Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “Nicki, for God’s sake, get out of here!” Alex yelled. “Go back to Peverell and have Milo send some of the men—”

  “Milo is dead, Alex,” Nicki said.

  Alex fell silent for a moment, sorrow darkening his eyes. He whispered something under his breath—it might have been a curse or a prayer—and said, “Go back, anyway. The men respect you, Nicki. They’ll follow your orders. Tell them to hunt Gaspar down and—”

  “I’m not leaving you.” She retrieved Leone’s dagger from where he had dropped it. Could she use it if she had to? She thought about Gaspar’s raw malevolence, and his determination to kill Alex, and decided she could. If the opportunity arose, she would shove it up to its hilt in the bastard’s back and not feel a twinge of remorse. The trick, of course, lay in getting close enough to Gaspar to hurt him without falling victim to that mallet.

  “Go!” Alex shouted. “Damn it, Nicki—”

  “I’d rather she stayed,” Gaspar said. “She’s distracting you, just as she did that other time. You’re easy pickings when your attention wanders in a fight.” As if to prove his point, he rammed the mallet down hard on Alex’s wounded arm. Alex’s hand opened; the sword fell.

  No! Please, God, no!

  Alex crouched and reached for the sword, but Gaspar kicked it away.

  “Run, Nicki!” Alex screamed as Gaspar lifted the mallet high over his head.

  “Alex!” Nicki threw the dagger, which fell at Alex’s feet. He grabbed it and rose, thrusting it into Gaspar’s belly and wrenching it sharply upward.

  The mallet fell from Gaspar’s hands. Alex seized him by the front of his tunic and jammed the blade in harder.

  “What the...” Gaspar looked down, blinking, for a few long seconds. “Shit. Oh, fuck. You fucking...You’ve killed me, you bastard.”

  “I should bloody well hope so.” Alex yanked out the dagger; blood spattered.

  Gaspar sank to his knees. He met Alex’s gaze with an expression of virulent loathing, but when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. Presently his eyes lost their focus, and then he sighed and fell forward, landing heavily in the leaves.

  Alex closed his eyes and swayed on his feet. For the first time, Nicki noticed how pale he was. His sleeve was saturated with blood; it dripped off his hand, forming a puddle in the leaves.

  “Alex.” She went to him, gathered him in her arms. “Alex, lie down.”

  He opened his eyes; they sparked with devilment. “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to faint.”

  “Oh.”

  With Nicki’s help, he lowered himself to the ground and lay with his head in her lap.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” he asked.

  “Look at your arm! How can you be thinking of kissing?”

  “I’ve been hurt worse than this,” he said. “I never die.”

  “That’s most reassuring.” She reached into the gap of her tunic and tore several strips from her ruined undershift.

  Alex slid his good hand into the gap and opened it wider, lightly stroking her. “You have such pretty breasts.”

  “Stop that,” she chided. “Lie still so I can bandage that arm.” Nicki almost fainted herself when she got his sleeve torn off and discovered the extent of the damage. She wrapped the injuries tightly to stanch the flow of blood. Aiming for a tone of nonchalance, she said, “You’ll have another scar—a bad one.”

  “Good. They give me character. Kiss me.”

  “I can’t believe that’s all you can think of after everything that’s happened today.”

  His smile dimmed; his gaze grew melancholy. “What happened to Milo? Did Gaspar kill him?”

  “Nay. Well, in a manner of speaking he did.” She told him about the poisoned wine, and Milo’s final act of redemption.

  Alex touched her hand. “In his own way, Milo loved you.”

  “Just as he loved you.”

  He caressed her belly. “Are you truly unharmed?”

  “The baby’s fine. He’s fast asleep inside me. He never knew what happened.”

  Alex frowned. “They didn’t...do anything to you?”

  “No, Alex. They didn’t have the chance. You came in time.” She smoothed an errant strand of hair off his forehead. “You came back. I’m so glad you came back.”

  “Every hoofbeat that took me away from you,” he said, “felt like a stake being pounded into my soul. At seventeen, I’d been ready to fight for you, regardless of the consequences. I wondered what had become of me, that I was willing to give you up—and our child as well—with so little struggle. Once I was truly faced with losing you, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. Oath or no oath, I had to come back for you.”

  “God understands about the oath.”

  “I know that now. Nicki...” He reached up to touch her cheek. “Milo gave his life for us, so that we might be together. ‘Tisn’t a gift to take lightly.”

  “If you want me to marry you,” she said, “just ask.”

  He looked through her eyes, into her very soul. “Will you marry me, Nicki?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I would love to marry you.”

  “Good.” Curling his hand around her neck, he lowered her head, murmuring, “Then come here.”

  Epilogue

  July 1074, Cambridgeshire, England

  “Ah, here you are,” Alex said from the bedchamber doorway when he saw Nicki at her writing desk, working by the light of the late afternoon sun streaming in through the windows. “I should have known.” He patted the baby in his arms, rooting busily on Alex’s chest through his shirt, the damp little mouth blindly inquisitive. “This hungry babe is asking for something I can’t give him.”

  Nicki turned and graced them—both of them—with one of her breathtakingly luminous smiles. “I’m only too happy to oblige.” She crossed the room to sit on the edge of their big bed and tugged at the cord that laced up her tunic.

  Alex bounced the infant gently while she got unlaced. He’d never wanted children until his own child started growing in Nicki’s belly. And then, wanting a home to take his wife and babe to, he’d let King William grant him a substantial Cambridgeshire estate—in return, of course, for dismissal from his service, an offer Alex accepted eagerly.

  Their manor house was sizable enough to be imposing, but airy and full of sunlight, thanks to the many large windows. It was their bedchamber, though—their private sanctum—in which Alex felt most at ease. The sprawling room, which encompassed the entire upper floor, bore Nicki’s distinctive touch. Colorful rugs adorned the whitewashed walls, the bed was draped in buttercup curtains...there was even a pot of sunflowers on the writing desk.

  “What are you writing?” Alex asked, wandering over to the desk.

  She hesitated. “You may read it if you like.”

  Alex smiled at that. You may read it if you like. Only a year ago, she would have had to read it to him. Lifting the sheet of parchment she’d been inking, he saw that it was a letter, or rather, the start of one.

  To Martin, esteemed prior of St. Clair, from your most devoted friend, Nicolette of Ravenhurst.

  Beloved Brother Martin, cherished companion, how I miss you. I think of you frequently, wondering how you fare and what new marvel you have devised. Aside from the lack of your fellowship, however, I have found in England such happiness as I have never known.

  Thank you for overseeing the management of Peverell in my absence. The steward you engaged has kept me well informed of all new developments, including the windmills you erected in the outer bailey and the star-viewing machine you are building in the athletic field. I only wish I could see them.

  My husband and I are filled with pride and rejoicing, dear brother, for the Lord has blessed us with a strong and healthy baby. Our joy is boundless. I would, however, be obliged if you would inform Father Octavian that the deed to Peverell is to be transferred to the abbey forthwith. Our child, you see, is a daughter.

  “I’m ready,” Nicki said, holding her
arms out.

  Alex returned the unfinished letter to the desk and brought young Bryan to his mother. Baring one of her breasts—more ripely beautiful than ever—she set about feeding their son.

  Nursing generally filled her with heavy-lidded contentment, so Alex was surprised to see little creases forming between her brows. “Do you think it’s a very great sin to lie to a man of the cloth?” she asked.

  Alex smiled. “Brother Martin is a wise man, Nicki, and he wants what’s best for you. He would understand.”

  “Giving up Peverell is best for me,” she conceded, “but is it best for our son? Peverell is one of the most important holdings in Normandy. Are we wronging Bryan by denying it to him?”

  Alex sat behind her on the bed, gently easing her back until she was leaning against him. Wrapping his arms around her and their child, he tucked them up close to him. “Bryan will grow up an Englishman, Nicki. He’ll inherit this estate, or earn another, even better one.”

  “Aye, but Peverell is—”

  “Old and gloomy,” he finished.

  She chuckled. “Aye, it is that.”

  “And too many sad memories are buried there,” he said softly. He kissed her silken hair, inhaled a whisper of roses and spices mingled with a baby-sweet milkiness—a scent he wanted to surround him, be a part of him, always and forever. “We’ll make new memories, Nicki—happy ones—right here in England.”

  ~ THE END ~

  Contents

  FALCON’S FIRE

  “A powerful debut historical novel by an exciting new talent, Falcon’s Fire will ignite your imagination and passion for medieval romances.” RT BookReviews

  ...For nothing is less under our control than the heart—having no power to command it we are forced to obey.

  —Héloïse, in a letter to Abelard

  Chapter 1

  August 1159, the Normandy Coast

  Martine of Rouen watched the seagull soar out of the dawn sky from across the Channel. It flew over the vessels in the Fécamp harbor for some time, as if trying to pick out one from the rest. Finally, its choice made, it descended in a graceful spiral to alight next to her on the railing of the Lady’s Slipper as thirty oarsmen propelled the merchant longship smoothly out of her dock.

  “‘Tis a good omen, milady,” the ship’s pilot said, and smiled. “A blessing on your marriage to Baron Godfrey’s son.” He was a massive Englishman, nearly toothless. His face formed a landscape of boils; his French was spoken with an unpleasant, guttural accent.

  Martine had not believed in omens since the age of ten, particularly good ones. Why fool oneself into expecting the best, when logic foretold the worst? This journey to England, a place she had never been, to marry Edmond of Harford, a man she had never met, filled her with a dread that no omen could erase.

  Sensing her brother’s comforting presence behind her, she turned to look up at him.

  Rainulf met her eyes with a reassuring look, then returned the Englishman’s smile. “A good omen? And why would that be?”

  The pilot pointed to their small visitor on the railing beside Martine. “That gull be an English herring gull, Father—er, milord.” He frowned, his mouth agape. Martine knew he pondered the correct form of address for someone who was not only a priest and the son of a Norman baron, but a relation of Queen Eleanor herself.

  “‘Father’ is fine,” Rainulf said. “My fealty to my God supersedes even that to my cousin.” He nodded toward the bird. “So you think our little friend here has flown all the way from England just for us?”

  “Aye, milord. Father. ‘Tis a lucky sign for milady.” He grinned at Martine. “That wee creature flew a great distance and come straight to you, milady, to escort you across the Channel to young Edmond of Harford. If you feed him crumbs, he’ll most likely stay with us till we dock at Bulverhythe Harbor tomorrow. And then it’s certain your marriage will be a union of love, and your sons many.”

  A union of love? Martine shuddered at the thought. As a child, she had watched her mother’s union of love claim her will, her reason, and finally her life. In a choice between marriage and the convent, Martine had consented to marry, but she hadn’t consented to love. Nor would she ever, omen or no omen.

  The pilot stared at her, waiting for some sort of response. Do all Englishmen share your primitive ideas? she wanted to say. If Sir Edmond does, I’ll hardly need a gull to predict how miserable my marriage will be. That’s what she wanted to say, because fear unleashed in her a reckless temper. But this Englishman, despite his coarseness and his childish superstitions, clearly meant no harm. For that reason, and because Rainulf constantly begged her to be civil, she held her tongue. She even tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage that. Excusing herself to her brother, she descended the narrow stairway to the main deck and ducked into the cabin. The heat in the tiny compartment assaulted her even before she closed the door.

  The Lady’s Slipper had but one enclosed cabin, tucked into the stern beneath the quarterdeck. It was a dim, airless little chamber, crowded with Martine’s and Rainulf’s baggage, but it was private, reserved exclusively for their use during the crossing.

  Martine ducked her head to avoid the low ceiling and unpinned the gold brooch that secured her hooded black mantle, tossing both into a corner. On her head she wore a saffron-dyed linen veil, intricately draped and tucked so as to reveal only her face, from eyes to chin. When she removed the veil, her hair spilled to her hips in a flaxen sheet.

  There could be no mistaking that Rainulf and Martine were related. Both were tall, silver-blond, and fine-boned, as were the Northmen from whom they were descended. They bore a striking resemblance to their father, the late Baron Jourdain of Rouen, and although they had different mothers, both women had been fair and blond.

  Through the cabin’s single tiny porthole, Martine watched the rugged Normandy coastline gradually shrink into the distance. She felt something stir against her legs and flinched, but when she looked down, she saw it was just her cat, a sleek black tom with white boots.

  “Don’t worry, Loki.” Abandoning the cool facade with which she distanced herself from men like that Englishman—from all men except Rainulf, in fact—she sank to the floor and gathered the cat in her arms.

  “They say England is...” Cold and wet. Shivering, she buried her face in his fur. “Perhaps there are lots of mice there. I’m sure you’ll be happy.”

  The oak planks that formed the cabin’s ceiling and the floor of the quarterdeck groaned as Rainulf and the pilot crossed to stand directly above her.

  When the Englishman spoke, she could hear his words clearly through the porthole. “The young lady, your sister—she’s not much for friendly conversation, is she, Father?”

  Rainulf answered him with a long sigh.

  “You’ll pardon my asking, Father, but has the baron’s son had the honor of being introduced to milady as yet?”

  A pause; then, “Not as yet.”

  The pilot chuckled in a knowing way. “Aye, but I’d pay a month’s wages to be witness to that meeting.”

  * * *

  Why doesn’t she just ask me where it is? thought Rainulf. He sat cross-legged on the cabin floor, fanning himself with his black skullcap as he watched his half-sister rummage through his traveling bags. Reaching within his robe, he withdrew a folded sheet of parchment.

  He chuckled. “Gyrth thinks your Edmond will be in for a nasty surprise when he discovers how cold and haughty you are, and that what you need is the firm hand of a real man to crack your ice.”

  Martine paused in the act of unlocking a small wooden trunk. “Who’s Gyrth?”

  “Our pilot. The man whom you so contemptuously ignored this morning.”

  Dumping the trunk’s contents on the swaying floor, she got on her hands and knees to sort through its contents. “How did you know his name? You always seem to know everyone’s name.”

  “I ask.”

  After a moment of silence, she met his gaze and smiled to acknowle
dge the implied criticism, gentle though it might be. Her deep blue eyes, ignited by the shaft of noon sunlight from the porthole, widened when she saw the parchment in his hand.

  “Is that it?” she asked. “The Saxon’s letter?”

  “The Saxon has a name.”

  She groaned and rolled her eyes, holding out her hand for the letter. “Rainulf, please. You know I can’t remem—”

  He held the letter away from her. “You can’t remember the name of my closest friend?”

  “Your closest friend? You haven’t seen him for ten years—not since the Crusade.”

  “He’s my closest friend, and he has a name. Everyone has a name, Martine, even Saxons. And since this particular Saxon has gone to all the trouble to find you a husband—the son of his overlord, no less—the least you can do is try to remember his—”

  “Brother, I think you vex me just for sport. ‘Tis unbecoming in a priest.” She reached for the letter, and he edged away from her. Grinning like a cat, she suddenly lunged, throwing him to the floor. His head hit the edge of the trunk and he yelped in pain, but she paid him no heed, snatching the letter with a gleeful laugh.

  Rubbing his head and looking around for his skullcap, Rainulf said, “Did the nuns not tell you ‘tis a sin to do violence to a man of the cloth?”

  Martine unfolded the letter. “The nuns told me many things. I retained what seemed useful and discarded what didn’t.”

  He found the cap, replaced it, and sat up. For a convent-bred eighteen-year-old, Martine was remarkably irreligious. Despite his best efforts to strengthen her faith, it remained weak, and there were times that he feared for her immortal soul. Perhaps his failure to properly guide her stemmed from his inability to guide himself, for had not his sin of pride undermined his own faith? If the truth be told, he worshiped his own intellect more zealously than he worshiped his God. What of his immortal soul?