"I...gather the rose from the...thorn," Alex said, little frown lines etched deeply between the black slashes of his brows, "the...gold?" He tilted the book toward Nicki, reclining next to him; she nodded. "The gold from the earth, the pearl from the...well, I suppose it must be 'oyster.' What else would one gather a pearl from?"
He showed her the book again. "Oyster," Nicki said.
A warm breeze fluttered his hair and made his shirt ripple over the solid planes of his shoulders and chest. There was something about this virile, scarred soldier concentrating so diligently over his studies that made her ridiculously happy. He'd shown uncommon progress in the three weeks since their lessons had commenced. Nicki ached with pride for him.
"Shall the...plowman?"
Nicki nodded.
"Shall the plowman plow all day? Shall he not also enjoy the...fruit of his...labor?" Looking up, Alex caught her eye. "Are you sure this is about sex?"
She laughed. "Read on."
Grinning, he said, "You misled me just to make me read it. It's about...roses and pearls and—"
"Read. On."
Sighing grumpily, he stretched out on his side facing her. "Where was I? Ah. Wedlock is the more..." He spun the book around, pointing.
"Honored."
"...honored when the fruit of wedlock is the more...loved. Why, mother, grudge your daughter her...virginity?" Alex cocked an eyebrow. "What the devil is that supposed to mean?"
Nicki took the book from him and picked up the train of St. Jerome's thoughts a few lines down. "Are you vexed with her because she chooses to wed not a soldier but a king?"
Alex's amusement seemed to vanish. "Don't tell me this is a treatise about the folly of marrying soldiers. Well, of course, if one could have king instead—"
"Milo's right," Nicki said, giggling. "You're so terribly literal."
"You mean ignorant."
"No!" She sat up. "No, I mean exactly what I said. You're literal. You see things for what they are, right there on the surface, instead of digging for all kinds of hidden meanings and secret messages. You're so honest and forthright yourself that you expect everyone else to be the same way."
"Once I did," he said quietly. Before Nicki could respond to that, he picked up the book. "So, what did St. Jerome mean about being vexed because your daughter chooses to wed a king?"
"The king," Nicki elaborated. "The king of kings. Christ."
"Ah." Alex sat up, his eyes sparking. "He's saying you should rejoice if your daughter becomes a nun—a bride of Christ."
Nicki nodded. "Because she'll remain a virgin. He discouraged marriage for the same reason."
"He must have been mad," Alex said. "Marriage is a sacred union."
"Not to St. Jerome—unless the husband and wife don't sleep together."
"Who'd put up with a marriage like that?"
Nicki felt heat rising in her face. "Sometimes one has no choice."
"Sorry," Alex murmured. "I meant voluntarily. It may be heresy, but if this is the type of thing St. Jerome believed, he sounds very much like a raving lunatic."
"His views were extreme, I suppose, but I see his point. One should learn to master one's...baser drives, not be forever at the mercy of them." If only Nicki could put into practice what she espoused. Her mother was right; she was weak about matters of the flesh, as demonstrated by her ill-fated affair with Phillipe. If further proof was needed, there was her adulterous love for Alex, a passion so unruly that she ached with the strain of containing it. Every day she rejoiced in his nearness, his warm scent, his all-seeing gaze, his raspy-deep voice. And every night, God help her, she lay awake consumed by unholy yearnings, imagining him on top of her, inside her, one with her.
Alex was shaking his head. "Sex is a joyous act—or it should be, especially between husband and wife, because then it's sanctioned by God. And were it not for sex, no children would come into the world, and then where would we be?"
Nicki plucked at the blanket on which they sat, contemplating the predicament her own childlessness had landed her in, and the scheme she'd come up with for remaining at Peverell despite the lack of an heir. Last month, when Alex first came here, she would never have dreamed of confiding in him, but since her illness a fortnight past, she'd felt differently. They'd grown closer, although Périgeaux still weighed heavily between them and she suspected they would never regain the emotional intimacy they'd known then. But then, such intimacy would be wrong, given that she was wed to another. Alex had heeded her wishes—her threat, really—and suspended his amorous attentions, a relief inasmuch as she doubted her ability to resist him indefinitely.
She cleared her throat. "Has Milo told you we may lose Peverell?"
For some reason, Alex hesitated uneasily. "Aye."
Nicki nodded; she thought so. "Did he tell you why?"
Alex rubbed the back of his neck. "Aye."
She touched his hand, the first she'd done so since Gaspar caught them holding hands two weeks ago. "Can I trust you, Alex?"
He closed his fingers over hers. "Of course."
"If I tell you something in strictest confidence, you won't reveal it, even to Milo?"
"Not if you don't want me to."
She took a deep breath. "Because what I'm going to tell you would make Milo very angry. He's forbidden me to..." She shook her head. "I'm getting ahead of myself."
"Does this have to do with keeping Peverell?"
"Aye." Nicki tightened her grip of his hand. "We're to be cast away from here in fourteen months unless I produce an heir—which, of course, is impossible."
To her surprise, Alex withdrew his hand from hers, raking it through his hair. It almost seemed as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't.
"So, we're bound to relinquish the castellany. I can live with that—Milo hasn't ever really been a true castellan—but I can't give up Peverell. You may think the castle is old and gloomy, and I suppose it is, but it's my home, mine and Milo's. We have nowhere else to go."
"You have a plan?" Alex asked.
"I want the Church to appoint Milo and me stewards of Peverell. Father Octavian, the abbot of St. Clair, would have to sign a document granting us the stewardship, and he's...a bit difficult to deal with. The only person who seems to get along with him is my friend, Brother Martin, Octavian's prior. I visited him two weeks ago, against Milo wishes—"
"The day you went marketing in St. Clair."
"Aye—my true purpose was to talk to Brother Martin. I had tried to arrange an interview with Father Octavian to discuss the disposition of Peverell, but he wouldn't even see me. He said a woman had no business meddling in such affairs. So I went to Brother Martin and asked him to present my case to Father Octavian. He said he'd see what he could do, but that it might take time to get Octavian accustomed to the idea, and that I should come back in a fortnight to see if he'd had any success."
"So you're due for a visit to the monastery."
"I'm going tomorrow morning. I thought perhaps you'd consider canceling your swordsmanship lesson and accompanying me."
His gaze turned penetrating. "Why?"
She shrugged. "It does make me uncomfortable to take long trips unescorted. Bandits prowl the woods."
"Is that the only reason?"
She looked away, suddenly overcome by shyness. "I suppose I wouldn't mind your company."
When she looked back at him, he was smiling. "I don't suppose I'd mind yours, either."
* * *
That evening, a pair of traveling minstrels stopped at Peverell on their way to the ducal court at Rouen. Milo offered them supper and sleeping accommodations in the great hall in return for the evening's entertainment, which they cheerfully agreed to, erecting a little portable stage at the far end of the hall from Milo's bed. Alex and Nicki sat on a bench near Milo, while the soldiers, including Gaspar, watched from the tables at which they had supped.
Alex was grateful for this respite from his usual routine of draughts with the soldiers after suppe
r, and at first he found the two performers—brothers from Brittany, one enormous and one small—diverting enough. The big fellow had a tiny dog that jumped through hoops. His brother juggled knives and ate live coals out of the hearth—or appeared to. But their musical offerings—a series of interminable chansons de geste—left much to be desired. The smaller man played the harp passably well, but his brother sang like a wounded bear. One chanson—about King Artus of Brittany and his Knights of the Round Table—struck Alex as curiously similar to a tale he'd heard many times in England. Others—about the Trojan War, Charlemagne, and of course, Roland—were long-winded and uninspired, a fact lost on most of the soldiers, who applauded each song enthusiastically.
The only benefit to Alex of enduring this tedious performance was that he got to sit right next to Nicki—to breathe in her fragrance and listen to her occasional laughter, and sometimes to look at her. She wore a white silken gown embroidered with gold tonight, her hair concealed by an airy veil secured beneath a golden circlet. Sapphires dangled from her ears, encircled her slender throat. She was luminous, exquisite.
He shouldn't take such pleasure in her nearness, shouldn't idealize her like some dreamy, lovestruck youth. He wouldn't, he'd decided, if he weren't so blasted randy every hour of every blasted day. All this thinking about seducing her, combined with the difficulty of following through, had escalated his sexual frustration to a level he'd never experienced before.
Alex's impetus to bed Nicki had as much to do now with his own ungovernable needs as with that damned oath Milo had made him swear. He needed sex, and he needed it with Nicki. His desire had taken on her image, her scent, her shape. No one else would do.
Seducing her had proved to be a heroic challenge. With some measure of grim humor, Alex contemplated the conundrum that had ensnared him. He couldn't hope to win Nicki's affections—and favors—unless he spent time alone with her. But if he became too familiar with her during their isolated afternoons together, she would refuse to be alone with him.
On the one hand, this past fortnight had been rather maddening, with Alex struggling to keep his distance from Nicki while trying to reawaken the intimacy they had once shared. On the other, he could not remember ever having been as carelessly content as he was in her company. There was something about being near her that set him at ease, even while it stirred his blood.
You shouldn't let her stir your blood, for pity's sake. You should do whatever it takes to get her to raise her skirts for you, and when it's done, you should ride away grateful to never see her again. Nor should he waste tears of penitence over the matter. Nine years ago she had used him to snare Milo. Now, he would use her—to assuage his lust and fulfill his oath. Where was the evil in that?
Last week, Milo had asked him point blank if he'd lain with Nicki yet. When Alex admitted his lack of success, his cousin informed him that Gaspar knew of the "arrangement" and was mightily displeased about it—one more vexing complication.
Of course, there was always the chance that Nicki's petition for stewardship would meet with Father Octavian's favor. She seemed to think there was a chance of this, and Alex had no reason to doubt her. If she and Milo could remain at Peverell without producing the required heir, there would be no need for Alex to seduce her—a mixed blessing. No longer would he have to deal with his uneasiness over finessing her into bed at her husband's behest, but nor would he get to make love to her. And making love to Nicki was simply all he wanted anymore; he longed for her with an intensity that staggered him. Sometimes he thought he'd go mad if he didn't have her soon.
Everyone was applauding, so Alex joined in. Nicki yawned as she clapped. The larger of the two minstrels noticed this. "I see milady grows weary of battles and bloodshed," he intoned across the hall. "What say you to a tale of the heart—a poignant romance which has brought tears to ladies' eyes for generations?"
Milo groaned, muttering into his goblet, "Not Tristan and Isolde."
"The timeless legend of Tristan and Isolde," the minstrel announced, "has been told a thousand times..."
"And I've been there every single time," Milo grumbled, handing the goblet to Nicki and struggling to sit upright. "I say," he called out feebly, his voice thick with drink; the great hall quieted so that he could be heard. "If it's a tragic love story you want, my lady wife has penned one herself that rivals any in your repertoire, I'll wager."
"Milo, no!" Nicki whispered, grabbing his arm.
"'Tis a poem called 'The Thorny Rose,'" Milo said, shaking Nicki off. "And I daresay my men would enjoy hearing it again."
"No, Milo, please!" she begged, but her husband ignored her. If Alex wasn't mistaken, 'The Thorny Rose' was the poem she'd torn out of his hand that first evening in the solar.
"No doubt it's an exquisite piece of verse," the big man said, "but alas, I don't know it."
"Our Sir Marlon can sing it." Milo nodded to the troubadour knight, a tall fellow of middle years who rose and strode toward the stage. "I'm sure you and your brother would appreciate the opportunity for a bit of rest and a cup of claret."
The minstrels bowed. "As you wish, milord."
"Have him sing something else," Nicki whispered to Milo. "I don't want to hear that one."
"But it's my favorite," Milo said. "Shh...he's about to start."
The only sound in the great hall was the popping and settling of the logs in the hearth behind Alex. No one moved or spoke as Sir Marlon closed his eyes and began to sing. He had a beautiful voice, smooth and deep and melodious. "Within the earth's most secret womb, A maiden and a soldier meet, While far above them roses bloom, Trembling in the summer heat."
Alex turned to find Nicki staring rigidly ahead, her hands fisted in the skirt of her tunic.
"Hand in hand, like bride and groom," Marlon sang, "Two souls unite with joy replete, Sheltered in this holy room, This ancient cave, so cool and deep."
Nicki closed her eyes, as if in pain; her throat moved. Alex's heart swelled in his chest until he could barely breathe.
"The maiden's love is so complete, A perfect rose with fair perfume, To treacherous thorns she pays no heed, They'll do their damage all too soon."
Abruptly Nicki rose, mumbled something to Milo, and strode swiftly toward the turret. Milo met Alex's gaze and shrugged, as if to say, "What's gotten into her?" Gaspar, sitting with his men, watched Nicki disappear into the stairwell, glanced briefly at Alex, and returned his attention to Marlon.
Alex fought the impulse to follow her, knowing how it would look and cursing the need to bow to propriety at a time like this. Marlon sang on, describing the maiden's love for her young soldier. She thought of him when the sun rose in the morning and when it set at night. Frequently her sleep was disturbed by dreams of longing for him, although he had never more than held her hand. While they were apart, she was an incomplete girl pretending to be whole. Perhaps she was mad to be so consumed by love for a man who could offer no marriage vow, no home, no future, but it was a sweet madness, and one she was powerless to resist.
"Christ," Alex whispered. For nine long years, Alex had assumed Luke was right—that Nicki had merely used him to capture Milo. He couldn't have been more wrong.
"Alex?" Milo frowned in evident puzzlement. He glanced at the doorway through which his wife had departed, and back at Alex.
Alex listened in a daze to the rest of it—the shameful secret the maiden harbored, her betrothal to another, the young couple's anguish, the soldier's desperate but futile plea for her to run away with him...the things she wished to God she could tell him.
In the song's final verse, a bride and groom stand on the chapel steps under a harsh morning sun exchanging vows, both deeply in love with others, but compelled for reasons of their own to wed. The bride has tucked a dainty little wild rose—one of several the soldier had picked for her their last afternoon together—beneath her bodice, next to her heart. Its petals caress her flesh, recalling a passion that will forever burn in her breast, while its thorns serve as a b
itter reminder that the one great love of her life is lost to her. From this day forward, her very soul will be incomplete.
Deeply shaken, Alex did not join in the thunderous applause that filled the great hall when the song was over. Nicki hadn't wanted him to hear her bittersweet tale, he realized. She'd fled in mortification, ashamed of the feelings she'd unwillingly exposed.
Milo studied Alex with a remarkably astute gaze, given his inebriation. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it, looking very sad.
"Milo..." Alex began, but no words came to him.
Milo nodded. "I should have known."
Alex stood. "I have to go to her."
"Go." With a quavering arm, Milo reached for his goblet.
Mindful of how tongues would wag if he went racing up the stairs to the solar, Alex descended to his own chamber and then sprinted up the service stairwell. His chest was heaving by the time he reached the topmost landing.
He opened the door, finding the solar completely dark. At first he thought she must not be here, for surely she would have lit a lantern. But then he saw her, a dark form standing in front of an open window, facing the night sky, her veil clutched in her fist. Her hair spilled in a river of gold down her back.
He crossed to her, his heart pounding. She didn't hear him until he was directly behind her, and then she spun around to face him.
Her eyes were enormous in the moonlight. Tears glistened on her cheeks, making his heart constrict. "Nicki..."
She ducked her head and tried to turn around, but he seized her shoulders and held her still. "I love you, Nicki," he whispered hoarsely.
She stared up at him, her eyes shimmering wetly. Her veil fluttered to the rushes.
"I loved you then, and I love you now, to the depths of my soul."
She closed her eyes, fresh tears spilling from them. "Oh, God."
"Don't cry." He took her damp face between his hands. "Please don't cry. I swear to God, Nicki, I love you. I do." He pressed his lips to her cheek, salty-sweet. "Don't cry. Don't cry." He kissed her forehead, her eyelids. An agonizing gladness welled within him; it squeezed his throat, stung his eyes. "Don't cry."
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