brittany and his Knights of the Round Table—struck Alex as curiously similar to a tale he’d heard many times in England. Others—about the Trojan War, Charlemagne, and of course, Roland—were long-winded and uninspired, a fact lost on most of the soldiers, who applauded each song enthusiastically.
The only benefit to Alex of enduring this tedious performance was that he got to sit right next to Nicki—to breathe in her fragrance and listen to her occasional laughter, and sometimes to look at her. She wore a white silken gown embroidered with gold tonight, her hair concealed by an airy veil secured beneath a golden circlet. Sapphires dangled from her ears, encircled her slender throat. She was luminous, exquisite.
He shouldn’t take such pleasure in her nearness, shouldn’t idealize her like some dreamy, lovestruck youth. He wouldn’t, he’d decided, if he weren’t so blasted randy every hour of every blasted day. All this thinking about seducing her, combined with the difficulty of following through, had escalated his sexual frustration to a level he’d never experienced before.
Alex’s impetus to bed Nicki had as much to do now with his own ungovernable needs as with that damned oath Milo had made him swear. He needed sex, and he needed it with Nicki. His desire had taken on her image, her scent, her shape. No one else would do.
Seducing her had proved to be a heroic challenge. With some measure of grim humor, Alex contemplated the conundrum that had ensnared him. He couldn’t hope to win Nicki’s affections—and favors—unless he spent time alone with her. But if he became too familiar with her during their isolated afternoons together, she would refuse to be alone with him.
On the one hand, this past fortnight had been rather maddening, with Alex struggling to keep his distance from Nicki while trying to reawaken the intimacy they had once shared. On the other, he could not remember ever having been as carelessly content as he was in her company. There was something about being near her that set him at ease, even while it stirred his blood.
You shouldn’t let her stir your blood, for pity’s sake. You should do whatever it takes to get her to raise her skirts for you, and when it’s done, you should ride away grateful to never see her again. Nor should he waste tears of penitence over the matter. Nine years ago she had used him to snare Milo. Now, he would use her—to assuage his lust and fulfill his oath. Where was the evil in that?
Last week, Milo had asked him point blank if he’d lain with Nicki yet. When Alex admitted his lack of success, his cousin informed him that Gaspar knew of the “arrangement” and was mightily displeased about it—one more vexing complication.
Of course, there was always the chance that Nicki’s petition for stewardship would meet with Father Octavian’s favor. She seemed to think there was a chance of this, and Alex had no reason to doubt her. If she and Milo could remain at Peverell without producing the required heir, there would be no need for Alex to seduce her—a mixed blessing. No longer would he have to deal with his uneasiness over finessing her into bed at her husband’s behest, but nor would he get to make love to her. And making love to Nicki was simply all he wanted anymore; he longed for her with an intensity that staggered him. Sometimes he thought he’d go mad if he didn’t have her soon.
Everyone was applauding, so Alex joined in. Nicki yawned as she clapped. The larger of the two minstrels noticed this. “I see milady grows weary of battles and bloodshed,” he intoned across the hall. “What say you to a tale of the heart—a poignant romance which has brought tears to ladies’ eyes for generations?”
Milo groaned, muttering into his goblet, “Not Tristan and Isolde.”
“The timeless legend of Tristan and Isolde,” the minstrel announced, “has been told a thousand times...”
“And I’ve been there every single time,” Milo grumbled, handing the goblet to Nicki and struggling to sit upright. “I say,” he called out feebly, his voice thick with drink; the great hall quieted so that he could be heard. “If it’s a tragic love story you want, my lady wife has penned one herself that rivals any in your repertoire, I’ll wager.”
“Milo, no!” N
icki whispered, grabbing his arm.
“‘Tis a poem called ‘The Thorny Rose,’” Milo said, shaking Nicki off. “And I daresay my men would enjoy hearing it again.”
“No, Milo, please!” she begged, but her husband ignored her. If Alex wasn’t mistaken, ‘The Thorny Rose’ was the poem she’d torn out of his hand that first evening in the solar.
“No doubt it’s an exquisite piece of verse,” the big man said, “but alas, I don’t know it.”
“Our Sir Marlon can sing it.” Milo nodded to the troubadour knight, a tall fellow of middle years who rose and strode toward the stage. “I’m sure you and your brother would appreciate the opportunity for a bit of rest and a cup of claret.”
The minstrels bowed. “As you wish, milord.”
“Have him sing something else,” Nicki whispered to Milo. “I don’t want to hear that one.”
“But it’s my favorite,” Milo said. “Shh...he’s about to start.”
The only sound in the great hall was the popping and settling of the logs in the hearth behind Alex. No one moved or spoke as Sir Marlon closed his eyes and began to sing. He had a beautiful voice, smooth and deep and melodious. “Within the earth’s most secret womb, A maiden and a soldier meet, While far above them roses bloom, Trembling in the summer heat.”
Alex turned to find Nicki staring rigidly ahead, her hands fisted in the skirt of her tunic.
“Hand in hand, like bride and groom,” Marlon sang, “Two souls unite with joy replete, Sheltered in this holy room, This ancient cave, so cool and deep.”
Nicki closed her eyes, as if in pain; her throat moved. Alex’s heart swelled in his chest until he could barely breathe.
“The maiden’s love is so complete, A perfect rose with fair perfume, To treacherous thorns she pays no heed, They’ll do their damage all too soon.”
Abruptly Nicki rose, mumbled something to Milo, and strode swiftly toward the turret. Milo met Alex’s gaze and shrugged, as if to say, “What’s gotten into her?” Gaspar, sitting with his men, watched Nicki disappear into the stairwell, glanced briefly at Alex, and returned his attention to Marlon.
Alex fought the impulse to follow her, knowing how it would look and cursing the need to bow to propriety at a time like this. Marlon sang on, describing the maiden’s love for her young soldier. She thought of him when the sun rose in the morning and when it set at night. Frequently her sleep was disturbed by dreams of longing for him, although he had never more than held her hand. While they were apart, she was an incomplete girl pretending to be whole. Perhaps she was mad to be so consumed by love for a man who could offer no marriage vow, no home, no future, but it was a sweet madness, and one she was powerless to resist.
“Christ,” Alex whispered. For nine long years, Alex had assumed Luke was right—that Nicki had merely used him to capture Milo. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Alex?” Milo frowned in evident puzzlement. He glanced at the doorway through which his wife had departed, and back at Alex.
Alex listened in a daze to the rest of it—the shameful secret the maiden harbored, her betrothal to another, the young couple’s anguish, the soldier’s desperate but futile plea for her to run away with him...the things she wished to God she could tell him.
In the song’s final verse, a bride and groom stand on the chapel steps under a harsh morning sun exchanging vows, both deeply in love with others, but compelled for reasons of their own to wed. The bride has tucked a dainty little wild rose—one of several the soldier had picked for her their last afternoon together—beneath her bodice, next to her heart. Its petals caress her flesh, recalling a passion that will forever burn in her breast, while its thorns serve as a bitter reminder that the one great love of her life is lost to her. From this day forward, her very soul will be incomplete.
Deeply shaken, Alex did not join in the thunderous applause that filled the great hall when the song was over. Nicki hadn’t wanted him to hear her bittersweet tale, he realized. She’d fled in mortification, ashamed of the feelings she’d unwillingly exposed.
Milo studied Alex with a remarkably astute gaze, given his inebriation. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it, looking very sad.
“Milo...” Alex began, but no words came to him.
Milo nodded. “I should have known.”
Alex stood. “I have to go to her.”
“Go.” With a quavering arm, Milo reached for his goblet.
Mindful of how tongues would wag if he went racing up the stairs to the solar, Alex descended to his own chamber and then sprinted up the service stairwell. His chest was heaving by the time he reached the topmost landing.
He opened the door, finding the solar completely dark. At first he thought she must not be here, for surely she would have lit a lantern. But then he saw her, a dark form standing in front of an open window, facing the night sky, her veil clutched in her fist. Her hair spilled in a river of gold down her back.
He crossed to her, his heart pounding. She didn’t hear him until he was directly behind her, and then she spun around to face him.
Her eyes were enormous in the moonlight. Tears glistened on her cheeks, making his heart constrict. “Nicki...”
She ducked her head and tried to turn around, but he seized her shoulders and held her still. “I love you, Nicki,” he whispered hoarsely.
She stared up at him, her eyes shimmering wetly. Her veil fluttered to the rushes.
“I loved you then, and I love you now, to the depths of my soul.”
She closed her eyes, fresh tears spilling from them. “Oh, God.”
“Don’t cry.” He took her damp face between his hands. “Please don’t cry. I swear to God, Nicki, I love you. I do.” He pressed his lips to her cheek, salty-sweet. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.” He kissed her forehead, her eyelids. An agonizing gladness welled within him; it squeezed his throat, stung his eyes. “Don’t cry.”
“You love me?”
“Always and forever.” He rubbed his cheek, wet now with his own tears, against hers, the oath Milo had extracted from him echoing in his ears...You’ll endeavor to sire me a son....You’ll keep your true purpose from Nicolette, and when it’s done, you’ll leave here and never contact her again. “Oh, God, Nicki.”
“I never stopped loving you,” she whispered, her hands in his hair. “But it was wrong. It still is.”
“This can’t be wrong,” he breathed against her mouth. The only good thing to come out of this mire of deceit and intrigue was the love that had been born anew between them. How could a love so pure and powerful be wrong?
“I’m married.”
“You were mine first.” His brushed his lips over hers, tasting her tears. “We belong to each other. We always will.”
“But—”
“Shh.” He kissed her gently, his hands cradling her head, his mouth gliding over hers slowly, so he could savor this charmed moment. Her lips were salty and hot and sweet, and they felt like wet satin against his, and they were hers, and he was kissing her, and kissing her, softly, over and over again, and oh God, she was kissing him back.
“Nicki...Nicki...”
Her hands were cool on the back of his neck, her breath warm against his lips. She kissed him, sighing. She was kissing him. Nicki was kissing him!
Alex groaned, his joy as acute as pain. Banding his arms around her, he pressed her back against the window sill and kissed her deeply, wanting to prolong this delirious pleasure, to make it stretch out forever and ever.
She held him as tightly as he held her, her breasts crushed against his chest, her thighs firm against his. He felt the delicate bones of her hips, and her womanly softness. Arousal pulsed in his loins, and he stepped back from her, breathless, wanting her terribly, but not here, not now.
Her gaze was knowing, her smile tender as she raised a hand to caress his face. He captured her wrist and kissed her palm. She smiled and closed her eyes, and her expression of sweet rapture undid him. He gathered her in h
is arms again and closed his mouth over hers and lost himself in her.
They kissed in silence, endlessly, as if time had ceased to exist...or as if they could make it stand still if they just kept kissing and kissing...
Sometimes they kissed softly, their lips barely grazing, sometimes more deeply. He kissed her temple, the exquisite curve of her cheekbone; he lightly tongued the delicate rim of her ear, making her gasp. She kissed his scratchy jaw, tipped his head back to press her lips to his throat.
A knock at the turret door startled them. “Milady?”
“Edith,” Nicki whispered shakily. “I’m all right, Edith,” she called out. “I’ll get myself ready for bed. I don’t need you tonight.”
“Are you sure, lamb?”
“Quite sure.” Nicki rested her head on Alex’s shoulder as the old woman shuffled down the stairs. “She may come back.”
Alex kissed her hair. “I should leave,” he said grudgingly.
“Aye.” She looked up at him, her eyes begging him to stay. He lowered his mouth to hers, not wanting to leave, not wanting to lose her, dreading the notion of a future without her. They kissed with violent desperation, clinging to each other, his moans merging with her soft cries.
She broke the kiss, murmuring, “Alex, this is mad.”
Sire me a son...leave here and never contact her again...
“Life is mad. We’ll have to deal with it.” Tilting her chin up, he bent his head to hers. “But not tonight.”
Chapter 18
“Are you sure you’re allowed to be here?” Alex asked Nicki as she led him through the abbey’s large public square, bustling with servants and lay brothers, to a smaller, quieter courtyard off of it. Monasteries had strict rules regarding the presence of women within their walls.
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