Wild Wind (33 page)

She pulled it away. “No more. It’s making you...want too much.”

Low laughter rumbled in his chest. “I’ll want too much even if you don’t let me touch you.” He extracted his hand from her grasp and molded it to her breast again. “At least this way, I’ll have a little taste of that for which I hunger so ravenously.”

“You said you’d stop if I wanted you to.”

“You don’t want me to.” He gently thumbed her nipple, making the breath catch in her throat.

“But I’m asking you to,” she said quietly.

He withdrew his hand. “Nicki, I can’t help wanting you. You’re all I think about, you’re in my blood. But I won’t force myself on you. I’ll try to content myself with your kisses...until you’re ready for more.”

“I’ll never be ready.”

He smiled devilishly. “I could change your mind.”

“I don’t think so.”

He rolled on top of her, grinning, and bent his head to hers. “I do love a challenge.”

“You’ve got one,” she said as his mouth closed over hers.

And so do I.

“MY SON!” FATHER
Octavian guided Gaspar into his office, a roomy chamber on the upper level of his private lodge at the abbey. “What an unexpected pleasure.” He dismissed the soft little monk who’d escorted Gaspar upstairs and closed the door.

Gaspar had never cared for being called “my son,” especially by clerics, like this one, who were no older than he; there wasn’t a hint of gray in the abbot’s coppery hair, and his skin was smooth and unlined. It was neither experience nor wisdom that had earned Octavian the abbacy, but the sacks of gold his father had donated to the Church. His family’s wealth was evident in the ornate tapestries that adorned his office walls, the massive desk with its intricate carvings, the luxurious Spanish rug underfoot—far from the Benedictine austerity of the rest of the monastery.

An observant man, like Gaspar, could see beyond Octavian’s severe black robe and tonsure to the pampered creature beneath. His gestures were those of a courtier, his gaze oblique. His fingernails gleamed, and Gaspar wouldn’t be surprised if he buffed them every evening, like a gentlewoman—or had that soft young monk do it for him.

“Wine?” Octavian lifted a two-handled clay bottle from his desk. “‘Twas sent to me from Gascony. A bit sweet, but worth a taste, I think.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The abbot’s gaze slid toward Gaspar as he filled a silver mazer from the bottle. “Pray, what glad design brings you to my door?”

“It’s about Peverell, Father.” Gaspar accepted the bowl of wine and sipped from it, finding it unremarkable. “I hear tell you’re considering its disposition, should the lady Nicolette not produce an heir by the appointed date.”

“I hardly think such an heir will be forthcoming at this point, do you?” Octavian poured a mazer for himself and nodded toward the nearest window, open to let in the early afternoon sunshine. “You don’t mind if I close the shutters. This chamber becomes an oven on days like this.”

“As you wish,” Gaspar said, although he didn’t find the heat quite that oppressive. He rehearsed his proposal in his mind as the abbot secured the shutters on the three windows, immersing the chamber in a dusky halflight.

“I’m glad you came, for you’ve been on my mind of late.” The abbot sipped his wine, his gaze trained on Gaspar. “I have a bit of a problem I’ve been meaning to enlist your aid with.”

“Yes?”

Leaning against his desk, Octavian waved a pale hand toward Gaspar. “That tunic must be stifling. You needn’t stand on ceremony. Take it off, for heaven’s sake.”

Gaspar bought a moment by crossing to a small table in the corner, where he set his mazer. Weighing in his mind the magnitude of his purpose in coming here with the distastefulness of indulging the abbot in this small way, he opted for indulgence.

Octavian watched with undisguised interest as Gaspar unbuckled his belt and pulled off his tunic, tossing both onto a nearby chair. “Isn’t that better?” the abbot asked, surveying Gaspar’s form through his shirt and chausses. Leaving his mazer on the desk, he approached Gaspar, who quickly moved away.

Smiling as if at some private jest, Octavian picked up Gaspar’s belt and turned it over in his hands, examining the heavy buckle, stroking the leather thoughtfully. “So. You’ve taken an interest in the disposition of Peverell.”

“I have, Father.” Gaspar cleared his throat and launched into it. “I spoke to Lord Milo last night.”

Octavian looked up. “How does his lordship fare?”

Careful here. Mustn’t be too obvious in disparaging his master—it wouldn’t look good—but it would be foolish to pass up the opportunity to reinforce the abbot’s poor opinion of Milo. “He’s much the same, I’m afraid. His lordship’s infirmity worsens daily.” That would do, since everyone in Normandy knew the true nature of Milo’s “infirmity.”

Octavian nodded. “‘Tis just as I feared. And her ladyship?”

“Ah, her ladyship. In point of fact, ‘tis a matter concerning Lady Nicolette that brings me here.” Picking up the train of his prepared speech, he said, “His lordship took me into his confidence last night.” In fact, Gaspar had wrested Milo’s confidences from him with a bit of coaxing and two jugs of wine, but no need to mention that. “He’s most troubled by some ploy of her ladyship’s to trick the abbey into letting them stay on at Peverell.”

Octavian’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

“It seems she intends to petition you to appoint her and her lord husband stewards of the estate after you assume control of the castellany.” She had already made the request, of course, through that old maniac of a prior, but Gaspar had decided to feign ignorance of this. “Not that you’d grant such a petition, given his lordship’s...feebleness. And, whereas her ladyship oversees the castle itself quite admirably, I can’t imagine you’d grant her governorship of the entire estate.” Gaspar smiled as if this were the most ludicrous possibility imaginable.

Octavian’s expression went as blank as a corpse. Gaspar realized then that the abbot had, indeed, decided to grant the stewardship to Nicolette and Milo. That sly old Brother Martin must have been damnably convincing. But Gaspar’s hopes rose when Octavian said, “You have a point, of course. I daresay ‘twould be risky, entrusting a woman with such responsibilities.”

“Potentially disastrous. And you should know that Lord Milo wants nothing to do with any stewardship, mindful as he is of his limitations.”

“Quite sensible of him.”

“Aye. But as for her ladyship—”

“If women had any sense,” the abbot sneered, “would Eve have taken the apple from the serpent?”

Gaspar smiled, sensing impending victory. “I knew you’d feel that way. I told his lordship there was no cause for alarm, that you wouldn’t think of appointing them—”

“I may of think of appointing whomever I please,” Octavian said with chilly authority. “Do noy presume to coerce me one way or the other. ‘Tis true that women in general are base creatures, temptresses with corrupt souls.” He rubbed Gaspar’s belt against his cheek. “Have you not found that to be the case?”

“I have indeed,” Gaspar said, unnerved to find himself in such complete agreement with a sodomite on the subject of women, and dismayed that he seemed to have overstepped himself in Octavian’s eyes.

“However, despite the misfortune of her ladyship’s gender, she may well be the best candidate for the stewardship. Brother Martin has presented her case most persuasively, I must say. He has described her managerial skills in the highest terms, extolled her learning and her authority with her staff. She’s intimately familiar with the estate, having been brought up there. And, of course, one mustn’t forget her connections. Martin reminded me that she seems to be something of a favorite with Queen Matilda. I can hardly ignore the importance of such an affiliation.”

Father Octavian sighed dramatically, drawing his hand along the length of the belt. “If there were someone better qualified for the position, I wouldn’t be forced to appoint her—and it would be her and her alone, of course. One can discount the husband altogether. But, alas, no other candidate has presented himself.”

This was Gaspar’s cue to say the rest of it, which clever Father Octavian appeared to have anticipated. Things weren’t proceeding quite as smoothly as Gaspar had hoped. The abbot, one move ahead of him all along, was toying with him. But if he kept his wits about him, his cause might yet prevail.

“Your mention of another candidate,” Gaspar said, “brings me to a matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you for some time, Father.” Ever since last night, when he’d hammered his final strategy into shape. “As you know, I’ve served in a position of considerable responsibility at Peverell for nigh unto fifteen years now. I’ve commanded the men and supervised the running of the estate. If it’s a steward you want, I’m here to offer my services. I doubt there’s anyone better qualified, including—if I may be so bold—my lady Nicolette.”

“Oh, you’re bold, to be sure,” Octavian said in a low, almost purring voice as he walked toward Gaspar, “coming here this way to steal the stewardship out from under your mistress.”

Gaspar backed up against the desk. “Father, I assure you—”

“But I rather like boldness in a military man.” Octavian smiled, clearly amused to have rattled Gaspar. “You do appear to be well qualified.”

“If you appoint me, I’ll serve you to the very best of my ability,” Gaspar said, striving for the right mixture of subservience and aggression; Octavian seemed fond of both. The point was to make the bastard believe that Gaspar craved the position and would be entirely Octavian’s creature once he had it—as if he’d demean himself like this for a job as a glorified caretaker. He had more ambitious plans—far more ambitious—but first he must make sure the abbot did not appoint Nicolette as steward. And the best way to do that was to offer himself as a substitute. “Your orders will be obeyed without question.”

“What an appealing prospect,” the abbot murmured. “You may take off your shirt if you wish. We’re all alone here, and you must be warm.”

Gaspar fought down the urge to snatch the belt back, wrap it around the faggot’s throat and squeeze the life out of him. It wasn’t Octavian’s taste for men per se that sickened Gaspar. Some of Peverell’s best soldiers shared similar appetites, a fact that troubled him little so long as they kept their depravity to themselves. But there was something about Octavian that made him seem more wicked than the general run of his breed.

“‘Tisn’t that warm in here,” Gaspar said. “I’ll keep the shirt on.”

The abbot’s face froze into that death mask again. “Suit yourself.” He turned and strode around his desk, seating himself behind it. “As for the matter of Peverell, well...” He tossed the belt aside and lifted a heavily ink sheet of parchment. “This is the appointment of stewardship. I can insert the name of anyone I wish—this very afternoon if I like—but I’m afraid it really doesn’t look too good for you. I require a certain level of devotion and obedience in my subordinates, and frankly, you may be too strong-willed to satisfy me in that respect.”

So that’s how it’s to be. Gaspar considered the prospect of having Peverell—and its mistress—all to himself, once his plan came to fruition. Then he considered the degradation of submitting to the whims of this deviant little worm—but just for a single afternoon, long enough to get him to insert Gaspar’s name on that document.

He took off his shirt.

The abbot smiled, his eyes glittering in the semidarkness. “But, of course,” he said, setting down the document and closing his hand around the belt, “if we can manage to arrive at some mutually satisfying arrangement, I may rethink things.”

“What did you have in mind?” Gaspar asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“It has to do with that problem I mentioned.” Rising, Octavian circled the table and came to stand very close to Gaspar. “The one I said you might be able to help me with.”

“What sort of a problem is it?”

“One of a rather sensitive nature. It might surprise you to know that I have...impure thoughts like any other man.”

This news did not surprise Gaspar in the least.

“The Devil whispers things in my ear. He makes me lust in unnatural ways.” Octavian eyed Gaspar’s bare torso. “When the monks under my care have human lapses, ‘tis my duty to correct them, and I do. But there’s no one to correct me, to purge me of these sinful thoughts.” He folded the belt into a loop.

“I see.”

“Who better to punish me,” Octavian said softly, “than a man such as yourself—a commander of soldiers? You know about discipline, and you’re not afraid to exact it...are you?”

“Nay,” Gaspar managed.

“My flesh is weak.” Octavian moved so close that Gaspar could feel the rough wool of his robe brushing against him; it took an effort of will not to flinch. “I need to humble myself, to submit to your will.” He took Gaspar’s hand and closed it around the loop of belt. “Are you strong enough to do what it takes to break me of my sinful longings?”

Gaspar pictured the abbot whimpering in pain, like a woman. Perhaps he’d even cry. “I should think so.”

Octavian smiled enigmatically. “About a year ago,” he said, “my cellarer began overindulging in strong drink—much like your Lord Milo. In order to purge him of his fixation with wine, I made him drink half a barrel of it in one sitting. I’ve never seen anyone so sick. But the experience left his mark. He’s been sober since. You don’t suppose such a method might work with sins of the flesh?”

God’s bones. Gaspar wondered if he had the stomach for this. He thought of Peverell...and its mistress. Perhaps he could go through with it—even take pleasure in it—if he imagined the abbot to be Nicolette. He actually grew stiff at the thought of inflicting on Nicolette the indignities Octavian was so eager for.

“Well?” Octavian said. “Have we reached an agreement?”

Gaspar strode to the door and slid the bolt across.

When he turned back around, Octavian was smiling. “It would seem we have.”

“BLESSED MARY.” NICKI
swayed as she read the document Brother Martin handed her. The color leached from her face.