Wild Wind

by Patricia Ryan

  "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."

  "So you do care what people think."

  "I would spare Nicolette her cherished reputation if I could. 'Twill make everything simpler, in any event, if such conjecture is kept to a minimum. Legally, it makes no difference whether folks think he's legitimate or not. Henri's will merely stipulated that Nicolette must bear a son—it didn't specify whose."

  "Since you've thought this all out so well, tell me—what will you do if she gives birth to a daughter?"

  "Find some healthy newborn boy and negotiate a trade with his parents, I suppose. The baby girl and a handful of silver for their son and a promise to keep mum. Or, if Nicolette refuses to part with the girl, I'll simply buy a boy outright and claim she had twins."

  "You've become quite an unprincipled wretch, you know that, Milo?"

  "A man doesn't beg to be cuckolded without coming to that realization, cousin."

  "Well, unfortunately for you, my principles are still quite intact. I won't do it."

  "Not even for Nicolette?"

  "Especially not for her." Damn—that was careless.

  In a quiet, almost sober voice, Milo asked, "What is that supposed to mean?"

  A dozen different inane prevarications occurred to Alex, but he didn't have the stomach for any of them. Finally, on a heavy sigh, he said, "You'd best ask her."

  Milo nodded slowly, then turned and lurched toward the castle. Alex took hold of him and fairly dragged him through the entrance. By the time they reached the north tower, Milo's legs were buckling beneath him, and Alex wondered how he was going to get him upstairs to his chamber.

  Hearing footsteps from behind, Alex turned and saw Gaspar coming toward them. "There you are, milord! I was beginning to worry about you. Here, Sir Alex. Let me give you a hand with him." Squeezing three abreast in the narrow stairwell, Gaspar and Alex supported the insensible Milo between them and half-carried him up the steps. When they got to the door at the top of the tower, Alex knocked.

  "Milo?" Nicki called from within.

  Gaspar opened the door. "Aye, milady, but he's...oh. Beg pardon, milady."

  Nicki was seated on the edge of the bed, drawing a big ivory comb through her hair. She stood up quickly, and Alex saw that she wore the white sleeping shift that had been laid out for her. The shimmery silk highlighted her feminine contours and left her arms and lower legs completely bare.

  Alex averted his gaze, as did Gaspar—if not quite so swiftly—while Nicki grabbed a wrapper off a hook and hurriedly tied it over the shift. "Oh, Milo," she murmured, shaking her head. "Put him here." She folded down the bed covers.

  "I've got 'im." With seemingly little effort, Gaspar lifted Milo like a baby and deposited him on the bed. "You can be on your way, Sir Alex," he said over his shoulder as he tugged Milo's boots off. "I'm used to this."

  Circling the bed, Nicki leaned over Milo to unbuckle his belt, her great swath of golden hair gleaming in the light from the horn lantern dangling overhead. She slid the belt beneath her husband's inert form, tossed it aside and set about wrestling him out of his tunic.

  Pausing in her task, she raised her head and met Alex's steady gaze, her eyes enormous in the mellow lamplight. "Thank you for your help," she said softly, "but Gaspar and I can handle the rest."

  Alex withdrew from the room and sprinted down the steps, but lingered at the bottom of the stairwell, uneasy to have left Gaspar up there with Nicki. Absurd; he was a trusted retainer. Yet something about the way he'd looked at her in her night shift had raised Alex's hackles. Within a minute, however, he heard the big man's heavy tread on the stairs, and feeling very much the fool, retired to his pallet in the great hall.

  * * *

  Alex knocked softly on the door to the guest chamber allotted to Luke and his family. It was late—nearly matins—and he didn't want to awaken the children.

  The door squeaked on its hinges and Faithe peered out, cradling baby Edlyn in one arm and holding a candle aloft. "Alex." She opened it all the way and stepped aside for him to enter, whispering, "What are you doing up at this time of night?"

  It was obvious what she was doing up, for her voluminous night shift was untied to allow Edlyn to suckle. Setting down the candle, she draped a linen towel over her exposed breast, but in an leisurely way that implied no sense of shame. Alex liked it that she felt so at ease with him, as friends should. How very remarkable to have a woman for a friend. How fortunate for both of the brothers de Périgeaux that Luke had married Faithe of Hauekleah.

  "I'm looking for something to drink," Alex said—very softly, so as not to awaken the others. The small chamber held—just barely—a bed, a pallet, and the cradle and trunk they'd brought with them. Luke lay facedown in his drawers on one side of the bed, an arm dangling off the edge, his inky hair loose and disheveled. Robert and Hlynn shared the pallet—rather unequally, for the little girl was stretched out luxuriously, with her brother curled up on the edge. All of them were coated with a sheen of sweat; it hadn't cooled down much after sunset.

  "Can't you sleep?" Faithe asked him.

  "Nay. 'Tis hot as blazes in that hall." What little air crept through the arrow slits was kept steamy from the body heat of the hundred or so other men obliged to bed down there. Alex's wool chausses itched unmercifully. Even his shirt felt oppressive, despite his having untied it halfway down his chest and rolled up the sleeves. In truth, it wasn't just the heat keeping him awake, but this was hardly the time or place to unburden himself. "Luke has some fortified wine, doesn't he? I tried the buttery, but it's locked."

  "Little wonder, with all these soldiers about." Faithe slid a finger into Edlyn's mouth to release her hold on the breast, and adjusted her gown to cover herself. The baby yawned, little fists quivering, as milk trickled down her chin. Arranging the towel over her shoulder, Faithe burped the infant with a few efficient pats and laid her gently in the cradle. Free at last of her sweet burden, she stepped over the pallet so that she could kneel before the trunk in the corner.

  "Sorry to be such a bother," Alex said.

  "You're not a bother." She opened the lid of the trunk, which creaked, causing Robert to awaken with a groan of protest. "I take that back." She smiled in a resigned way as she rooted through the contents of the trunk.

  "Hlynn's taking up the whole pallet," the boy whined.

  Faithe sighed. "They've been at this all night." To her son she said, "I'll move her in a—"

  "Move over, piglet!" Robert shoved his little sister aside, roughly awakening her.

  "Mummy! Robby hit me."

  "Did not. I just—"

  "Not again," Luke groaned. "Quiet, both of you! Go back to sleep."

  "But, Papa." Hlynn grabbed at her father's dangling arm. "Robby—"

  "I don't care what he did. It's hot. I just want you two to stop this nonsense so we can all get some..." Lifting his head, Luke blinked at his brother. "What are you doing here?"

  "I'm trying to talk Faithe into running away with me."

  Luke settled back
down and closed his eyes. "Take the children, too."

  Faithe retrieved a leather flask and closed the trunk. As she stepped back across the pallet, she said, "The next child who speaks tonight will eat nothing tomorrow but bread and broth. No sweetmeats of any kind. No herb cakes. No fruit tarts. No marzipan anythings, I don't care how clever. Do you both understand me?"

  They nodded dolefully, glowered at each other, and settled down facing in opposite directions.

  "You can sleep in here if you'd like," Faithe offered, prompting Alex to snort with laughter. This was no better than the great hall.

  Accepting the flask of strong wine, he said, "Thanks all the same, but this castle's an oven. I've got to get out of here."

  "You're going to sleep out of doors?"

  "Luke and I found an old longship this afternoon on the bank of the Robec. It has the advantage of no roof. If a cool breeze happens to pass through Rouen tonight, I'll be ready for it."

  "Clever you," she said, and bid him good night.

  By the time Alex arrived at the boat, he was drunker than he'd been in years, having methodically drained the flask as he walked.

  He should have stayed in England. England didn't have heat like this—not often, anyway, and never in the middle of the night, for pity's sake. More important, England did not have Nicolette.

  Setting the half-empty flask with inebriated care on an oarsman's bench, he stripped and went for a swim, grateful for the chance to cool off. Afterward he donned his loose linen drawers, but wadded up the shirt and woolen hose and shoved them in the crook where the hull met the bench, a sort of pillow.

  His money pouch lay on the deck of the boat where it had fallen when he undressed. He retrieved it and, on impulse, dug around in it until he found, at the very bottom, something he'd put there nine years ago and never removed.

  It was a ribbon, a slender band of white satin which had once, in another lifetime, been woven through the hair of Nicolette de St. Clair. Finding it creased and wrinkled from its long confinement beneath heavy coins, he stretched it out on the bench and flattened it with his palms. It looked to be perhaps a yard and a half in length.