“Where’s your mistress?” Luke asked the lad.
“I saw her go into the barn, milord.”
“The barn?”
“Aye, and the fellow who was workin’ in there, he come out and shut the door, so’s she could be alone. She looked like she’d been…” The boy hesitated uncertainly, as if worried that he was saying too much.
“Go on.”
“Crying. Her eyes were all red. Kind of wet, too, and she hurried away so quick. Me mum… well, she says milady likes to do her crying in the barn so she thinks we don’t know what she’s about.”
“Is that so,” Luke said dryly. On his way out he said, “Finish up quickly and get home before the storm comes.”
He paused outside the door to the barn. Faithe had gone there to be alone—to hide her weakness from others, evidently fooling no one. She hated for people to see her cry. Everyone at Hauekleah knew it, and respected her desire for privacy. Luke should respect it, too, especially considering the recent chill in their relations—a chill for which he had no one to blame but himself.
He hadn’t wanted to withdraw from her so completely—to undo the intimacy they’d managed, against all odds, to establish—but how could it be otherwise? He’d killed her husband. He’d made her a widow and then married her for Hauekleah. Every time he looked at her, a knife blade of remorse slid deep into his heart. He was a beast. How could he even think about touching her… and more… considering what he’d done? Considering what he was?
If he disturbed her now, she would probably order him away. Most likely, she’d be annoyed with him, even angry. And he would deserve that anger, for intruding on her precious solitude. He should leave.
Yet he didn’t. He stood outside the door until he began to feel foolish, and then he pushed it open, slowly and silently, and stepped inside, closing it behind him. It was dark in the barn. From behind the closed gates of the stalls on either side of the central aisle, he heard the snufflings and restless movements of the livestock. He wondered where Faithe had secreted herself.
As if in answer, a half-grown kitten padded out of an open stall at the far end and looked at him. This was the grayish kitten Faithe had dubbed Smoky.
As he approached the open stall, he heard a sound—a soft, scratchy inhalation. Presently there came another. Luke’s chest tightened. Don’t let her send me away. I know I deserve it, but I couldn’t bear it.
When he saw her, curled up with her face buried in the straw, her back shaking, the tightness squeezed him from inside. He whispered her name. She didn’t hear him.
Taking a step toward her, he said, “Faithe?”
She looked up, startled. Her face was wet; she was trembling.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly. She looked surprised, and a little puzzled. It came to him why—he’d spoken to her in English. He always conversed with her in his native French—always. It was a way of asserting his authority, and she knew it. He’d never begun a conversation with her in her own language—until now.
He took another step toward her. Again in English, and as tenderly as he could, he said, “Faithe, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
She closed her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks as she hitched in a breath. Sitting up, she looked at him, her eyes filled with pain, her face crumpling, and held out her arms.
His world spun. She wanted him, she needed him.
He crossed to her and sank into the straw, gathering her in his arms and murmuring words of solace, endearments—all in English. He whispered her name over and over as he kissed her hair and rubbed her back and reveled in the almond-sweet scent of her and the damp, heartbreaking heat of her face and the lush pressure of her body against his.
“Faithe.” The tension in his chest pounded away at him, making him shake. “My sweet, sweet Faithe. Don’t cry. It’s all right. It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”
“Nay,” she murmured, her voice like wet rust.
He threaded his fingers through her hair, pulled her close against him. “Nothing could be this bad.”
She nodded, her face wet in the crook of his neck. “It is. I don’t understand anything anymore. I thought I knew how everything was. But I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know anything…”
She wasn’t making any sense. “Shh… it’s all right, now. It’s all right.”
“Oh, God, I wish it were. I’d give anything it if were.”
“It is. Faithe, look at me.” Pulling back just a bit, he cupped her damp face in one hand and tilted it up. “Tell me what has you so distraught.”
Fresh tears pooled in her eyes. “I went to Winstow to see Dunstan. Orrik sent him there so that he wouldn’t tell me…” She closed her eyes; the tears overflowed.
“Tell you what?” he gently pressed as he blotted her face with his sleeve.
“That Caedmon… that he deserted the field of battle. He didn’t die in prison, Luke. He was murdered.” She broke off in sobs, her face pressed against his chest.
Luke held her with arms deadened from shock. “Oh, God.” She knows. Oh, God, she knows.
She cried for just a moment, then quieted. “He was killed over a woman.”
Steady, now. She needs you . “Faithe. I’m so sorry, I—”
“‘Tisn’t your fault.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth. “Faithe… oh, God.”
“I shouldn’t be reacting this way.”
“How could you not?” He kissed the top of her head. “Go ahead and cry. Go ahead. You have every right.” And it would be just punishment for him to have to hold her while she did so—comfort her while she grieved over that which he had brought to pass.
She cried until the tears were all wrung out of her and she lay limp in his arms. Thunder rolled softly in the distance; an eerie sort of twilight had descended, although it was just late afternoon.
“We should go back,” he said quietly.
Faithe tightened her arms around him. “Nay. Please. Not yet. I can’t face them yet.” She looked up at him, her eyes enormous in the strange, purplish light. “Please, Luke. I need you.”
Luke felt dizzy. I need you. He buried his hand in her hair, gripped the back of her head. I need you…
“Ah, Faithe…” He pressed his mouth to her temple, felt the frantic pulsing beneath the hot skin. “I’m lost,” he whispered, so quietly he could barely hear it himself. “Lost.” He touched her wet cheekbone with his lips.
“Not lost,” she said on a sigh. “I’ve found you.” She stroked his face with trembling fingertips. “We’ve found each other.”
“Faithe…” Her lips beckoned him. He felt their heat, was drawn to it, bent his head to her. “Faithe, forgive me,” he breathed against her mouth as his eyes closed.
A light gust of laughter tickled his lips. “Foolish man.” He thought she whispered these words, and then she moved her head, deliberately, slowly, stroking the hot silk of her lips against his.
A sound escaped him, an exhalation of pure delight. He joined in, caressing her lips with his, lightly, teasingly, savoring the sweet, heartbreaking pleasure of it.
Framing her face with his hands to still her movements, he covered her mouth with his and kissed her, a deep kiss of wild longing, a kiss they’d waited too long to share. He felt her hands on his back, his shoulders, his neck, urging him closer, raking his hair. He clutched at her. He reeled from the intensity of it.
A rumble of thunder startled them both. They broke the kiss, gasping for air, and held each other tight.
“Luke,” she said, “I’ve wanted you to do that. I’ve wanted it so much.”
He smiled, gratified in spite of everything by the pleasure she took in him, her frank desire for him. “So have I.”
She kissed his throat, whispering against it, “What else have you wanted?”
Her soft query spawned a fierce rush of arousal within Luke. Bracing himself on an elbow, he eased Faithe onto her back in the straw and spent a moment just looking
at her. Even with her face all tearstained and straw tangled up in her hair, she was the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen. The odd, dusky light made her skin look translucent, incandescent. Her lips were puffy, and a deep, bruised red. There was something potently erotic about lips dark and swollen from kissing. He touched them; they were feverishly hot. He wanted to lick them; he wanted to bite them. He was lost.
“What else,” she repeated patiently, “have you wanted?”
Drawing in a shuddering breath, he allowed his gaze to travel downward. She wore the russet kirtle that she preferred on warm days. He could tell by the unencumbered fleshiness of her breasts beneath the rough homespun that she hadn’t bothered with an undershift. Unlike most of her gowns, this one laced up the front. Every time he saw her in it, he wanted to untie the cord.
Lowering his hand, he did just that.
Chapter 13
*
LUKE SAW HER out of the corner of his eye, watching him as he tugged at the cord, loosening the bow in which it was tied. She studied his eyes as if something in them fascinated her. He concentrated on keeping his hand steady as he pulled the cord slowly through the top pair of eyelets… and then the next… and the next. Her chest rose and fell rapidly; the thin homespun trembled with her heartbeats.
Those keys of hers were in the way. He lifted them, and she tensed slightly. Instead of removing them, as he had intended, he merely moved them to the side. She smiled, and then closed a hand over the arm on which he braced himself. The heat of her touch seemed to burn right through his linen shirt.
Thunder murmured distantly as he continued unlacing the kirtle. From the surrounding stalls came the low fretting of the animals as it grew forebodingly dark. The very air seemed to swell and press in.
Luke drew the cord through the bottom pair of eyelets, just below her navel, leaving her kirtle unlaced but still closed. One end of the cord was softly frayed. He brushed it lazily over her throat, along her jaw, and around the dainty edge of an ear. He swept it across her lips, over her chin, and down her throat again. She closed her eyes, smiling as if this were the greatest sensual pleasure imaginable. Tossing the cord aside, he replaced it with his hand.
She sighed at the first rough touch of his fingertips on her throat. He traced the shape of her face, caressed its delicate contours—forehead, eyelids, cheeks, nose, those blood-flushed lips, still hot to the touch.
To touch her in this slow, hypnotic way, as if he had all the time in the world, was the greatest indulgence imaginable. He’d never taken his time with a woman, prolonging the preliminaries just for the elemental pleasure of it.
I’m truly lost , he thought as he lowered his hand. The loosely woven homespun grazed his fingertips as he trailed them over the rise of a breast. He felt an erratic thudding through the supple flesh; his own heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Very gently he rested his hand on her breast. Her grip tightened on his arm. He felt an insistent nudging against his palm as her nipple hardened through the rough fabric. His body echoed her response, as if they were a single being; he stiffened beneath his braies, straining toward her against the confines of the loose trousers.
Everything seemed to be happening so slowly in this unnatural and expectant semidarkness. He was lost, cast adrift with Faithe in a kind of bewitched haze. It was as if there were no past and no future—just the two of them, alone together, now and forever, in this nest of fragrant straw. Time was suspended, if only temporarily; and so were his sins. What had gone before did not exist. All he could hear was the deafening pulse of his heart, all he could see was Faithe, her head back, her eyes half closed, her smile one of dreamy anticipation.
Luke moved his hand languidly over the heavy cushion of her breast, cupping it, thumbing the rigid nipple until she arched her back, her fingers digging into his arm. Leaning down, he closed his mouth over hers, stealing her sigh as he slipped his hand beneath the open gown. He glided his fingertips over the silken underside of her breast; the skin there was like the finest, sleekest satin, but warm. She moaned into his mouth when he caressed the resilient flesh with a firmer touch, gasped when he gently tugged her nipple. Withdrawing from the kiss, she writhed in delicious abandon. He’d never beheld anything as sweetly, irresistibly provocative. He had to see more of her.
Sitting up, he swept her open kirtle aside with both hands, exposing her from the waist up. Faithe drew in a quick, startled, breath, but lay still as he gazed at her. Her body was an exquisite contradiction. Those voluptuous breasts belonged on a rounder, more ample woman, not this fine-boned creature with her slender waist and flat stomach. The juxtaposition should have looked wrong, but it couldn’t have been more enticing.
He ached—quite literally—with the need to possess her. If he’d ever been more aroused than at this moment, he couldn’t remember it. All his former doubts and misgivings evaporated in the scalding heat of their mutual need. The urge to untie his braies and take what they both wanted was powerful, but stronger still was the need to prolong this temporary respite, this isolated moment in time—to rejoice in this wonderment, this sense of revelation, to let the magic spin itself out. A quick coupling wouldn’t do. He wanted to discover her, consume her, join with her… make love to her, body and mind, heart and soul.
And, too, Faithe of Hauekleah wasn’t one of his whores, accustomed to taking the full, violent measure of a man’s animal passions. She might not look and act like a highborn lady, but that’s exactly what she was, and he must heed his father’s counsel and take her with care. He had no idea how it had been between her and Caedmon, but he could surmise that she’d not been ill used sexually. Although her feelings toward her first husband seemed lukewarm, she regarded him, still, with sisterly affection. Most likely he’d been very much the gentleman in bed, and so Luke must endeavor to be the same. After all they’d been through, he was not disposed to jeopardize this delicate moment by venting his lust like some rutting beast.
He skimmed his hands lightly over her face, her throat, her breasts. Faithe breathed his name, and other words he couldn’t make out. Drawn, for some reason, to her delicate little navel, he probed the tiny indentation with a fingertip. A kind of kittenish growl rose from her, and her hips moved—just slightly, but enough to spark a hot, answering pulse in his loins.
“What else?” she whispered. His confusion must have shown on his face, because she added, “What else have you wanted?”
He met her gaze for a long, breathless moment, and then he smoothed his hand downward, over her lower belly, until he felt, beneath the homespun, a subtle swell. She bit her lip as he moved his hand slowly—so slowly—over this place of heady mystery. His breath and hers came faster and faster. He felt the little ridge of bone beneath the soft flesh, traced the tight cleft with his fingertips.
She was damp; he felt it even through the kirtle. Suddenly impatient, he whipped her skirt up and lay next to her; she turned to face him. Luke pushed a thigh between hers to urge them apart, and they locked their legs together as naturally as longtime lovers. He searched her eyes as he slid his fingers deep into her exceedingly narrow entrance. Her gaze lost its focus, and she sucked in a tremulous breath. He stroked her with slow, inquisitive fingers, enthralled by her slippery heat.
Curving his other hand around the back of her neck, he coaxed her closer and took her mouth in a hungry, lingering kiss, all the whole caressing her intimately, reveling in her breathless sighs, her little gasps of pleasure. He felt her hand fluttering between them, untying his shirt all the way down the front. She glided her fingers through the hair on his chest and whispered against his lips, “What else, Luke?”
He hesitated only briefly, loath to ask too much of her, but so desirous of her touch. Taking her free hand in his, he guided it between his legs, pressing it to his aching shaft, hoping it wouldn’t offend her. Although she’d touched him this way once before, that had been playacting—part of her misguided effort to seduce him. To his relief and gratification, her fing
ers curled automatically around him through his thin braies; he wore no drawers, because of the heat. A spasm of pleasure sucked the breath from his lungs. He was as hard as a column of steel. She drew her hand up and down his length, squeezing with just the right pressure, and he groaned helplessly.
“Ah, Faithe…” Luke rocked his hips in time with her caress. “Yes.” He explored her until she moved in rhythm with him. With his free arm, he pulled her to him, crushing her breasts, warm and heavy and damp with sweat, against his chest. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, moaning her name as his body tightened, strained, trembled.
She trembled, too. Her legs, tangled with his, quivered like bowstrings, and her breath came in soft pants. “Luke… oh, God, Luke.”
Now . He rolled her onto her back in the straw, cradled between her legs.
“Yes!” She slid her hands down to his waist and pulled him against her. Her responsiveness surprised and delighted him. Holding himself stiff-armed above her, he went to undo the drawstring of his braies just as she did. Their hands fumbled together, and they laughed in breathy frustration.
“Let me,” he said hoarsely. She nodded and sank into the straw, her eyes closed, her bare chest heaving. Luke didn’t think he’d ever seen a more alluring sight.
He reached for the drawstring as a volley of thunder shook the barn and lightning illuminated their little stall. The cold white light flickered over the face of the woman lying before him. An ugly memory stabbed Luke in the gut, and he stumbled backward, squeezing his eyes shut. “Jesu!”
His mind’s eye conjured the face in the straw, adding a trickle of blood from the slack mouth. He saw the tangled red hair, the beard, the lifeless, half-open eyes—a fleeting image, there and gone in a blink of lightning. He smelled the dead Saxon, felt, all over again, the sick jolt of realization. What have I done?
“Nay.” He ground his fists against his forehead, as if that would obliterate the image of the man he had slain—of Caedmon, a good man fallen victim to the Black Dragon’s ungovernable rage. I grieved for him… I cried until I had no more tears. “Nay…”
Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set Page 20
