Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  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 tightened 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...

  “Are you sure you’re completely happy?” she asked him carefully. “What about Orrik?”

  His expression clouded over. “Orrik. Aye, well...” He grimaced and shook his head. “Orrik is a problem. The only real problem, but a serious one. I can’t have a bailiff who’s openly impertinent.”

  “I know. He’ll come around, though. I’m sure of it.”

  Luke raised a doubtful eyebrow.

  “Give him a chance, Luke,” she pleaded, growing anxious. “I know he has faults, but he’s been like a father to me my whole life. If you were to get rid of him, I’d be heartsick. Please, just give him a chance to get used to—”

  “Shh.” He reached out and stroked her hair. “I have no plans to dismiss him at present.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “Faithe.” He lowered his hand to cover both of hers as she twisted her ring around and around. She stilled. He tried for a wry smile, but his eyes were solemn. “You’ll think this foolish, but it cuts me to the quick every time I see you doing that to your wedding ring. It’s almost as if you want to yank it off and throw it in the river.”

  “N-nay, I... ‘tis naught but a nervous habit.”

  “I shouldn’t make you so nervous,” he said quietly, leaning in close. There was something almost wounded in his expression. She saw with startling clarity how needful he was, how much he craved that piece of soul she denied him. “I’ve done everything I can to make you comfortable with me.”

  “I’m... I’m comfortable with...”

  He chuckled as if at a fibbing child, and lifted her left hand, rubbing the ring with his thumb. “This little nervous habit says otherwise. When you’ve broken yourself of it, perhaps then I can believe you.” Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingertips, lightly, sending hot chills coursing through her. “It’s getting late. We should go back.”

  She nodded.

  He stood without releasing her, then helped her to her feet and held her hand all the way back to Hauekleah Hall.

  Chapter 10

  “Milord! Are you up there?”

  Recognizing Felix’s voice, Luke slammed the last nail into the oaken tile and scooted to the edge of the roof. “Aye. Is she home already?” He’d instructed the boy to let him know the moment Faithe returned.

  “Aye, milord. She’s out back, tending to Daisy.”

  From Luke’s perch on top of Hauekleah Hall, he had an excellent view of the entire
estate. Shielding his eyes against the glaring afternoon sun, he scrutinized the stable and adjacent horse pasture. “There she is.”

  Faithe had her mare—a splendid chestnut with flaxen mane and tail—under a shade tree at the edge of the pasture. As he watched, she removed Daisy’s bridle and draped it over the fence.

  “Did she bring Master Orrik back with her?” Luke asked the boy.

  “Nay, she came back just like she went out—alone.”

  Luke hissed a Frankish curse under his breath. Faithe had gone out in search of Orrik because the cookhouse had burned down that morning, and she felt he’d want to know about it as soon as possible. It wasn’t a dire emergency—fires happened, especially in cookhouses, and this one had been extinguished before it had spread to the other outbuildings in the croft—but Orrik always insisted on being informed of such incidents immediately. Only it so happened the irascible bailiff had been off on one of his obscure “errands” since yesterday morning. Baldric, as usual, had professed ignorance as to his whereabouts. If he wasn’t visiting the Widow Aefentid at her inn on the other side of the woods, then where the devil was he?

  “Here.” Luke handed his hammer to Dunstan, working alongside him to patch the roof, and descended the ladder.

  “Can I come with you?” asked young Felix as Luke strode up the garden path toward the croft’s rear gate. He was about to say yes, but then he thought better of it. It was difficult enough talking to Faithe about Orrik without an audience.

  “I think not, Felix.” The boy nodded, his gaze on the ground. “You look as if you can use an afternoon snack. Go to the kitchen and tell one of the girls I said to give you some bread and honey.”

  “Aye, milord!” Suddenly animated, Felix sprinted toward the Hall.

  As Luke crossed the pasture toward Faithe, he wiped his sweaty face with his shirt and raked the stray hairs off his forehead. She saw him and nodded—a little uneasily, he thought. That was too bad. During the week that had passed since their outing by the river, they’d enjoyed such easy, congenial relations. He hated for her to show any sign of discomfort around him, even if it was that damned Orrik’s fault and not his.

  She had something in her hand—an iron hoof pick. Settling her weight against Daisy’s shoulder, she leaned down and ran a hand along her mare’s front leg. A light squeeze of the fetlock was all it took for the well-trained mare to lift her foot.

  “Did she pick up a stone?” Luke patted the animal’s flank.

  “Probably. She started limping halfway home.” Cradling Daisy’s foot in one hand, Faithe used the pick to scrape dried mud from the hoof and shoe. She looked absurdly pretty performing this task, her expression serious, her hair falling in her eyes.

  “I take it Orrik wasn’t at the Widow Aefentid’s inn?”

  She shook her head without raising her eyes from her work. “There it is.” She tapped the pick against a sizable pebble that had gotten lodged in one of the deep ridges on the bottom of the hoof.

  He began undoing Daisy’s saddle. “I won’t bother asking why a stable boy can’t take care of this.”

  She grinned crookedly. “I’m glad you’re trying to ask fewer foolish questions.”

  He tugged her hair. “Insolent wench.”

  She looked up and smiled.

  He lightly caressed her cheek, hot and flushed from her ride. “Did you ask the widow whether he’d been there?”

  Her smile disappeared. Faithe bent her head to her work. “Aye. He hadn’t.” She gave the pick a twist and the pebble popped out. “There.” Lowering Daisy’s leg, she dug in her pocket for a chunk of carrot and fed it to the complacent animal. “Good girl.”

  Luke hauled the saddle and blanket off Daisy and carried them into the stable. Locating a currycomb, he brought it out and started brushing Daisy down where the saddle and girth had been. “Where do you suppose he’s been since yesterday morning, then?”

  “I have no idea.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out shakily. “I asked Aefentid about those other times—all those other ‘errands’ Orrik went off on when I thought he was with her.”

  Luke stilled. “He wasn’t with her?”

  “Only for brief visits. He’d stop on his way back from... wherever he went off to. Sometimes he’d spend the night with her, but only at the end of his trips.” She shook her head, her expression miserable.

  “Then what’s he been up to? Where’s he been—”

  “I wish I knew. I feel like an idiot for having just assumed he was with Aefentid. He was always discreet about her, because she’s a respectable widow and runs her own inn. I thought this business about ‘errands’ was just his way of protecting her from gossip. I hate to think he’s been doing something he feels he can’t talk to me about.”

  “He’ll damn well talk to me about it,” Luke growled. He must have brushed the mare a little too hard; she whickered testily.

  “Here, give me that.” Faithe held her hand out, and Luke placed the currycomb in it. She set about brushing down the rest of the horse, her strokes leisurely, her brow furrowed. “Orrik hasn’t always been this way—this bad-tempered and secretive. He never used to go away on mysterious trips before Hastings. But since then, he’s seemed... haunted. The things he saw there—” She broke off, undoubtedly wary of bringing up such matters with her Norman husband.

  “I know what he saw there,” Luke said quietly—a tacit acknowledgment that Orrik had been truthful in his account of King Harold’s mutilation at William’s hands.

  “And Caedmon’s death affected him, too,” she added quietly, without looking at him. She never spoke about her first husband. “Orrik cared a great deal for Caedmon, despite... their differences. He grieved sorely for him.”

  Luke moved closer to her as she brushed her way across Daisy’s side to her rump. “What about you, Faithe? Did you grieve for him, too?”

  Faithe glanced up at Luke, her eyes wide in the cool shade. She nodded. “Yes. I grieved for him. I went to the barn and cried into the straw. I cried until I had no more tears.”

  In a hushed voice, he asked, “Did you love him?”

  Her eyes sought out his for a brief, penetrating moment, and then she dropped her gaze and began running the currycomb through Daisy’s tail. “In a way. Not like... that is, we weren’t... He was my husband. We’d spent nearly eight years together. He was good to me, despite everything.”

  “Despite,” Luke murmured.

  “Pardon?”

  “You keep saying ‘despite.’ You and Orrik both cared for Caedmon despite... what?”

  She brushed the tail with long, thoughtful strokes. “Caedmon... Well, to understand Caedmon, you’ve got to understand that he wasn’t from the country. He’d been city-bred his whole life. He was brought up in Worcester, the ward of the bishop.” She looked up and met his gaze squarely, as if making a point that she was not ashamed of what she said next. “Caedmon was the bastard son of an important man. A very important man, if you believe the rumors.”

  Luke followed her as she moved around to Daisy’s other side. “How did you come to meet him, growing up in such different circumstances?”

  Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug as she smoothed the brush downward. “I met him on our wedding day. Our marriage was negotiated through the bishop and my former overlord.” She glanced briefly at Luke before going on. “‘Twas a good match for me.”

  “I’m sure it was.” Luke felt ridiculously pleased that Faithe’s first marriage had been an arranged union, and not one of love.

  “He was landless, of course,” Faithe continued, “but that was just as well, for I’d no desire to leave Hauekleah. His father, although he didn’t claim him openly, had provided very well for him. Caedmon’s wealth paid for improvements I’d been wanting to make.”

  “How did Caedmon feel about all this?”

  “I think he was content here, despite...” That lopsided grin pulled at her mouth as Luke shot her a look of amusement. “Despite his lack of intere
st in the land. He took up hunting and hawking, and that kept him occupied while I...” She shrugged again.

  “Continued to run Hauekleah,” Luke supplied.

  Another careless shrug. “So you see, he really couldn’t help not caring. ‘Twas the way he was raised.”

  “Did he care about you?” Luke asked.

  Faithe ceased her brushing and looked directly at Luke. “He was no more in love with me than I was with him. Neither of us expected love when we got married. Arranged marriages aren’t like that. They’re...” Her face pinkened, and she looked away and began vigorously brushing out Daisy’s mane. “They’re about other things.”

  “They start out about other things.” He leaned against Daisy’s shoulder, his gaze trained on her, not looking away, despite her obvious discomfort. “They don’t have to end up that way.”

  She nodded, color scorching her cheeks as she brushed.

  “You’re not still in mourning for Caedmon, are you?” he asked, knowing she wasn’t, but wanting to hear it from her.

  She shook her head. “I came to terms with it. Not that I’m happy about how he died.”

  “He died for a cause.”

  “A lost cause,” she said crisply. She slipped the currycomb in one pocket and withdrew another piece of carrot from the other, offering it to Daisy, who lipped it off her palm.

  “Faithe, the English who fell at Hastings died heroes’ deaths. They fought well, for a cause they believed in. You should be proud, not bitter.”

  She looked at him strangely. “Caedmon didn’t die at Hastings.”

  He blinked at her. “He didn’t... I thought...”

  “Not during the battle itself. He was captured.”

  “Captured.”

  She nodded. “Your army took him prisoner. He died later, of some illness. I’m not sure what kind.”

  “Ah.” Luke rubbed his chin, wondering how to respond to this remarkable news—remarkable simply because no English prisoners were taken at the Battle of Hastings. Those who weren’t killed all vanished into the woods. And if prisoners had been taken, their families would have been asked for ransom soon thereafter. Yet Faithe clearly believed her husband had died a prisoner of war.