Secret Thunder

by Patricia Ryan

  The dairymaid's companion fell upon her, and soon they were a tangle of arms and legs, writhing together in an age-old rhythm.

  Faithe closed the shutter and rested her forehead against the slatted wood, but the image of the couple on the shore refused to fade. It had been so long since she'd experienced the pleasures of the flesh that she couldn't remember clearly what it felt like to take a man inside her—to take Caedmon inside her, for her husband had been the only man she'd ever given herself to.

  Faithe didn't think what she'd felt for Caedmon could rightly be called "love." She'd liked him well enough, though. He'd treated her with respect and been a good husband in many ways, despite his lack of interest in Hauekleah—or perhaps even because of it, for his unwillingness to involve himself in farm life had meant that Faithe could govern Hauekleah as she pleased. When she'd learned of his death, she had grieved, but her dark melancholy had quickly vanished in the light of all her duties as mistress of Hauekleah.

  She and Caedmon had shared few interests, and in truth had rarely even conversed—except in bed. Sex had been the highlight of their marriage, and certainly the only pastime they had in common. For close to a year now, Faithe had lived chastely, but not by preference. Many times she had ached for a man's touch. Since Caedmon's death, she had oftentimes thought of marrying again—a husband of her own choice this time, a union of the heart.

  The breezes carried another voice from the woods: a man calling, "Elga... Elga!" and then crying out in surprise. He must have found her—or she him. Elga Brewer and her husband were the happiest couple Faithe knew. Their mingled laughter made her smile.

  A union of the heart...

  Her smile faded. There would be no such union for her, it seemed. Instead, there would be Luke de Périgueux. The Black Dragon. A creature with a taste for blood.

  Saxon blood. And yet...

  Closing her eyes again, she recalled the mesmerizing caress of his knuckles as they'd brushed her neck, again and again, while he braided her hair. The thoughtful gesture had stunned her; it had also ignited a longing in her, a desperate ache born of long months alone in a cold bed.

  She could still feel the ticklish warmth of his touch on the back of her neck.

  She could also still feel the imprint of his fingers on her wrists. Opening her eyes, she held her hands up and inspected the red-hot marks that would be bruises by this time tomorrow.

  Fool. Luke de Périgueux was a monster, the last man in the world she should want in her bed; yet he'd be there soon enough. Shivering, she donned a wrapper over her shift, whispering, "Please, God, let him tire of me quickly. Let him leave here, like Thorgeirr, and never return." Grimly, she crossed herself.

  Thinking to check on Sir Alex, she quietly opened the door of her chamber, situated over the service rooms—the buttery, pantry, and dairy—at the north end of Hauekleah Hall. Looking down into the main hall, dimly lit by a single oil lamp, she saw the figure of a man wrapped in a blanket, standing with his back to her at a window—Alex. His brother, who'd been keeping watch over him, was nowhere to be seen. The servants had all either retired to their own cottages nearby, or were out celebrating tonight; only hirelings slept in the hall, usually at harvest time.

  The young man turned toward her as she descended the narrow staircase; he must have had good hearing, for she was silent as the night in her bare feet. "My lady."

  "Sir Alex."

  He made a rueful face. "We're being a bit formal for brother and sister, don't you think?"

  "Ah. Yes, I suppose so." Soon he'd be her brother by marriage. Faithe tugged her wrapper more snugly around herself.

  "Call me Alex."

  "Then you must call me Faithe."

  "I'm sorry I can't speak to you in your own language," he said. "I haven't my brother's gift with foreign tongues. I can understand English passably well, but as far as carrying on a conversation in it..."

  "That's perfectly all right." England was now ruled by those who spoke the Frankish tongue; she'd best get used to it. "You must return to bed," she said, noting his pale complexion and glassy eyes. "You have no business being on your feet." That he could stand here like this, chatting casually, in his condition, was a testament both to his youthful fortitude and lack of sense.

  Far-off laughter made Alex turn back to the window. "What's going on out there?"

  Faithe looked down and tightened the sash of her wrapper. "'Tis a holiday. The people are celebrating."

  He scratched his smooth chest thoughtfully. "Those two girls who fed me supper, the twins..." His smile was so lewdly wistful that Faithe couldn't help but chuckle. He cleared his throat, but the smile remained. "Charming girls."

  "Aye."

  "They wanted me to come into the woods with them tonight, but of course I'm not up to the walk. When I tried to find out why, they both turned the most beguiling shade of pink and refused to answer. It made me wonder."

  The only thing Faithe wondered at was that Lynette and Leola, the most merrily wanton creatures she'd ever known, had the capacity to blush. She shrugged and attempted to change the subject. "Where is your brother?"

  "Luke went out to investigate, after we started hearing all the laughter and such. I think he headed for the woods."

  Dear God. Faithe cleared her throat. "Yes, well, then it's up to me to get you back to bed. Come." Guiding him by the arm, she led him to his pallet. It was slow going; he grimaced with every halting step. When they got there, she helped him to lie down.

  He unwrapped the blanket, murmuring an apology for his state of undress, although it clearly troubled him little, and rearranged it on top of him.

  "You really ought not to have gotten up," Faithe scolded. "Let me check those poultices." They all needed changing. She lifted the perforated clay fire-cover off the hearth, added a log to the glowing coals, and put a small pot of water on the trivet to warm. Alex watched her quietly as she mixed up a new batch of the herbal compound and spread it on the linen.

  "My brother's lucky to have gotten himself betrothed to you," he said.

  Faithe's cheeks grew warm. "I suppose it's handy to have a wife who knows how to fix cuts and scrapes."

  "That's not what I meant," he responded with a smile. "You're very beautiful."

  The warmth became a scalding burn that encompassed her entire face. "This one's ready," she said without looking up. "If you'll just fold back the—"

  "I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He rose onto an elbow, letting out a little grunt of pain. "That is, I don't want you to think... well, that I fancy you. Perhaps under other circumstances, but as it is—"

  "I understand. Would you just fold back—"

  "You're betrothed to my brother, and I would never—"

  "Yes, I understand. Now, please—"

  "I was just stating a fact, that's all. That Luke is a lucky man to have such a beautiful bride."

  "Lie down." Faithe turned back the blanket herself to expose his hip, keeping the rest of him modestly covered, and peeled off the old poultice. His skin felt hot to the touch; she'd have to do something about that fever. "Your brother doesn't seem very impressed. He said I look like a goose girl."

  Alex laughed. "I've never known a goose girl who wasn't pretty." He shrugged. "But then, almost all women are pretty if you just look at them from the right angle."

  "The right angle?" She couldn't resist a smile as she ran a damp cloth over his wound, which was blessedly free of swelling or redness. "I assume you mean looking down on them as they lie on their backs beneath you."

  A pause, and then he burst out laughing. "By God's eyes, you'll be good for Luke. He needs a woman like you to shed some light on that dark soul of his."

  Faithe's smile subsided. She prepared another poultice as he studied her unself-consciously. "You're very different, you and your brother," she said.

  Alex gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling for some time while she substituted the second poultice for the one on his side. "Not as different as you might
think."

  "He's got a darker temperament." She covered him back up and unwrapped the bandage from around his head. "You said so yourself."

  "Aye...

  "And there's his reputation." She cleaned his head wound and spread the last of the hyssop and pennyroyal mixture on a small square of linen.

  "The Black Dragon," Alex said, "is what Luke is, not who he is."

  She washed off her hands and wrapped a bandage around his head. "I don't understand."

  "People see the beast with the crossbow, and they think that's all there is to Luke de Périgueux. But inside" —he tapped his chest— "in here, he has the heart of a man. A good man."

  "Yes, well..." She tied off the bandage. "Is that too tight?"

  Alex struggled up onto his elbow again, although it was clearly painful for him. "He's saved my life five times."

  "Yes?" She rose to fill a jug with boiling water from the pot.

  "The fifth time was this afternoon, when those two men attacked us." His dark eyes glittered with fever and sincerity.

  Faithe added sprigs of lemon balm and wood sorrel to the jug and stoppered it, then set about straightening up the mess she'd made.

  "They came out of nowhere," he said, lying back down with a grunt and folding an arm over his face. "We were riding along, looking for Hauekleah, and suddenly there was a man next to me, swinging that mallet. He got me in the side first, with the spike, and I ended up on my back in the dirt. I went for my sword, and he aimed for my hand, but got my hip instead."

  Faithe sucked in a breath.

  "Better my hip than my hand," he assured her, peeking out from beneath his arm with a smile. "A swordsman's not worth much without his sword hand."

  "I suppose not," she muttered.

  "I managed to get my sword drawn, but I couldn't get up to use it, and I knew one swipe of the mallet would send it flying. I reckoned there was a good chance I was going to get my skull bashed in. The other son of a... the other bandit hung back and aimed his sling at Luke, but I gather he wasn't a very good shot." Alex squinted, as if to focus his memory. "Luke dismounted and came right up to the fellow with the mallet, which took some nerve, since he was completely unarmed."

  "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.