Wild Wind (39 page)

“Two weeks ago,” Xavierre muttered as she stirred the bread and stew into an unsavory gray mess. “Are your menses ever late?”

“Never.”

“You’ve never been pregnant before, have you?”

“Nay,” Nicki lied.

“Have you suffered at all from stomach ailments? Any vomiting or fluxes? Choler? Putrefied humors?”

“I feel woozy from time to time.”

“Let me know if you begin vomiting excessively,” the midwife advised, slurping up her stew and bread mixture. “I’ll make you up a binding medicine. Are your breasts tender?”

“A bit.”

“Any little pains near your womb, as if someone’s sticking a needle in you?”

“Aye,” Nicki said. “Quite a bit of that.”

Xavierre smiled as she chewed. “I hope you’re telling the truth when you say you want to be with child, ‘cause from the sound of it, there’s a child that wants to be with you.”

Nicki couldn’t help returning the midwife’s smile, but it faded when she remembered how her other pregnancy had ended. Indeed, she’d sought Xavierre out this early in large part for advice on how to avoid another miscarriage—but of course, she mustn’t let on that she’d ever had one. “Are there ways of helping to keep the babe tight in the womb? I’ve waited so long for this. I’d hate to anything to happen.”

“I’ll give you a powder to cook with honey and put in your wine,” Xavierre offered as she scooped up the last of her stew. “‘Tis excellent at preventing such a mishap. But the most important thing to remember,” she cautioned, stabbing her spoon in the air to emphasize the point, “is never to ask for something which cannot be had. For if it is not given to you, you may very well lose the babe.”

“I’ll try to remember.” It wouldn’t be hard. The only thing Nicki wanted—really wanted—that she knew she could never have was Alex. But at least now she would have a part of him, always and forever.

Perhaps, she thought as she paid Xavierre for her time and took her leave, she would wait until right before Alex returned to England at Christmastide to tell him about the baby; with any luck, she wouldn’t show before then. That way, they could enjoy their remaining time together without the burden of his distress at having sired a bastard on her.

That being the case, she’d better not reveal her condition to anyone, even Milo, lest it become public knowledge before she was ready to tell Alex.

“One more thing,” said Xavierre from her doorway as Nicki mounted her new white mare, Zurie. “If you get the urge to eat dirt or chalk, I want you have a bowl of beans cooked with sugar instead. That’s important. I don’t want you to forget.”

Dirt? Chalk? “I don’t think I could forget,” Nicki assured her as she headed home for her own supper. “Thank you ever so much for your time.”

NOT LONG AFTERWARD,
Gaspar stood in the doorway of the selfsame cottage, counting coins into the fat midwife’s hand. She charged a pretty penny for her information, but it was worth it.

“You understand I was never here,” Gaspar drawled as he tied the pouched closed.

“Oh, yes?” Xavierre asked slyly. “I hadn’t realized that.”

Gaspar dug another coin out of the pouch and thrust it in her hand.

“I do now.” Grinning, she poured the coins into her purse.

“Greedy cow.”

A sense of well being came over Gaspar as he rode back to the castle—a respite from the red tide of rage that had consumed him these past weeks, as he laid low between visits to the hateful Father Octavian, all the while waiting for Alex de Périgeaux to do the job he’d been brought here to do.

It would appear he finally did. Her ladyship was pregnant. Knowing this, Gaspar could proceed accordingly.

First, it would be well to deal with de Périgeaux before he had the chance to spirit the little mother-to-be to parts unknown. Gaspar could take care of that tonight; he already had the poison hemlock and white hellebore mixed up in the spiced wine—a whole flagon of the stuff.

And then finally—finally!—he’ll be free to execute the rest of his plan. In the end, he would have not only Peverell, but its mistress. Like it or not, the high-and-mighty Nicolette de St. Clair would finally lie down and spread her legs for him.

As his wife, she’d have no choice.

NICKI PICKED AT
her apple tart, making small talk with Alex, sitting across from her at the high table, as she pondered the remarkable fact that she was carrying his child. She wished she could tell him. She wished he could be happy about it.

She imagined being his wife, and giving him the news, and having him swing her around in his arms, ecstatic. She could imagine all she wanted, of course. Alex would hardly view this pregnancy as cause for rejoicing.

“Spiced wine, milord?” Gaspar asked as he filled Alex’s goblet from his flagon. He’d been on exceptionally good behavior lately. Nicki wanted to think his encounter with them in the woods that August morning—and in particular with Alex’s sword—had taught him a lesson, but she couldn’t shake the sense that it was all an act. He was too restrained, too subservient. It made her nervous, as if he were up to something.

Nicki expected Gaspar to fill her own goblet next, but instead he disappeared into the buttery. When he returned, with a cup in his hand, he wove his way to the middle of the hall, amidst the hundred or so soldiers finishing up their supper and the servants waiting on them, and climbed atop a bench.

Alex cast a quizzical look in Nicki’s direction as he lifted his goblet. She just shrugged, but a vague trepidation befell her. All she wanted was to get through this evening pretending everything was normal, unchanged. This was not a good evening for surprises.

She looked toward Milo, reclining in his bed across the hall, nursing his wine, as usual. He caught her eye and glanced toward Gaspar, holding his hands up to quiet the soldiers. She shook her head in response to her husband’s perplexed expression.

“Men!” Gaspar shouted. “Pipe down, now. That’s better. I’ve got a toast to propose.” He raised his cup and the soldiers did the same. “To her ladyship, Nicolette de St. Clair.” He bowed in Nicki’s direction. “And to our lord castellan, Milo de St. Clair.” A nod toward Milo. “Thanks be to God Almighty for the joyous event which our lord and lady have the pleasure of anticipating. At long last their alliance will be blessed with an heir, as we’ve all hoped and prayed...” His words were consumed by a roar of “Hurrah’s” from the soldiers.

God, no, no...Not now, not this way...

Stunned, Nicki met Alex’s gaze as he stared at her over the rim of his goblet. She could see only his eyes, wide with shock.

A movement of Milo’s drew her attention. He was sitting up awkwardly, gaping at her, his goblet on its side next to him, soaking the quilt with wine.

Very slowly Alex lowered his goblet. His mouth formed her name, but Nicki couldn’t hear him over the din that filled the great hall.

As the cheering subsided, Gaspar leapt off his bench and walked toward them, holding his cup in the air. “To the health of your ladyship and the babe you carry. May your child be a son, and may the good Lord bless and protect—”

“Excuse me.” Alex stood abruptly and strode away, toward the turret in the far corner. Milo called to him as he passed, but he didn’t even slow down.

Despair rose within Nicki. Why did he have to find out this way? Now things would never be the same between them. How on earth did Gaspar find out, and why did he choose to reveal it in this fashion—making it public to everyone at Peverell, and therefore all of Normandy, before she’d even adjusted to it herself?

Gaspar glowered at Alex’s untouched goblet of spiced wine, then turned to watch him duck into the stairwell and disappear.

“Why did you do that?” Nicki demanded in a low, raw voice.

Facing her, Gaspar cocked his head as if the question confused him. “Milady? I merely wanted to congratulate—”

“Never mind.” She rose and circled the table. “I couldn’t bear your excuses and lies. I’ll deal with you later.”

Nicki hurriedly traced Alex’s path across the hall, slowing as she approached Milo’s bed. He was staring at with the oddest expression. She couldn’t tell whether he was pleased or saddened by this turn of events, when she’d assumed he’d be unreservedly delighted.

With considerable chagrin, she reminded herself that she had, after all, been sleeping with his cousin. Her liaison with Alex had been a union of passion; how could Milo help but feel at least somewhat betrayed? It would be different, certainly, if her pregnancy had resulted from a cold-blooded tryst of the type Milo had proposed last summer—a service performed by a man hand-picked by Milo, whom she would never see again once his seed had taken. But that was not the case. Milo’s relief at the prospect of an heir would, at best, be tainted with ambivalence.

Pausing at his bedside, she groped futilely for the words to account for herself, to make him understand what had happened, and why. As her consternation increased, Milo’s expression softened. To her astonishment, he reached out and opened his hand, beseeching her with a gentle smile to take it. A sob rose in her throat when she closed her hand around his. Although his skin was cool to the touch, and she could feel the bones just beneath it, he gripped her with surprising strength.

“Go ahead.” He nodded toward the turret staircase and released her hand. “Go to him.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she turned and ran from the hall. She raced down the stairs to Alex’s little chamber on the ground level, but he wasn’t there. Thinking perhaps he was waiting for her in the solar, she sprinted upstairs and threw open the door. The big room was empty.

He must have gone outside. Leaning over her writing desk to peer out the window that faced the outer bailey, she saw him, mounted on Atlantes, leaving the stable. He kicked the sorrel gelding and tore off across the drawbridge. She watched him—a dark horseman in the twilight—until the woods swallowed him up. Nicki dried her face on her tunic sleeve, determined not to surrender to her tears, and sat at her writing desk, looking out the window.

Night descended slowly and darkness consumed the solar, but Nicki made no move to light a lantern. As she gazed out at the stars materializing in the inky sky, a strange serenity settled upon her. Her thoughts took on a focus, a clarity of vision that swept her fears and misgivings before it like a cleansing breeze.

All that mattered—really mattered—was the love she shared with Alex and the child that love had produced. The joining that had begun nine years ago as they’d held hands in a darkened cavern on a hot summer afternoon was now complete. More than their souls were linked. They’d merged themselves, created a new life with the power of their love.

What could be more important than that?

MILO AWOKE TO
his name being whispered. Opening his eyes, he saw his wife sitting on the edge of his bed. He could tell it was her in spite of the darkness because of the soft gleam of her hair.

“Nicolette,” he murmured groggily. “What time is it?”

“Late,” she said softly. “The middle of the night. I’ve been upstairs thinking.”

Milo tried to sit up, but it was too much of a trial, so he just collapsed back onto the pillows. Strangely enough, he felt almost sober. He must have had less to drink last night than usual, after Gaspar’s startling announcement. “Did you find Alex?”

“Nay. He went for a ride, and I haven’t seen him return. I’m on my way downstairs to wait for him in his chamber, but I...there’s something I need to tell you.”

He could just make out her face; her eyes were sad. “You don’t owe me anything, Nicolette. And I don’t blame you—not in the least.” He lifted a tendril of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “I can understand if you’re worried about what others will think—”

“I care naught what anyone thinks but you.”

Milo let out a little huff of astonishment. “What of that bloody tiresome reputation of yours?”

She chuckled. “Is it that tiresome?”

“More than you know.”

“I’ve thought it all through, Milo. I don’t care anymore. I can’t afford to.”

He shifted to get comfortable; damned bed sores. “You do know what they’ll be whispering behind your back,” he felt obliged to warn her. “They’ll be asking how an invalid like Milo de St. Clair—bed-ridden with wine sickness for months—has managed to get that pretty wife of his with child after nine years. They won’t say anything to your face, of course, but they’ll wonder.”

“They may wonder all they like. As you say, no one would say it to my face. No one would make a fuss. My reputation would be tarnished, but I could brazen it out, and in time the whispers would die down, especially if you acknowledged the child as yours.” She drew in a breath. “If I were to stay here.”

If I were to stay here...

Milo let his breath out in a long, shaky sigh. “Jesu. This is what you came to tell me, isn’t it?”

She felt in the dark for his hand and closed hers over it. “I’m sorry, Milo. I love Alex. I have since that summer in Périgeaux. If he’ll have me, I’m going to leave with him.”

“You really will be ruined then, you know.”

“I know. I’ll have abandoned my husband for another man, one I can’t even marry, but whose child I’m carrying. I’ll be the worst kind of fallen woman. The funny thing is, I find I can live with that more easily than I can continue in this marriage.”

“It never was much of a marriage,” Milo conceded. “But what will become of you?”

“Alex will find a way to take care of me and the baby—I’m sure of it. Nine years ago I was afraid—I hadn’t enough faith in him. And there was my reputation to think of.”

“It truly means nothing to you anymore?”

“I wouldn’t say that. But it’s just not enough anymore. I gave Alex up once in order to salvage my good name. I’m not willing to make that sacrifice again.”

He squeezed her hand. Could he blame her? If his Violette were still alive, and he had the opportunity to be with her, would he remain here in this mockery of a marriage just for appearances?

“You do know,” she said hesitantly, “that my leaving this way means that Peverell will go to the Church. You won’t be able to stay here.”