Wild Wind (12 page)

Phelis’s knocking grew more insistent. “Nicolette?”

“Just a moment!” she called, then whispered, “Go, please!”

“Not until you promise to meet me tomorrow at—”

“I can’t.”

“Nicolette?” Phelis called. “Is anything wrong?”

“N-nay!” she called. “I’ll be right there. Please, Alex.” Nicki pulled him toward the window. “I can’t. Just go!”

He stroked her face, warm and soft and damp, reluctant to leave her like this but not really seeing as he had any choice. “Perhaps you’ll have changed your mind after having had the night to think about it.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against his palm. “Perhaps you’ll have changed yours.”

“Never.” He curled a hand around her neck to draw her toward him, kissing her deeply and urgently as her mother battered him with her fists.

“I love you,” he whispered into her ear, “and he doesn’t. Sleep on that tonight.” With a final lingering caress of her cheek, he opened the shutters and leapt out of the window.

When he’d gotten far enough away not to be seen, he stopped and shook out his tunic. Something fluttered to the ground, and he bent to pick it up. It was one of the white satin ribbons he’d pulled out of her hair, which had evidently gotten tangled up with his tunic. Thinking it a good omen, he rolled it up carefully and tucked it away in his money pouch before heading home.

ALEX PRAYED NONSTOP
the next morning as he rode along the little track through the woods that separated his father’s estate from Peter’s, pleading with God to let Nicki be at the cave when he got there. Surely she’d changed her mind about the marriage, given time to ponder the fact that he loved her and Milo never would. Perhaps she’d intended to meet him even last night, but knew better than to admit it in front of her mother. In any event, he mustn’t panic if she wasn’t already there when he arrived, for it wasn’t quite the appointed hour yet. The first silvery glow of dawn was only now washing the darkness from the sky.

Mounted on his best stallion, he led two other horses by the reins—a gentle mare for Nicki and a packhorse heavily laden for provisions for a journey. If they left forthwith, they could be many miles away by the time their absence was discovered. Beyond that, he had no firm plans. Nicki seemed averse to living in a convent until he could provide a home for her, but perhaps he could change her mind. Or perhaps something else would come to him. He’d think of something. It would work out. It had to.

As he rounded a curve in the path, about fifty yards from where it opened out into the sheep meadow, he saw a shadowy figure sitting on a fallen log. His heart slammed in his chest. He almost called Nicki’s name out loud, thinking she’d decided for some reason to meet him here instead of at the cave, when he realized it couldn’t be her. The figure was a man, and a large one. Only one man carried that kind of bulk—Gaspar Le Taureau.

Gaspar did not rise as Alex drew up, merely nodded at him and squeezed a wineskin into his mouth. Alex’s scalp tightened.

“What brings you this way at this hour, Gaspar?” Alex asked as he reined in the horses.

“I’ve a message for you, Sir Alex,” Gaspar said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Two, actually. One from the lady Nicolette and one from her mother.”

Crushed that Nicki hadn’t come, Alex said, “I care naught what the lady Sybila might have to say. What news of my lady Nicolette?”

“She asked me to tell you that she has not changed her mind. Her wedding to your cousin Milo will take place as planned, and she prays you do nothing to interfere with it.”

Alex clenched the reins in a white-knuckled fist. “I will do everything in my power to prevent that wedding. She knows not what she’s doing.”

Gaspar rubbed the back of his neck. “In that case, I’m obliged to deliver the lady Sybila’s message as well.” He held the wineskin toward Alex. “Have some. ‘Twill make the message easier to bear, I think.”

Struggling to hide his grievous disappointment, Alex dismounted and tethered the horses, then took the wineskin and drank. He tried to hand it back, but Gaspar wouldn’t accept it. “Have some more, young sir. You’ll need it.”

“I’d rather have the message.”

Gaspar regarded him somberly. “Suit yourself.” His big body unfolded slowly as he stood up from the log. Reaching beneath his short cloak, he produced a club, which he hefted in his meaty hand.

Shit.

A rustling came from behind. Alex turned to find Gaspar’s churlish subservients, Vicq and Leon, emerging from the woods brandishing clubs of their own. Alex wished he was wearing his sword, or at least a dagger. Without a weapon, he was defenseless against three armed men.

Gaspar tapped his club against his boot. “Lady Sybila asked me to tell you that her daughter’s wedding is of the utmost importance to her, and you’re not to try and meddle with it.” He sighed. “And she instructed me to make sure you wouldn’t be able to.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way to change your mind. Silver, perhaps?”

The big man shook his head. “An order is an order. You’re a knight. You understand.”

“Aye.”

Gaspar closed both fists around the handle of the club and took a sweeping practice swing. Nodding toward the wineskin in Alex’s hand, he said, “You’d best finish that off. She said I was to do a thorough job of it.”

Alex drained the wineskin and tossed it aside. “Do me one small kindness if you would, Gaspar. Don’t damage my sword hand.”

Gaspar smiled. “Only too happy to oblige.” He stepped forward and swung, slamming Alex in his midsection. Bone crunched. He hit the dirt. Two more jolting blows came from behind. One got him in a kidney; he swallowed down a roar of pain.

Don’t yell. Keep your mouth shut and take it.

They struck him in the legs, the back, the stomach. He wrapped his arms around his torso to keep from using his precious hands to shield his face when they started in on that. Pain surrounded him, consumed him in blooms of white fire. He swallowed dirt and blood.

In his mind’s eye, a face materialized, backlit by a haze of searing light—the smooth, pale, coolly innocent face of Nicolette de St. Clair. He fixed his entire being on that face, studied it, focused on its every detail as a way of transcending the hot bursts of pain that erupted again and again and yet again.

At long last, the pain receded, the face faded, the light dimmed, and a dreamless night descended upon him.

ALEX SWAM IN
and out of consciousness for a timeless interval, aware mostly of pain—everywhere there was pain—but also, dimly, of hands tending to his wounds—the hands of a woman, for he heard her voice, and sometimes that of his brother. The hands were cool and slightly work-roughened, the voice throaty. She smelled of cooked food and sweat and some cloyingly sweet scent. Another odor—turpentine?—made his nostrils flare, but it didn’t come from her; it seemed to come from him.

When he came fully awake, he found himself in bed in his own chamber at home. He tried to sit up, only to groan in agony and frustration. Both arms and one leg were splinted, his ribs tightly swaddled, and the rest of him—from the head down—heavily swathed in bandages and poultices. All he could move were his hands and feet. He flexed the fingers of his right hand slowly, relieved to find that it appeared to be intact. Gaspar had been as good as his word.

“You’ve been doing that for the past three days,” came a voice from somewhere behind him.

“Luke?” Alex rasped through parched lips.

A chair squeaked. The face of his brother appeared above him. “Your eye,” Alex moaned contritely when he saw the fading bruises surrounding Luke’s left eye.

Luke smiled weakly and touched his black eye. “You’ve got two of these, and your nose looks like a great white turnip. But that’s the least of it. Your right hand is the only part of you’ve that’s moved since I found you.”

“What is that stink?”

“You.”

Luke brought him a cup of water and held his head up so he could sip it. Alex saw that his brother had something wrapped around his hand—the leather thong attached to the wooden crucifix he’d carved as a boy, and which he wore around his neck. It was his habit to hold it this way, with the cross in his palm, while he prayed. “Were you that worried about me?” Alex asked.

Luke’s expression sobered. His eyes, Alex noted, were red-rimmed. He’d never known his brother to cry.

“I thought you...” Luke’s voice snagged; he cleared his throat. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.” He drew in a breath and released it. “When I couldn’t find you the morning of the wedding, I remembered what you said about some secret meeting place by Peter’s sheep pasture. On my way there, I found you on the path...” He shook his head. “I recognized you by your tunic. The rest of you was...Christ, Alex. Was it bandits?”

Alex tried to shake his head, but pain thudded from within. “Gaspar,” he whispered. “And those apes of his.”

Luke stared at him in disbelief. “Why?”

Alex licked his lips. Luke gave him another sip of water. “To keep me from stopping the wedding.”

Luke swore softly. Unwrapping the leather cord from his hand, he draped the crucifix around his neck. “Father Gregoire married Milo and Nicolette that morning.”

Alex felt the room tilt. He had to look away from the sympathy in Luke’s eyes.

Luke said, “They’re on their way to St. Clair now, along with that shrewish mother of hers. And of course Gaspar and his thugs. When we go up north to join William—assuming you’re still up to it—”

“I will be.”

Luke smiled. “That’s the spirit. When we arrive in Normandy, we can seek Gaspar out and teach him a lesson.”

Alex tried to shake his head again, and winced. “Nay. He was following his mistress’s orders. ‘Twas only right that he do so.”

“Look at you. He had no call to give you such a savage beating. He nearly killed you.”

“I deserved it. I was a fool. ‘Twas a useful lesson to me.” Wondering exactly how much of a fool he’d been, Alex said, “Do you think she was deliberating encouraging Milo behind my back?”

Luke’s expression of contempt said it all.

“Then why did she keep coming to the cave with me? Why would she have let me think she cared?”

“I’ll tell you,” Luke said with a hesitant smile, “if you promise not to deal me another black eye. Not that you could, in your fix, but—”

“Tell me,” Luke demanded, unamused.

“Women have been known to use one fellow to make another one—the one they’re really interested in—jealous.”

Alex digested that, finding it all too plausible. But... “Milo loves Violette. He couldn’t have been made jealous over me.”

“She doesn’t know about Violette.”

“She does. He told her when he asked her to marry him.”

Luke blinked. “Verily? He’s not as clever as I’d thought. But he didn’t tell her until he proposed, so she might have thought it would work.”

Alex’s head pulsed. “God’s bones, do you really think—”

“She wanted Milo,” Luke said. “And she saw you as a way to get what she wanted.”

“Christ.” Could it be true? If so, then the passion he’d inspired in her that night in her chamber, when they’d almost made love, had been nothing more to her a physical craving, an itch that had needed scratching. “It’s all so damned complicated and sordid and—”

“Welcome to the domain of the heart.” Luke turned and crossed to the little window, opened the shutters, and leaned out. When he spoke, his voice was so soft and measured as to lull Alex into drowsiness. “‘Tis a hard life, that of a soldier. We’re not like other men. The things they cherish—a home, a loving wife, children—are denied us. No woman of any worth wants to be united with some great lout in bloody chain mail who never knows where he’ll be or who he’ll be killing tomorrow. Falling in love is not an option for us. We must make do with our laundresses and whores and tavern wenches.”

“No attachments,” Alex murmured languidly, repeating the advice Luke had tried with so little success to drum into him. “I was an idiot. I shall not make the same mistake again.”

Turning back around, Luke leaned against the window frame and crossed his arms. “Until you’re landed. Then you can—”

“Never again,” Alex breathed, his eyes closing of their own volition. “No attachments.”

Alex awoke some time later to the sensation of pleasantly rough fingertips gliding over his lips, anointing them with some sort of fragrant salve. Drawn for some reason to taste it, he touched his top lip with his tongue, brushing it across a fingertip in the process. A woman’s low chuckle made him squeeze his eyes open.

“Oh.” He squinted to bring the face into focus—dark eyes, lush lips, a snarled mane of auburn hair spilling out of the rag in which it was tied. Tempeste; she sat on the edge of his bed, holding a tiny jar. He’d just licked her finger. “Terribly sorry.”

She smiled and leaned closer, her bosom resting heavily on his chest. “You may do it again,” she offered, nudging his lips open with the slick fingertip. “Do you like the taste? ‘Tis violet water and oil of sweet almonds in duck’s grease.”

He heard the creaking of the chair behind him, and then Luke appeared in his field of vision. “Awake again, are you? Tempeste has been caring for you. I sent for her as soon as I brought you home.”

“I see,” Alex managed.

“Didn’t I tell you she’s handy with poultices and the like? Three days and not one wound has festered.”

“‘Tis the turpentine that keep them from putrefying. One of my many little tricks.” Tempeste smiled coyly at Luke as she rose and went to set the little jar on the corner table, which was covered with vials and bottles and stacks of clean bandages.

“Tempeste’s talents are myriad and varied.” Luke lowered his voice. “I’ve paid her well to tend to your needs—all of them. See that you let her. I hate wasting my silver.”

“Are you serious? I can’t even move.”

Luke smiled slowly. “Tempeste can.”

“THAT’S IT, THEN,”
Tempeste announced after she’d removed the last of Alex’s bandages. His nakedness seemed to trouble her not in the least, so he didn’t let it trouble him. The only services she’d attempted to render him since he’d regained consciousness several days ago were of the healing variety, which was just as well, all things considered.