Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “A soldier traveling without a weapon?”

  “They weren’t permitted in the monastery.”

  “Monastery?”

  “The abbey at St. Albans. Luke spent the past two months there. I thought you knew.”

  “Nay. Why did he… was he doing penance?”

  Alex hesitated, then finally said, “‘Tis best you ask him yourself.”

  “I can’t ask him. I hardly know him.”

  He grinned. “You hardly know me.”

  “Aye, but you’re so easy to talk to, and he’s…”

  “The Black Dragon,” Alex finished.

  Faithe nodded.

  “Not in here,” he said softly, touching his chest. “He came right up to the Saxon with the mallet—right up to him—with his arms held wide, shouting, ‘Over here! Take me on, you bastard!’” Alex smiled a little sheepishly. “Pardon the language, my lady.”

  “It’s ‘Faithe,’” she reminded him, returning his smile. “Did Hengist—the fellow with the mallet—did he attack your brother?”

  “Of course. He turned and swung that godforsaken thing, but Luke ducked and rolled beneath it, then grabbed my sword out of my hand and ran the whoreson—sorry—ran the gentleman through.”

  Faithe let out her breath in a gust.

  “I don’t remember anything after that,” he said.

  “That must be when you got hit in the head with that rock. Vance gave it one last shot, and then they both fled. Your brother stayed behind to help you rather than go after them.”

  “You see?” Alex grinned smugly. “He’s a good man.”

  “He’s a good man to you. He’s been a bad man to many others.”

  Alex scowled. “He’s a soldier. He’s supposed to do bad things. That’s his vocation.”

  Having no answer for that, she unstoppered the jug and poured some of the dark, fragrant infusion into a cup. “This will ease your fever. Can you sit up?”

  He did so, making a face. “I hate the taste of tonics.”

  “You’ll like this one.” She stirred a generous dollop of honey into the cup and brought it to her nose to inhale its tart-sweet aroma, then handed it to him.

  He sniffed it suspiciously, then blew on it and took a small sip. His expression lightened, and he drank some more. “It’s good! What is it?”

  “Balm tea, of a sort.” She poured a cup for herself, simply to enjoy its lemony warmth, and settled down in the rushes next to him. “‘Twill cool you down and help you to sleep, so you can heal. You should be on your feet in a few days, assuming you stay on that pallet and stop wandering around.”

  He shrugged as he sipped the hot brew. “It’s hard just to lie there and do nothing. I get bored.”

  “Would you like me to read to you?”

  He blinked. “You have a book?”

  “I have four,” she proudly stated, setting aside her cup and rising to cross to the locked chest in the corner. “A book of the gospels, a herbal, Aesop’s Fables, and a book of Frankish poetry.”

  “I’d like to hear some of the fables, I think.”

  She pulled her key chain from beneath her nightgown and unlocked the chest. “Fables it is.”

  *

  LUKE EASED OPEN the front door of Hauekleah Hall as quietly as he could, to avoid disturbing Alex. He was sleeping, Luke saw, and sitting at his side, cross-legged in the rushes, was Lady Faithe.

  She had her back to Luke and didn’t appear to hear him come in. Slipping inside, he silently closed the door, but made no move to walk farther into the hall; the rushes would crackle underfoot, announcing his presence, and he wanted to watch her unobserved for a few moments.

  Watch her and listen to her, for she was speaking, quietly, despite that his brother, the only other person there, was oblivious to her. Her voice, soft and high, drifted across the huge hall to him like a breeze across a meadow, and within a few moments he recognized her words; she was telling the story of “The Fox and the Grapes”—in Latin! A movement of her hand caught his eye. He heard the muted crackle of parchment and noticed the book in her lap for the first time.

  He rubbed his beard-roughened jaw. So. His little English goose girl not only spoke French and Latin, but could read as well—and better than he could, from the sound of it. She must have had lessons, and taken them more seriously than Luke had taken his.

  Lady Faithe still wore her hair in the braid he’d plaited for her, although it sprouted numerous wispy strands that had come loose. She wore white linen night clothes, through which the fire from the hearth glowed, giving her a radiant, otherworldly aura.

  He stood by the door and listened to her as she read. At one point she yawned, raising a graceful hand to her mouth and lowering it, without interrupting the hypnotic cadence of her reading. All her movements were like that, Luke reflected, without artifice but elegant nonetheless, a refinement born of economy.

  She was refined, he realized with a shock. Despite her humble attire and earthy nature, she was a person of breeding, civilized and educated. He’d envisioned something quite different before he’d met her. True, he’d mistakenly anticipated jewels and furs—she was, after all, a chatelaine, and even the Saxon nobility dressed the part—but he hadn’t expected much of the person who wore them. Indeed, he’d formed a mental image of a coarse, uncultured creature done up in a lady’s finery. What he’d gotten was quite the opposite, and he found himself pleased by the turnaround.

  She was quite a contrast to the general run of Saxons—a decidedly uncivilized people. That assessment had been confirmed by what he’d seen in the woods tonight. If they celebrated May Day by fornicating out of doors, what other pagan rituals did they cling to? His mind conjured up blue-painted savages howling at the moon, then offering some hapless Norman to one of their forest gods in a human sacrifice.

  Luke shook his head to dispel the absurd image. The English were Christians. They worshiped the same God he did, obeyed the same Roman pope. But why, then, did they persist in bringing in spring with this barbaric practice? There was much he needed to learn about these people—his people now—and who better to teach him than his bride, who seemed to have one foot in civilization and one in the primitive world of her ancestors.

  Lady Faithe concluded her story and closed her book. She chuckled softly, apparently having discovered that the man she was reading to had fallen asleep. Setting the thin volume on a bench, she rose onto her knees to lay her hand on Alex’s chest. The pose allowed the firelight to silhouette her body through her gauzy linen garments. Her waist was surprisingly narrow, a fact not evident from the baggy kirtle she’d worn earlier. The contrast of that slender waist with the feminine roundness of her hips incited an innate masculine urge—the instinct to possess, to penetrate.

  Luke took a step forward, but she was shifting position, so she didn’t hear him. Leaning over Alex, she touched his cheek, then his forehead. One breast, full and round and clearly outlined by the flames, swayed slightly as she moved. He could just make out the delicate peak of a nipple, and felt a hot spark of lust at the sight.

  He’d been fighting a low hum of arousal all the way back from the woods. What he’d seen there had astounded him, yet he’d also felt an element of lurid fascination that heated his blood. As he watched the Lady Faithe tending to his brother, unaware of Luke’s probing gaze, that heat took shape and chose a target, like a crossbow bolt aimed at its quarry.

  She was his—their overlord had promised her to him—but he’d best wait until their wedding night to claim her. Not that she’d necessarily reject him if he pressed the issue now—but she might. She might be outraged by his presumption—after all, she was a lady, and presumably a lady of virtue—or she might simply lie down and spread her legs for him. He couldn’t begin to imagine her response. She was an enigma to him, this delicate young widow with her Aesop and her herbs and her bawdy sense of humor.

  As Luke watched, Lady Faithe braced her hands on either side of Alex’s head, leaned down, and kissed
him on the forehead.

  Shock vanquished Luke’s ardor, reheating his blood to a furious boil. She’d kissed his brother—kissed him! He’d seen it with his own eyes.

  He stalked toward her like a beast after its prey, crushing rushes and flowers underfoot, his hands curled in soldierly readiness at his sides. Heat pulsed behind his eyes. She’d kissed his brother. She’d kissed Alex!

  She looked up as he approached, startled at first, and then wary. His face must have reflected his simmering rage. He saw a flash of fear in her eyes, and then the light of realization as she glanced first at Alex and then back at Luke.

  Schooling her features, she stood, chin valiantly raised, hands clutching her linen wrapper. Its sash had come loose, exposing the shift beneath. Between the cushions of her breasts hung the long golden chain with its cluster of keys, a symbol of her authority, which she evidently never took off.

  He stopped inches from her, glowering down; she had to crane her neck to look at him. Before he could speak, she said, quietly, in her own tongue, “I was gauging his fever with my lips.”

  Luke narrowed his gaze, seeking the truth in her eyes. She accepted this scrutiny with unblinking equanimity.

  Turning away from her, he squatted down and laid the back of his hand on his brother’s forehead, finding it cool. “He has no fever.” He spoke in French, a deliberate reminder of his dominion over her and her estate. For years he’d longed to settle down to a life of farming, a good life, a life without bloodshed. Now he had his chance. Hauekleah was his, or soon would be. She was his. Her world was his. Her body was his. Her land and villeins and livestock all belonged to him. They would live by his rules, now and forever. And as a mark of their fealty, they would speak his language, at least in his presence.

  She squared her shoulders, but answered him calmly, in her remarkably good French. “He did have a fever. I gave him some balm tea to lower it.” She handed Luke a cup. “We’d best not discuss this here. Your brother will wake up.”

  “Nothing wakes up Alex.” Luke sniffed the dark liquid cooling in the bottom of the cup, as if that might allay his suspicions. He smelled lemon balm and honey and something else he couldn’t identify.

  He stood with his back to her, staring into the cup. “I never heard of measuring a fever that way.”

  Rushes rustled as she took a step toward him. “‘Tis a trick I learned in the convent where I grew up.”

  “You were raised in a convent?” That would account for her learning.

  “My mother died giving birth to me, my father when I was six. Orrik convinced my overlord that it was best for the nuns to raise me. There was one, Sister Beatrix. She used to nurse me in the infirmary when I was ill. If I felt hot, she’d press her lips to my forehead to determine how bad the fever was.”

  She came around to face him, lifting the cup from his hand. Her fingers brushed his, sending hot chills up his arm and into his chest. “And then she’d give me balm tea.” Burying her nose in the cup, she closed her eyes and inhaled. A smile of pure, transfixed delight spread across her face. “How I loved it. It always brought my fever down, and then I’d sleep. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, I’d feel a kind of soft tickle on my forehead, and I’d half awaken and know Sister Beatrix was checking up on me. And then I’d fall back asleep again, content that I was being cared for and all was well with the world.”

  Luke wondered what she’d looked like as a child. His mind formed a picture of a delicate girl with flushed cheeks, asleep in bed. Unexpectedly, he felt a wild, nearly overpowering urge to gather her up and hold her close. Instead, he took a step back. God knew what he’d do once he had her in his arms.

  He felt very much the fool for having assumed the worst. His reaction had been automatic, unthinking, fueled by what he’d seen in the woods and possibly by jealousy over watching her minister so tenderly to his brother. Absurdly, he wished he could be in Alex’s place. He’d gladly trade those hideous wounds for the chance to feel her solicitous hands on his body, her lips on his brow.

  You’ll feel those things and more, soon enough. Patience.

  She smiled up at him, a mischievous light dancing in her eyes. “This afternoon you accused me of trying to kill your brother. Just now you thought I wanted to kiss him. Is it so hard to believe that I merely want to help him?”

  “Why would you want to help a Norman soldier?”

  Her smiled faded. “He’s to be my brother by marriage.” She examined the cup in her hand with a thoughtful expression, and then looked up guardedly. “And you’re to be my husband. I’ve little affection for your kind. How could it be otherwise, after—” She bit her lip, cutting off what undoubtedly would have been a litany of Norman sins against her and her people. “But I’ve no illusions about soldiering. You and Alex have merely served your sovereign as my husband served his. My quarrel is with William of Normandy, not the brothers de Périgueux.”

  “Graciously spoken. Yet I’m sure it won’t be easy for you and your people, accommodating yourselves to a Norman master.”

  That devilish little smile of hers returned. “‘Twill be harder by far for you, my lord, getting used to our Saxon ways.”

  The scenes Luke had encountered in the woods bombarded his mind’s eye—a mosaic of carnal images. “After what I saw out there tonight, I can’t help but agree with you.”

  Spots of pink bloomed on her cheeks. “I should have explained that to you earlier.”

  “How could one explain such a thing?” One image took focus in Luke’s mind—the first couple he’d come upon, clearly visible in the light of the full moon. The man had the woman against a tree, her legs around his waist, his braies at his ankles, groaning as he pounding into her. She wore white night clothes, such as the Lady Faithe had on, and clawed at her lover’s shirt, gasping in the time to his thrusts, her head thrown back.

  The memory—and Lady Faithe’s closeness, her warmth and sweetly mysterious scent—stirred his loins. He quickly backed away from her, turning and raking his hands through his unbound hair, which made the knot on his upper arm pulse with pain. “This is a savage country,” he said, “with savage customs.”

  Again he heard her approach from behind. Folks normally kept their distance from him, but Faithe of Hauekleah appeared to be the exception. “We’re not savage,” she said, “just different from what you’re used to.”

  “We?” He spun around. “Have you ever…” His imagination substituted her face for that of the woman in the white nightgown, getting tupped against that tree, and he felt a rush of desire mingled with revulsion.

  “Nay. I spent my youth in a convent and was married at sixteen. Caedmon thought it unseemly for us to—”

  “Caedmon?”

  “My husband. He’d been brought up in Worcester, and the custom struck him as…”

  “Barbaric?”

  She stiffened her back. “These are people of the land, celebrating a time of rebirth. Their lives revolve around the seasons. They’ve survived another winter, and they want to celebrate it with an act of release—an act of procreation.”

  A thoughtful rationale, he had to concede. Every culture had its customs, and all people harbored an animal side that strained for release; who knew this better than he? And he couldn’t deny the primitive appeal of a night of unleashed passions. Still… “Where I come from, such acts are conducted in private.”

  “We’re a rustic people, my lord,” she said gravely, “a simple people. But we share the same values as the rest of Christendom. We know right from wrong, and we try to be good. I hope, in time, you can come to accept us for what we are.”

  She spoke with such heartfelt sincerity that Luke was disposed to reassure her, at least to some extent. “I did not come here thinking to transform your people into something they’re not,” he said. “All I ask is their fidelity, and in return I’ll make every attempt to tolerate their ways.”

  Her entire being seemed to light up from within. “I’m gratified to hear that
, my lord.”

  “I do demand their allegiance, though,” he felt compelled to add. “I want that understood. They don’t have to like me, and undoubtedly many will despise me, but I won’t tolerate disloyalty.”

  “They won’t despise you,” she said, “unless you do despicable things. My people hate Normans in general because they’ve stolen our kingdom from us, but it’s difficult to hate a person who treats you well and fairly. Be good to them. Spend the days between now and the wedding showing them what a just and fair master you’ll be, and by the time you’re lord of Hauekleah—”

  “We’re to be married tomorrow,” he said.

  She stared at him.

  “I’d assumed you knew. Didn’t Lord Alberic tell you—”

  “Lord Alberic has told me very little,” she said flatly.

  Luke rejected the notion of offering to postpone the wedding, anxious as he was to claim Hauekleah, and its mistress, as his own. “His lordship wants an expedient wedding, since I’m already living under your roof. Frankly, so do I. He’ll arrive tomorrow morning, along with his wife, the Lady Bertrada, and his personal chaplain, who will solemnize the union. The preliminaries are being dispensed with.”

  “I have my own priest. I don’t see why—”

  “His lordship,” Luke said carefully, “is a man who likes things done his way. I understand that you have preferences, but I wouldn’t waste my time quarreling with him over the details if I were you.”

  “Quarreling with him,” she said tightly, “or with you, is that correct?”

  Luke sighed, wishing she could accept matters with a bit more grace. He didn’t relish having to limit her power, for she exercised it uncommonly well, but it was imperative that he take some of it for himself. “You will need to learn to acquiesce to me, yes.”

  She yanked at the sash of her wrapper, tying it into a tight knot. “Thank you for the advice, my lord. I’m sure it’s presumptuous of me to want to have any say in the particulars of my marriage—or my life.”