Wild Wind (6 page)

“Nicolette has a little over a year to produce a son,” Milo called after him. “Or she loses Peverell.”

Alex paused, hands fisted at his side. Grudgingly he turned around. “You’re making no sense. Peverell belongs to her. She inherited it. You told me so yourself.”

“‘In a manner of speaking,’ I said.” Milo took another unsteady step in Alex’s direction. “My wife’s uncle was childless, you see, and he left a rather...complicated will—which Duke William approved, of course. There’s no way to contest it.”

“Get to the point.”

Milo licked his cracked lips. “Nicolette is not Henri de St. Clair’s heir. Her firstborn son is. By the terms of his will, she must produce a son by the ten-year anniversary of Henri’s death—that’s fifteen months from now—or forfeit Peverell to the Church. There’s an abbey in St. Clair which is to assume control.” He drew in a shaky breath. “We need a son, Alex.”

Alex felt as if his brain were swelling inside his skull. “And you expect me to sire him?”

“I’m afraid I’ve proven myself...unequal to the task.” Milo made his way back to the boulder and sat down, as limp as a rag doll that’s lost half its stuffing. “Not for want of trying—in the beginning, that is. When we were first married, I made a gallant effort to start a babe growing in her belly. ‘Twas a doomed enterprise, though, and one to which neither of us brought the slightest shred of enthusiasm. Do you want to know something?”

“Nay.” Alex turned his back, but he did not walk away.

“I could only rouse to her when I closed my eyes and imagined she was Violette.”

Squeezing his own eyes closed, Alex swept from his mind the disconcerting image of Milo diligently tupping Nicki, and thought instead of Violette, whom his cousin had loved since his youth. The daughter of a saddle-maker, she was too far beneath him for marriage, and uneducated to boot, but they were devoted to each other all the same. Alex remembered her easy laughter, much like Milo’s. The laughter ceased for a time when the babe she bore him, a girl, perished of a sudden fever within days of her birth. It ceased for good, Alex was told, after Milo married Nicki and left for Normandy.

“Then,” Milo said hoarsely, “about a year into my marriage, Peter wrote to me that Violette was dead.”

Alex turned to face his cousin, nonplussed to find Milo looking at him through a wavering sheen of tears.

“He said she died of a broken heart.” The tears spilled down Milo’s jaundiced cheeks; he didn’t seem to notice. “‘Twas the truth, but only part of it. I found out later she’d traded all the jewels I’d given her to some old crone for a vial of powdered hemlock root—” His voice broke.

“Milo,” Alex said gently, “don’t torment yourself with your memories.”

“They’re all I have left.” Milo rubbed away his tears and swallowed some more wine. “Or they soon will be, if Nicolette doesn’t produce an heir by October of next year. We’ll be homeless, Alex—homeless and destitute, both of us.”

“Milo, for God’s—”

“After Violette died,” Milo said, gazing at nothing with his yellowed, rheumy eyes, “I lost interest in everything, even making a son so we could keep Peverell. I drowned myself in wine. Thank God for Gaspar, or who knows what would have become of Peverell. When I finally tried to bed my wife again, ‘twas at her insistence. Not only was she desperate to produce the requisite heir to protect our rights to Peverell, but she’d always longed for children. Unfortunately, by the time I took up the cause again, I’d become incapable of performing.”

“The wine?” Alex asked.

“Aye, that, and...I kept dreaming of Violette, her shrouded body lying in the cold earth. Who knows? I just couldn’t. I was too ashamed to tell Nicolette the truth, though. I let her think it was her fault—that I found her unattractive.”

The notion was so absurd that Alex laughed, but with little humor. How could Milo have grown so weak and craven? Alex wanted to feel smugly gratified that Nicki had gotten herself bound in such sorry wedlock, but couldn’t summon up any pleasure in the situation.

“It’s been...I don’t know...six or seven years, since I even attempted my husbandly duty, knowing how futile it would be.” Milo was slurring his words again. “Time’s running out, though. We both know it, and we’re both terrified of what will become of us should we be forced to leave Peverell. Can you imagine me trying to provide for us in my condition?”

Alex honestly couldn’t.

“I began to entertain the hope that she’d take a lover and get with child from him. Unfortunately, she seems to be a paragon of marital fidelity. Finally I suggested it outright.”

“You didn’t.”

“Don’t underestimate my desperation, cousin. I presented it quite rationally—explained that our only hope was for another man to father a child for her. She was appalled, of course, and unwilling to compromise her marital vows. Begged me to try again, although she said she knew she repulsed me, if only for the sake of an heir.” Milo sighed and tilted the wineskin to his mouth. “I finally had to tell her the truth about my...inadequacy. ‘Twas a shock to her, of course, and quite sobering, but still she refused to let another man do that which I’d failed so miserably at. ‘Twould be dishonorable, she said.”

“Curious. I don’t think of honor as being a particularly feminine trait.” And certainly not a trait Alex would ascribe to Nicolette de St. Clair.

“Oh, she takes her marriage vows quite seriously,” Alex said with obvious contempt. “But mind you, it’s not just the sinfulness she’s concerned with, there’s her reputation as well. She’s very fretful about what people will think if she suddenly becomes pregnant after nine years without children. Damn that mother of hers for making her such a monster of respectability!”

“This is the first time,” Alex said, “that I can recall hearing a man bemoan his wife’s good character.”

Milo evidently had a mouthful of wine, because he choked on it. “Aye, well that good character of hers,” he gasped out, “might well be our undoing. Fat lot of good her fine qualities will do her—or me—if we end up begging in the streets.”

“That’s ridiculous. You can always go back to Périgeaux and live with Peter.”

“Never!” Milo proclaimed with startling vehemence. “Nothing could make me return to that house.”

“Easy.” Alex sauntered over to the tree and leaned against it again. The sun had set, drawing with it a dusky veil of twilight studded with innumerable winking stars, yet the heat was as oppressive as ever. The river lapped softly; frogs grunted the lazy chant of a summer evening. “If not Peter, then there must be relatives somewhere who’d take you in.”

“You don’t understand,” Milo spat out. “It’s not just Peter. I couldn’t bear living that way again, an interloper in someone else’s home, someone who’s tolerated—as long as he makes himself inconspicuous and submits to his host’s will in all things. At best, it’s like being a child under the rule of his parents. I may not be much of a man anymore, but at least I’ve got my own home, and I damn well intend to keep it.”

“Even at the expense of your wife’s honor?”

Milo sneered. “You sound like Nicolette. Claims to be just as anxious as I am to keep Peverell, but refuses to barter her precious virtue for it. She came up with some idiotic scheme to keep us on as stewards after the Church takes title, but—”

“Why is that idiotic?” Alex challenged. “Seems a sensible solution if the Church would agree to it.”

“‘Tis the abbot of St. Clair who’d have to agree to it, and he’s a spiteful gelding who feels that sots such as I are undeserving of such earthly rewards as Peverell.”

“The lady Nicolette must feel she can sway him.”

“She can’t. To the good Father Octavian, all women, especially beautiful ones, are but the Devil’s handmaidens. He’d never let us stay on, and even if he did, I hardly care to spend the rest of my life as a bloody caretaker for what I was once lord and master of. I’ve forbidden her to pursue the matter. ‘Twould do naught but compound our humiliation.”

“Well, then.” Alex shrugged. “Perhaps some convent would take in the lady Nicolette. And if you could accommodate yourself to monastic life—”

“Jesu!” Milo slammed his cane against the boulder. “If I had a spiritual bone in my body, I would have taken Holy Orders twenty years ago and avoided this whole bloody mess! You’re not listening to me, Alex. I won’t give up Peverell! Not while there’s a breath left in my body.”

Alex sighed. “Then I advise you to find yourself a nice little tin cup for collecting alms after you’ve been tossed out onto the street. The cane should prove helpful, but you might consider putting an eye out, or chopping off a limb or two.”

“How can you make light of my dilemma? Mine and Nicolette’s. She’ll be ruined same as me.”

“Come.” Alex crossed to his cousin and held out his hand. “Night is falling, and you’re soused. We’d best be getting back.”

Alex tried to help Milo off the boulder, but his cousin jerked out of his grip, throwing himself off balance. Grabbing him and standing him upright, Alex said, “Can you make it back all right?”

“I made it here, I’ll make it back.” The drunker Milo got, the slower his speech became. Alex supported him with a hand on his shoulder as they set off for the castle. “I’ll pay you a hundred marks.”

“What use have I of your money?”

“Does William the Bastard compensate his Lone Wolf so well for his services?”

“As a matter of fact, he does.” Since Alex refused to accept land, King William insisted on rewarding him with gold, and generously. He earned more in the recent Scottish campaign than the most capable mercenary might amass during an entire military career.

“I thought this all through, you know,” Milo said thickly. “And I was sure you’d help us. You were always willing to lend a hand, always ready to do the right thing.”

“That’s just it, Milo. What you’re asking is as wrong a thing as I can imagine.”

“Not if it saves two people from a life of penury and disgrace. You’ve got to help us, Alex. I’m pleading with you.”

“On the subject of disgrace,” Alex ventured, “aren’t you at all concerned with what people will think when your wife gets with child after nine barren years? Especially considering the inheritance situation.”

“Nobody knows about that.” He frowned. “Not many people, anyway.”

“Regardless. It won’t look good. People will suspect that the child isn’t yours.”

“Look at me, Alex. I’m well past the point of caring what people think of me.” Squeezing wine into his mouth, Milo veered drunkenly toward the edge of the path. It was all Alex could do to keep him walking in the right direction.

“Nicolette obviously cares.”

“She shouldn’t. A few tongues might wag—what of it? Most people won’t give a damn. There are bastards in every noble house. Look at your great William—Count Robert’s by-blow by a tanner’s daughter, and now both duke of Normandy and king of England!” He shook his head disgustedly. “Nicolette’s a fool. Peverell’s all she’s got, and this is the only way to save it. She shouldn’t be so uncooperative.”

“But she is, and therein lies your scheme’s fatal flaw. Even if I were to agree to it—and I assure you I won’t—your wife would never consent to let me...” Alex shook his head at the madness of this conversation. “It wouldn’t work.”

“Not if she knew what you were about. You’d have to keep your true purpose from her. You’d have to seduce her.”

“Seduce her. Without letting her know that I’m in league with you to get her pregnant.”

“Exactly.” Milo tripped over something in the dark. Alex righted him. “You can come visit us through Christmastide. That should give you enough time to plant a seed that will take—that’s all the time we’ve got, in any event. Once she’s with child, you may return to England and forget the entire thing—in fact, I’ll insist that you do.”

“Just ride away, leaving a pregnant woman behind.”

“You’ll have done her a favor, cousin—the greatest boon imaginable.”

“There’s yet another flaw,” Alex pointed out, envisioning again the glimmer of white silk against scarlet brocade. “Seduction takes two willing partners. If your lady wife is so virtuous, who’s to say she’ll cooperate?”

Milo’s teeth flashed in the dark. “If anyone can breach her defenses, you can. I’ve heard about your way with those English wenches. They say the Lone Wolf likes to spread his seed. Alex the Conqueror, some call you.”

Alex sighed. “I hadn’t heard that one.”

Milo chuckled raspily. “Quite a switch from the innocent young lad I knew in Périgeaux. As I recall, you’d little interest in the fairer sex.”

So, thought Alex. He doesn’t know about Nicki and me.

“All you cared about back then,” Milo continued, “was perfecting your skill with the sword—the one on your belt. The weapon between your legs had not yet been bloodied in battle, as far as I knew.”

“That’s why you chose me for this...service?” Alex demanded. “Because women have been known to lift their skirts for me?”

“They don’t seem to be able to help themselves, but that’s not the only reason. I told you—I’ve thought this all out carefully.” Within sight now of the castle now—a dark, turreted stone box rising against the night sky—Milo stopped in his tracks and turned to face Alex, who had to hold him up with both hands. Even in the semidarkness Alex could see how unfocused his cousin’s gaze was. His head shook like that of a jointed toy soldier.

“It doesn’t matter what your reasons are,” Alex said tiredly. “I won’t do it. Let’s get back so you can go to—”

“We’re of the same blood, you an’ I,” Milo said, enunciating slowly in an apparent effort to counteract his muddled speech. “Thas’ important. We look a bit alike, don’t you think? Or we used to—at least in coloring. The baby would be of de Périgeaux stock, and he’d look it, by God.”

“You’re wasting your time, Milo. Let’s go—”

“You’re unmarried,” Milo interrupted. “I wouldn’t ask this of a wedded man. They say you’ve no attachments, nor do you want any.”

“Nor do I want any children,” Alex pointed out.

“Precisely, which means it’s unlikely you’ll claim any that come from my wife.” Milo grinned blearily, clearly pleased with himself. “Thought it all out—I told you. Another thing—you live far away. You’re practically an Englishman now. You won’t be always about, inspiring bothersome speculation about who really sired Milo de St. Clair’s son.”