“The bullying instinct is very strong in young boys. But they’re getting better.” Ducking his head, he removed the cross on its leather thong and looped it around her neck, over her keys.
“Have you spoken to them?”
“Nay. ‘Twould be a grave error to intercede openly on Felix’s behalf. The others would view him as being under my protection, which would only make matters worse for him.”
Faithe was impressed with the wisdom of the course he’d chosen. But before she could compliment him on it, he braced his hands on the side of the bridge and leapt over it, jumping in with a loud splash. She watched him swim upriver, his vigorous strokes propelling him swiftly away from the bridge. He got smaller and smaller as he swam away, disappearing altogether when the river curved into the woods.
Faithe crossed to the opposite shore, laid Luke’s clothes and her satchel on a boulder at the water’s edge, then lifted her skirt up to her knees and tied it in a knot to keep it there. She sat on the boulder with her feet in the cool water and rummaged around in the satchel until she found a linen-wrapped bundle spotted with red juice. Laying the bundle in her lap, she untied it, grinning in delight at the first strawberries of the season. Ardith knew how she loved them.
She lifted one by its long stem and inhaled its fragrance, then popped it into her mouth.
“Mmm…” This was the taste she dreamed of all winter long and cherished during the brief few weeks of strawberry season. She ate her berries in luxurious contentment, savoring their summer-ripe flavor, the warm breezes that ruffled her hair, the bracing chill of the water that lapped around her ankles.
Luke reappeared around the bend and swam back toward her. When he was close enough to the shore to stand, he did so, walking slowly out of the river, his gaze trained first on her legs, and then her eyes.
She’d never seen a man move with such restrained, lethal grace. He stalked toward her like a cat approaching its prey—slowly, almost warily, never breaking eye contact. Water sluiced off his massive shoulders and long arms, ran in rivulets down his ridged stomach; the dark hair on his chest sparkled with tiny droplets. His waterlogged drawers hung low on his narrow hips, conforming all too well to his masculine contours.
A memory sprang into sharp focus, an image that had obsessed her since the night of her illfated seduction attempt: Luke standing before her in nothing but his chausses, his arousal plainly evident as she knelt at his feet. She remembered the way he’d looked at her—the hunger in his eyes. She remembered touching him—the rigid heat beneath the tightly stretched wool, the desperate need just under the surface.
As he closed in on her, his gaze traveled slowly downward, until it lit on the open bundle in her lap.
“Strawberries?”
She nodded, lifting the best-looking one by the stem. “Would you like one?”
Luke took the berry from her, brought it to his nose, and smiled. He passed the small red fruit between his lips, his eyes closing as he bit it in half. Juice ran down his chin; he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “Perfect.”
“That one was the ripest,” she said.
“Then we should share it.” Plucking the other half of the berry off the stem, he brought it to Faithe’s mouth. Something about his feeding her this way struck her as so rawly intimate that, for a moment, she could do nothing but look at him.
He smiled into her eyes, then dropped his gaze to her mouth and nudged her lips open with the piece of fruit. She closed her mouth over it, unintentionally catching his fingertips between her lips as he withdrew them. His gaze flicked toward her eyes before settling once again on her mouth. A trickle of juice escaped her lips. He brushed it with his thumb, which he then brought to his own mouth and licked.
Their gazes met. He looked away and tossed the berry stem into the grass. Faithe busied herself retying the linen around the berries and stowing them in the satchel.
It had been this way in recent weeks. A hot current of awareness crackled between them, growing more charged with every word they spoke, every look they exchanged. Luke’s desire for her was evident, yet every time she thought he’d act on it, he pulled back.
Perhaps he felt it was still too soon. By his own standards, he’d be right. He wanted her to lose her lingering doubts about him, but she still didn’t quite believe that a ruthless professional soldier could be happy shearing sheep and herding swine for the rest of his life. Much as she’d come to care for Luke, she still held something back from him, and he seemed to sense this.
Perhaps he was looking for some sign from her that she’d overcome her initial fear of him and, moreover, learned to trust and even care for him. Was he waiting for her to make the first move? If so, he’d have a long wait, for she didn’t think she’d ever work up the nerve to try and tempt him again.
In truth, Faithe found it rather odd, but touching, that this formidable warrior—who one would assume had a heart of pure ice—would bother about feelings in relation to the act of love. Yet he seemed to want some sort of union of the spirit before their bodies were joined. She wasn’t used to taking sex so seriously. Caedmon certainly never did. He’d had appetites that needed appeasing, and she obliged him with enthusiasm. Their feelings for each other had gone no deeper than simple affection, and their love life reflected that. They’d tupped for no more profound reason than to entertain themselves.
She’d offered Luke that form of entertainment, but he didn’t want her on those terms. Often she wished he did; she ached for him. Never in her life had she felt such constant yearning. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for this. Caedmon had wanted only her body. Luke de Périgueux wanted so much more; he wanted a piece of her soul. With a slight shock she realized that she was almost inclined to give it to him.
Backing up into the river, Luke said, “You should come for a swim.”
“I can’t swim.”
“Come in anyway. ‘Tisn’t deep till you get to the middle. ‘Twould cool you off.”
“I don’t want to. I’d get my kirtle wet.”
He crossed his arms in a mock display of indignation. “A properly submissive wife would jump in simply because I commanded it.”
“Then you should have married one of them.”
“Are you afraid of the water?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” He scooped his hands through the water, splashing her from head to toe.
She gasped. “You… you…”
He laughed, and she was struck by the way it transformed him, replacing his dark ferocity with something closer to Alex’s boyishness. “What delicious outrage. You should see yourself.” He splashed her again.
She looked down at her sodden kirtle. “Luke!”
“Aye?” He stood with careless grace in water up to his thighs, his hands resting on his lean hips, his chest shaking with amusement. His playfulness amazed her. Never had she seen this side of him, nor even suspected its existence. “Do I have to drag you in against your will?” He strode toward her.
When he was about a yard away, she kicked out, spraying him with water. “That does it!” He lunged for her.
She scrambled backward over the boulder, laughing nervously. He seized her ankles and dragged her toward him until she was snugged up against him, her legs flanking him. She felt his hands on her thighs, pulling her even closer, felt a heart-stopping thrill as he leaned down, his breath hot on her face, his voice a soft growl. “I must teach you a lesson in wifely obedience.”
Bringing his hands to her shoulders, he trailed them lightly downward. She held her breath, her breasts seemed to swell in anticipation of his touch. But it never came. Instead, his fingers curled around the chain that held her keys and the leather thong to which his cross was attached, both of which he pulled off over her head and laid next to her on the boulder. As always, she felt vulnerable without her chatelaine’s keys.
Grinning wickedly, he closed his hands around her waist, lifting her off the boulder.
“Luke! What are you—”
“Teaching you a lesson.” He wrapped her legs around his waist and waded into the river. She squirmed and beat against his chest, but he just laughed.
His body was rock-solid, his arms immovable bands of steel; she was completely in his power. “Let me go!” she ordered amid helpless giggles.
“I don’t think so.” He waded deeper into the water.
“I demand that you let me go!”
He paused, waist-deep. “You demand it?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, in that case…” Lifting her off him, he hurled her, kicking and screaming, into the water. It closed over her head, immersing her completely.
Her instinct was to find her footing and stand. Instead, she located his legs beneath the surface and grabbed, yanking them out from beneath him. He flopped down into the water as she stood and began wading to the shore.
Halfway there, she heard him behind her. She let out an involuntarily little squeak of panic and tried to pick up her pace, but he was on her instantly, his big arms crushing her back against his chest and lifting her off her feet. “Sneaky Saxon wench!” he chuckled.
She hooked a foot around his leg, throwing him off balance and sending them both, into the shallow water at the edge of the river. They tussled together, laughing breathlessly, as she tried to elude his clutches. She managed to disentangle herself and clamber upright, but he sprang to his feet and seized her from behind before she could make her escape.
One of his hands inadvertently closed over a breast. There was a heartbeat’s pause, and then he released her. She stumbled out of the water and turned around to look at him. His chest heaved as he appraised the length of her body, encased in a single layer of wet russet homespun and nothing else. She followed his gaze. The drenched kirtle molded itself to her breasts and waist and hips, and was still knotted in front, exposing her legs in their entirety.
He abruptly turned his back to her, skimming back loose strands of hair with both hands. “I’m going to change into my dry clothes,” he said, a little gruffly. “I’ll meet you in Norfeld.”
“All right.” Snatching up her satchel and keys, Faithe walked to the north, between a strip planted with barley and one of oats. Pausing, she twisted her hair to squeeze the water out, then bent over to untie and wring out her skirt. The drenched homespun would dry quickly in this hot sunshine, given its loose weave, in the meantime it would keep her cool. She stole a glance toward the river, and Luke.
He stood at the boulder with his back to her, completely naked as he twisted his drawers in his fists. She straightened, studying him unashamedly. He was the most beautifully proportioned man she had ever seen, his shoulders broad, hips lean, arms and legs long and sinewy. His body, packed with muscle, radiated resilient strength.
Tearing her gaze from him, she turned back around and walked between the two strips, pausing now and then to squat down and inspect the condition of the soil or pluck a weed. When she heard him coming up behind her, she looked down at herself; her hair covered her breasts, and already her drying kirtle had ceased to cling so indecently.
“Did you say you had wine in that bag of yours?” he asked as he joined her, fully dressed in shirt, chausses, and boots.
“Indeed.”
She retrieved the wineskin and handed it to him. He squeezed some into his mouth, then she did the same. They passed it back and forth between them as they slowly toured Norfeld, discussing the emerging crops and what they might bring at market. Luke seemed to like her idea of organizing the villagers into clearing a third community field next year. They discussed the project at length as they strolled west, to eat their meal in the untended meadow adjacent to Norfeld.
Blankets of wildflowers embellished the meadow with great sweeps of color, their fusion of scents perfuming the warm air. Faithe pointed to a patch of clover and they settled there. She unwrapped a loaf of white bread, a wheel of cheese, and the rest of the strawberries, laying the food out between them.
Dinner was a leisurely affair, accompanied by easy conversation. They talked about her plans for Hauekleah—their plans for Hauekleah, for he had ideas of his own, good ones. He praised her management of the estate, and she flushed with pride. They spoke in careful terms of the Norman occupation, and of what would happen to England under King William’s rule. He questioned her at length about the customs of her people—their holidays and rituals—in a way that implied no disapproval, only a desire to learn.
If anyone had tried to tell Faithe, a month ago, that she would grow comfortable enough with the ferocious Black Dragon to relax with him in a wildflower meadow over cheese and wine, she would never have believed it.
As they finished the last of the berries and wine, she said, “You’re an able man with the sheep shears. I was impressed.”
He smiled a little self-consciously, clearly pleased with the compliment. The expression stripped years from his features. For the first time, she could almost believe he was but six-and-twenty. “Don’t forget,” he said, “it wasn’t the first time I’d sheared. The monks taught me how, when I was a boy.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I loved it.” He reclined on his side in the clover, his head resting in his hand, and yawned, prompting Faithe to do the same; the warm sun and their full bellies were taking their toll. “Most of the abbey’s farm work was done by lay brothers and serfs, but the monks and students were obligated to perform certain chores. To me, they weren’t an obligation, but a joy. I was far more eager to tend sheep and pick grapes and harvest wheat—even milk cows—than to sit in some stuffy room and practice my Latin.”
Faithe chuckled and plucked a perfect little violet that had sprung up among the clover. “I loved practicing my Latin.”
“It shows. Your Latin is flawless. I can barely read it.” He shrugged lazily, his eyes half closed. “That’s all right. If I had that time to live over again, I’d still sneak away from class and spend my time in the fields. When I look back on those years…” His gaze grew wistful; he shook his head fractionally. “I can scarcely believe how happy I was then. Truly happy.”
On impulse, Faithe slipped the violet into one of the eyelets through which the lacings of her still-damp kirtle were threaded. Luke watched her do this with heavy-lidded eyes. “Pretty,” he murmured.
Faithe covered her awkwardness by gathering up the remnants of their meal and replacing them in her satchel. When she glanced back at Luke, he was fast asleep, still lying on his side, his arm cradling his head. His body had settled into the clover with such perfect grace that she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was uncommonly, breathtakingly beautiful.
With his face relaxed in sleep, he seemed even younger than before. She could visualize with ease what he’d looked like as a boy—dusky-skinned, black-haired, with enormous brown eyes that saw everything.
Using her satchel as a pillow, she lay on her back and gazed up at the endless expanse of blue overhead. Closing her eyes, she saw a little black-haired boy wading contentedly through gold-washed fields of ripening wheat beneath a cloudless Aquitaine sky.
*
FAITHE AWOKE TO a soft tremble of awareness—something touching the bare skin of her breast.
Bare? She opened her eyes, squinting against the afternoon sun. Blinking away her confusion, she looked toward the source of the sensation that had awakened her, then grew very still.
Luke sat over her as she lay on her back, delicately poking the stem of a violet into one of the eyelets on the bodice of her kirtle, now almost dry. Tiny purple flowers sprouted from half a dozen of the little holes; he’d been busy while she slept.
Hunching over her with an expression of intense concentration, he was apparently too absorbed in this undertaking to notice that she’d awakened. He probed the eyelet with great care, as if fearful of disturbing her. Finally, the stem slid through the hole, stroking the inner curve of a breast as he wriggled it into place. A warm shiver coursed through her; her nipples tig
htened beneath the homespun. Luke noticed this, and met her gaze.
His slow smile belied the heat in his eyes. “I couldn’t help myself.”
She sat up, delicately patting the row of tiny blossoms. “Perhaps I should take them out before we return to the house. What will people think?”
“They’ll think we’ve had an extraordinarily pleasant outing. As, indeed, we have.” Luke smiled warmly, then started to say something else, but stopped himself. Looking down, he spotted another violet and snapped it off. He tucked Faithe’s hair behind her ear, and the flower with it. Very quietly, in a voice rough with feeling, he said, “I’m happy here.”
She searched his eyes, so earnest, almost grave. “I know.” She did; it was patently obvious.
“This” —he indicated all of Hauekleah with a small nod of his head— “is what I’ve been wanting, what I’ve needed for so long. I intend to spend the rest of my life here, Faithe. I’m not like your grandfather. I’m not going to ride off some morning and never return.”
Faithe had never discussed Thorgeirr with Luke, nor hinted at her suspicions that he would abandon Hauekleah. “How did you know about—”
“Alex and I talk about everything.”
Of course . Faithe ducked her head to hide her hot blush, but Luke cupped her chin in his callused hand and lifted it, forcing her to look him in the eye. He brought his face close to hers; her pulse quickened.
“I’m not leaving here, Faithe,” he said, softly but resolutely. “Never. I need you to know that.”
She nodded. Presently, his expression softened, his gaze lighting on her hair, her mouth, the silly little flowers adorning her kirtle. “I’m happy here,” he said. “Happier than I’ve been since…” Gently releasing her, he sat back and shrugged. “Happier than I’ve ever been, I think.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m glad.” She was. How strange to be glad that the Black Dragon had no intention of leaving, as she’d once prayed he would. How very remarkable. How astonishing and wonderful. Yet…
Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set Page 15
