Lady of Steel

by Mary Gillgannon

  “I do love him like my own.” Hilary’s fine-boned face suffused with tenderness. “And he is as much an angel as he looks. Most children of his age are willful and selfish, fighting over toys and such. But he is, as you see, ever generous and sunny-natured. I wish my own Joanie were half so easy to manage. I vow, she is a little tyrant. And with Simon a year younger, he gets the worst of it. I have to keep an eye on them, to see she does not bully him too much.” Hilary paused in her cheerful rambling and looked at Nicola. “Now that Mortimer is dead, can’t you finally tell the truth about Simon?”

  Nicola stiffened. She shook her head. “I must keep his identity a secret a while longer.”

  “I met Lord de Cressy when he was here. He didn’t seem either unkind or unreasonable. I can’t think he would do anything to hurt a child, even if the child stood in the way of a son of his own inheriting in the future.”

  Nicola nodded. So far she’d observed nothing in Fawkes’ character to suggest he would be a danger to Simon. The real trouble was between her and Fawkes. If she wanted him to not merely tolerate Simon, but accept the child as his son, she must somehow mend things between them. But how was she to do that when he would not give her a chance?

  “’Tis a complicated matter. Suffice to say that my husband doesn’t trust me. Until he does, I dare not trust him with Simon’s future.”

  Simon came scampering back into the room, followed by Joanie, who had reddish blonde braids and a stubborn set to her small jaw. The two children proceeded to the basket of tarts and gleefully began stuffing themselves, purple berry juice running down their small faces and smearing their chubby fin­gers.

  “But look at him,” Hilary murmured, wistfully. “Who could behold Simon’s angelic countenance and wish him ill? I don’t understand, milady.”

  Nor do I. It had all turned out so differently than she’d anticipated. Who was to guess that the unknown squire Mortimer had sent to her bed would turn her whole life upside down? And now, four years later, he was still wreaking havoc on her peace of mind.

  ****

  Fawkes waited a while after Alwen had left the house, then ventured out. He’d expected catcalls and rude jests, but in fact, most of the villagers were too busy to notice him. The storm he’d anticipated earlier was well on its way. The sky had become a dark mass of roiling clouds and the air felt damp and unsettled. Sudden gusts tore at the villagers’ clothes as they struggled to put away the food and cover the tables and benches.

  He been told that under normal circumstances there would be more drinking and merriment, and later on a bonfire would be lit and people would dance and carouse around it late into the night. But a thunderstorm might well ruin that plan. No matter what happened, Fawkes decided he was finished with the Lammas festivities. He was going back to the castle and find Nicola. Her absence in the village had gnawed at him all day.

  As the first raindrops splattered cold against his face, he looked around for his knights. They all seem to have vanished. He finally spied Oliver hurrying away from the area where they’d picketed the horses. He had a wineskin in one hand and his gambeson hung open.

  “Oliver!” Fawkes shouted against the fierce wind. “I’m returning to the castle.”

  “What the devil for?” Oliver retorted. “The storm’s almost here. Why don’t you find a warm, sheltered place and stay cozy until it passes?” He raised the wineskin and winked. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  Fawkes shook his head. “I want to go back. Do you know where Reynard is?”

  Oliver jerked his head toward the healer’s cottage. “What do you think?”

  Fawkes swore. By now, Reynard and the wise woman were probably well into their second bout of lovemaking. He headed for the horses. The rain was coming down in earnest, soaking his heavy tunic. One of the squires, Robbie, was searching out supplies from his saddle pack. The squire straightened. “Milord, I was just getting some things for Engelard.”

  “Where is he?” Fawkes asked.

  “The shed behind the tanner’s.” The youth grinned. “With all three of the tanner’s daughters.”

  He had half a mind to drag Engelard out of the shed and order him to accompany him to the castle. Then Robbie said, “By the way, Engelard said to tell you he saw Lady Nicola ride out of the castle this morning at first light. He thought you’d want to know.”

  Fawkes stood stunned for a moment, then strode after the squire and pulled him around. “Get Engelard!” he gritted out. “Get him now!”

  His thoughts churned wildly. She’d ridden out, but hadn’t come to the village. Where was she? Who was she with?

  A dozen times he’d considered that she might have a lover. A dozen times he dismissed the thought. But where else could she be?

  Engelard came running toward him, his clothing in considerable disarray. “I’m here, milord. What is it?”

  “Lady Nicola,” Fawkes said. “You saw her leave the castle?”

  “I assumed she was going to the village. It didn’t dawn on me until we were here a while that she wasn’t around, and by then…” His voice trailed off uneasily.

  “By then you were too busy futtering the tanner’s daughters—all three of them!” Fawkes’s voice rose in a bellow.

  “I’m sorry, milord,” Engelard said. “But you didn’t tell us to watch Lady Nicola.” As the knight regarded him uneasily, Fawkes realized what Engelard was thinking—that Nicola was cuckolding him. It was beyond awkward; it was humiliating.

  Fawkes struggled to sound calm, to behave as if he was simply concerned for Nicola’s welfare. “In the future, I don’t want my wife riding out alone. It isn’t safe. Who knows what could happen to her? She might have been set upon by brigands, anything.”

  “I thought she was going to the village,” Engelard said. “I assumed she would be safe here.”

  Fawkes nodded. “Of course she would. But since she isn’t here, I must look for her.” He started for his horse.

  “Milord?” Engelard called. “Do you want me to come?”

  If there was any chance he might find Nicola with another man, he certainly didn’t want the whole world to know. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Engelard hurried off, obviously eager to be out of the rain, and away from Fawkes and his problems.

  Fawkes went to his destrier, Scimitar. He’d said he was going to look for Nicola, but where the devil should he start? He could search every house in the village, sword drawn, looking for his wife. What a fool he would look like then. Besides, for all he knew, the two lovers had parted and Nicola had already returned to the castle.

  There was a flash of lightning, then the low rumble of thunder. The destrier nickered uneasily. The other horses also seemed restless. Fawkes glanced up at the slate-gray sky and the advancing darkness in the west. This storm was no little squall, to pass by quickly. It would be foolish to try to ride to the castle in this. His tunic was soaked. He grabbed his saddle pack and raced toward the nearest dwelling.

  As he neared it, he realized with dismay that it was the healer’s cottage. He rushed past the cottage and headed for the shed behind. He yanked open the rain-swollen door and pushed inside.

  The shed was dark and close and humid, but unoccupied by either man or beast. He felt his way around and found bundles of raw wool, a small table and a heap of straw, probably for use as bedding. He put down his saddle pack, then stripped off his sodden tunic and dried himself with the hay.

  Outside, the storm had worsened. There was a low rumble of thunder and the wind shrieked. He thought of the horses and wished he had managed to get them to shelter. Guilt gnawed at him. Scimitar hated storms. He swore, realizing he had no choice but to go out again.

  Then he thought of Reynard, snug and comfortable in the healer’s bed, and decided if he had to suffer, then his captain should also.

  He retrieved his saddle pack, intent on having some wine to warm his blood before he fetched Reynard. They should be able to get the horses to the cover of the oaks that
sheltered the ale yard.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nicola shivered in her light summer mantle as the raindrops pelted down. If only she’d worn her fur-lined cloak. But the sky had been clear and blue when she set off that morning. Even when she left Mordeaux, the weather hadn’t seemed threatening. Although she might have been too caught up in her regret at leaving Simon to notice. Now she was stuck out in the storm.

  She rode on, bending low over the horse’s withers, feeling the rain seep through the mantle and chill her skin. Not much farther now. The village was a blur of buildings huddled beneath the stormy sky, which glowed with an odd, sickly light. A jagged bolt of lightning flashed to her right, followed by a boom of thunder. The mare shied, forcing Nicola to cling to the saddle pommel. The castle was too far; she’d never make it. Glennyth. If she could reach the healer’s cottage, she could wait out the storm there.

  Nicola dug her heels into the mare’s sides, urging her on. The wind tore the mantle from her head and whipped her hair around her face. At last she neared the thatched dwelling. She slid off the rain-slicked horse, grabbed the reins and staggered to the storage shed behind the house. If she could get the mare inside, she wouldn’t be spooked by the storm and run away. When it cleared, she would be able to ride to the castle.

  She fought the heavy door, struggling to pull it open in the wind. Behind her, the mare whinnied. “Easy girl. We’re almost there.”

  At last the door gave. It swung outward, nearly knocking Nicola over. She started to pull the horse into the shed, but a figure blocked the doorway. She froze at the sight of her husband. His black hair was plastered to his head, and his upper body was bare. He stared at her, his dark eyes wild in the strange light. “You,” he rasped.

  The intense look on his face made her want to get back on the mare and ride away, but he grabbed her by the arm. The wet reins slipped out of her hand and she careened into the shed, landing in a pile of straw. He pulled the door shut behind them and everything disappeared into darkness.

  His breathing was harsh, almost labored. If she hadn’t seen him, she would have thought he was ill. But she suspected it was not breathlessness that made him sound like a man with a lung wound, but powerful emotion. What was he going to do to her? Had he discovered she’d gone to Mordeaux? Did he still think she plotted against him?

  When he grabbed her cloak, she nearly fell. His arms went around her and his mouth met hers. She struggled for breath, then tilted her head back to return the kiss.

  Lips hot against her chilled skin. She could taste the warm sweetness of his breath, tinged with wine. Her fingers stroked his bare shoulders, feeling the smooth heat of his skin. His scent blended with the odors of wool, hay and damp that filled the shed. His mouth devoured her. She parted her lips, wanting more, the liquid fire of his mouth. He gave her his tongue briefly, a lush, satisfying taste of fulfillment, then his mouth left hers.

  He fumbled with the brooch fastening her cloak. Nicola felt breathless with excitement and anticipation. Please. Love me. Fill me. Make me yours.

  He finally got her cloak unfastened and flung it down. Then he pressed her even more tightly against his body. She could feel his jutting erection. He stroked her neck with his warm fingers, pushing the wet strands of her hair away from her jaw and neck. His lips made a shimmering foray of the sensitive skin there and teased her earlobe.

  Waves of rapturous pleasure made her knees go weak. He held her up, clutching her buttocks with both hands, lifting her so the juncture of her thighs met the swollen heat of his shaft. A piercing ache shot through her, making her moan. He tried pulling at the neck of her gown, but was thwarted by the tightly woven linen. Finally he gave up and kissed her. His hard, demanding lips urged her to yield, to surrender. She kissed him back feverously.

  He drew away to struggle with his own clothing. Then he reached for her, pulling at her skirts, working them upward. She helped him as he tore off her loincloth. His hard fingers fondled her wet aroused flesh. She gasped, leaning into him. A few provocative strokes. Then he was lifting her, his hands on her bottom. She grabbed his shoulders and held on.

  He set her down on some sort of table. Her legs dangled over the edge as he raised her skirts to her waist. Then his fingers were on her wet center, stroking. One callused fingertip probed the entrance of her slippery sheath. Then, with a suddenness that robbed her of breath, he removed his hand and thrust into her violently.

  Nothing could have prepared her for this. Not even the memory of their first coupling. Unbearable fullness, hot and alive flesh wrenching hers apart. He seemed twice the size she remembered. Closing her eyes, she took deep, even breaths.

  Still, he didn’t move. He was panting, his hands beneath her bottom, clutching desperately. “God,” he breathed.

  They were locked together, frozen. The pressure was unbearable. She wriggled, trying to ease it. He let out a deep, husky groan, the sound echoing through her. She sought to shift her thighs farther apart, to assuage the throbbing ache. Then she tilted her head up and moved her hands from his shoulders to his face. She stroked his cheek, feeling the prickle of his whiskers growing in from when he’d shaved that morning. His mouth felt smooth and soft.

  She moved her hand lower, exploring. As if by knowing his body intimately, she could come to fathom what went beyond his cool, onyx eyes. His shoulders were hard and wide. His chest was silky smooth at his neck, then rough with tufts of coarse hair. His thick chest muscles tightened as she trailed her hands down to where his chest hair became a thin line.

  His skin shuddered beneath her fingertips and his breathing quickened. She savored the hard, taut strength of his belly. Then, slowly, breathlessly, she brought her hand to where they were joined. So strange to have this part of him deep inside her. But it wasn’t an invasion, but a joining. As if his flesh was the key that opened her. Not merely her body, but something deeper. Her being, her essence.

  Her body was so eager for his. Wet, swimming with moisture. The smell of her own arousal mingled with his sexual musk. She touched herself again, feeling the slippery opening of her sheath stretched around him. Deep inside, her womb convulsed, throbbing. Her nipples grew harder still. Her mouth watered with expectation.

  When she encircled the root of his shaft with her fingers, he groaned and began to move. Her body tightened around him. He plunged into her, his hands gripping her buttocks, spreading her, opening her for his assault.

  Her back arched, she thrust her hips forward, enduring the tempest of sensation. Ripples inside her became waves, great roaring torrents of pleasure. Yearning finally satisfied. Ecstasy. The table shook. The shed shook. The world shook. She clutched at him, seeking his solid strength in the storm of sensation. He thrust into her with one last wild lunge and his body stiffened. He gave a cry like the bellow of a stag before going still.

  It had been like no coupling she’d ever heard of. So frenzied and violent. As if both of them had been powerless against the forces compelling them. What did it mean? Their bodies had reached a truce, a glorious, magical truce. But were they any closer to solving the rest of the conflicts between them?

  ****

  Was he still alive? Fawkes wondered. Or had he died and gone to heaven? Nicola’s lithe body in his arms. His whole being relaxed and deeply satisfied. If there was a paradise, how could it be better than this?

  But there were prickling reminders of the corporeal world. He was still wearing his boots and hose, and his damp braies were bunched around his ankles. Nicola squirmed as if uncomfortable and he felt a tickle of cool moisture against his groin.

  He released her and his mind slowly began to function again. He heard the rain on the roof and remembered taking shelter in the shed. The shock of seeing Nicola in the doorway. Her oval face stark white against the sleek blackness of her wet hair and the vivid crimson of her cloak. Those unforgettable eyes, as gray and pearlescent as the stormy sky.

  He had not planned to do this. Some madness had come over him, and not
hing had mattered but that he should possess her. He felt as if he were under some sort of spell, as if nothing was real in this place. The past, the future, neither seemed important. There was only the two of them.

  At the thought, desire again built inside him. He wanted to see her, to behold the remarkable beauty that haunted his dreams.

  He drew up his braies and fastened them, then went to his saddle pack and searched for his flint stone and the bundle of pitch-dipped rushes he always carried. The rushlight caught, then sputtered out. He swore and tried again. A small glow in the darkness. He looked around for a place to put the light. Somewhere secure so it would not fall into the straw and incinerate them both. He finally found a small knothole in the wall and secured the rushlight. He lit another and stuck it in the dirt floor.

  She was still sitting on the table, although she had pulled down her skirts. Her braids were half undone, her eyes dazed. He walked over to her, wanting her naked, wanting to see it all. He began with her hair, starting at her temples, raking his fingers through the tangled strands, dragging out the braids and the ribbons that secured them. She sat utterly still as he smoothed her hair so it lay like a dark cloak around her shoulders.

  He played with one strand, rubbing it between his fingers. How many times had he dreamed of her hair against his skin? A cool, soft river flowing over his chest. Slippery coils stroking his body. A web of silk entangling their nakedness. Unbearable, tickling rapture as the long strands brushed against him.

  He exhaled deeply, then found the lacing on her gown and undid it.

  ****

  Nicola knew a deep satisfaction as she realized he wanted her again. The wild, raw ride he’d taken her on wasn’t enough. His desire thrilled her. They might not have more than this intense, breathless interlude. Soon they would return to the castle and the wall of deception and mistrust would loom between them once again.

  She let him unlace her gown, sitting passive and still. She wanted him to do whatever he wished. For him to bend her body to his will and make her desire things she could never have imagined.