“Ah, Faithe.” Luke slid a hand around her neck and drew her close, kissing her until she grew lightheaded. He lowered her into the straw and they kissed endlessly, caressing each other with slow, dreamy hands.
When at last they drew apart, breathless, she said, “You see? All is well. All is wonderful. ‘Tis just as I said before. Naught is amiss. The past is gone. There is no more Black Dragon. There’s just us.”
“Just us,” he whispered, lightly stroking her face. “Nothing matters but us.”
“Whatever you were in the past, whatever the herbs turned you into, whatever they made you do, no longer exists.”
He closed his eyes, his forehead creased, his jaw tight.
“Anything you did under their influence,” she said, “cannot blacken your soul. God is merciful. He understands all.”
Luke sighed heavily and wrapped his arms around her, tucking her up against him. “That’s why I like Mass. I can immerse myself in the ritual and feel almost worthy of redemption. I can feel at one with God.”
She nodded. “That’s how I feel when I look out over Hauekleah’s pastures and meadows in the late afternoon, when the sun is low and the shadows are long. I’m afraid I find Mass an utter waste of time.”
“Aye, I can tell from the way you squirm about on your bench, forever turning to look out the door, as if the day is passing you by.”
“That’s precisely how I feel in church.”
“I know. I know everything about you.”
“What do you know about me?”
“I know that you like it when I do this.” He plucked her nipple, sparking a current of arousal between her legs.
“Luke!” she gasped, pushing his hand away. “Don’t do that. I won’t be able to talk to you, and I like talking to you.”
“I like it, too. But I like other things, as well.” His hands roamed over her, through her unkempt kirtle and beneath it. “You’re very... passionate. I hadn’t expected... that is, I’ve never been with a woman who... well, who...”
She laid her palm on his cheek, hot as an oven. “Are you blushing?”
He turned his head, smiling in an engagingly grudging way.
“You are,” she exclaimed with delight, rising on her elbows to look down upon him. “How perfectly splendid! I’ve made Luke de Périgueux blush!”
His broad chest shook with laughter; he encircled her with his arms. “It’s just that I’ve never known a lady to speak so openly of such matters.”
“Does it displease you?” she asked, honestly wanting to know.
He shook his head slightly, never losing eye contact. “It intrigues me,” he said softly. “Everything about you intrigues me.”
She smiled. “Everything?”
“Everything. What’s in here...” Luke lightly tapped a finger against her forehead. “And here.” He pressed his hand over the inner curve of her left breast, where her heart was, and then grinned. “And under here.” Snaking his hand up under her skirt, he burrowed his fingers through the hair at the juncture of her thighs.
“Mmm.” Faithe stretched with delight as he stroked the moist seam with a whisper-light touch. She was instantly breathless. “I like your fingers. They’re a little rough. When you touch me there, I want to jump out of my skin.”
He smiled slowly as he continued his wispy caress. “You’re so responsive. It’s very exciting. I thought I was going to scream, at the end, when you... well...”
She glided a fingertip down his nose. “When I came?”
“God’s bones, woman.” He laughed in evident astonishment.
“You did scream.”
“Did I?” His fingers stilled, and then continued brushing her cleft with patient fingertips; she felt her sensitized flesh swell and open.
“‘Twas more of a sort of very loud groan. I loved it. I wished it could go on and on and on. I wished I could come forever and ever, with you inside me.”
“I can’t think I’d object to the situation,” he said wryly, “if you could think of some way to arrange it.”
She chuckled, trying to keep her mind on their banter even as she reveled in his touch. “I shall put my mind to the matter.”
“I’ve never been with a woman when... that happened to her.”
“Never? Alex said you’d been with many women.”
He grimaced, but she sensed amusement in his eyes. “I must have a talk with Alex. Yes, I’ve been with many women. Most soldiers have.”
“Prostitutes,” she said.
He nodded. “They like to get things over with and get their coins. There’s little pleasure in it for them, from what I’ve been able to gather. Nor do they seek it. ‘Twould only slow things down.”
“How sad.”
He seemed to ponder that. “Yes, I suppose it is sad. I never thought about it much at the time. I mean, I knew they were missing something by not... finishing. But it never occurred to me that I was missing something as well. I reckoned ‘twas enough that I took my pleasure. I never knew how it could feel to be inside a woman when she...” His eyes grew dark, his blush deepened.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I’d like to feel it again.”
“Would you?”
“Oh, yes.” Luke nudged her slightly. She felt an insistent stirring against her thigh, and her heart sped up.
She’d never known anyone so thoroughly masculine. His body thrilled and intrigued her—especially now that he’d been inside her. He was sizable everywhere, she now knew, including that part of him steadily hardening against her.
“Tell me how to touch you,” he said, rolling her onto her back, “to make it happen.”
Faithe covered his big hand with hers and guided a fingertip to the half-hidden little knot of flesh where her desire was concentrated. She sucked in a breath when he stroked it.
“Here?” he breathed raggedly. “Like this?”
“Mmm... but perhaps a little softer, and to the side a bit. You need barely... yes...”
He caressed her until she writhed, handfuls of straw clutched in her trembling fists. “Like that. Yes.”
“And this?” he asked, circling the little nub with quickening fingers. “Is this—”
“Yes!” A tempest of sensation gathered inside her, like a storm ready to explode from the heavens. Insensible with pleasure, she moaned unself-consciously.
“Oh, Faithe.” He kicked off his braies. “Not yet. I want to feel it when it happens.” She thought he was going to mount her, but instead, he lay on his side next to her. Draping her outside leg over his, he pushed into her, just enough to stretch her open, all the while pleasuring her with his hand.
Her body expanded around him as he entered her by maddening degrees, enhancing the stimulation. Her breath came in harsh gasps; her head rolled back and forth in the straw. “Luke... Luke...”
“Now,” he gasped, sliding in to the hilt. “Come for me now.” Luke touched the little knot directly, and her body convulsed around him, rioting with pleasure. “Oh, God.” He grabbed her hips, pounding into her, his head thrown back. With every stabbing thrust, he groaned harshly, until the groans merged into a single strangled cry of fulfillment. His body tightened as he rammed himself deep inside her, his seed pumping against her womb.
Gasping for air, Faithe collapsed in the straw. Dull thunder filled her ears, overpowering all her other senses. Presently, she became aware of trembling fingertips on her face. “Are you all right?”
She growled contentedly. “Oh, yes.”
He sighed in evident relief and drew himself out of her, gathering her up in his arms. “I was too... rough at the end. ‘Twas wonderful.” He dragged a shaky hand through her hair and kissed her forehead. “Too wonderful. I was afraid I’d hurt you, or... upset you.” Shaking his head, he added, “I shouldn’t have lost control like that.”
“Foolish man.” She curled into his embrace. “You’re supposed to lose control. That’s the point. We’re supposed to lose co
ntrol together.”
He chuckled breathily. “You do have a way of putting things.”
“You could never hurt me—or upset me.”
He stiffened slightly. “I’ve spent a lifetime hurting and upsetting people. ‘Tis a difficult habit to break.”
“That wasn’t you,” she said resolutely. “‘Twas the Black Dragon, and he doesn’t exist anymore. He vanished when you ceased chewing those herbs of yours.”
He lay quietly for a moment, lightly rubbing her arm. “Perhaps. Still, I dread what might happen if I don’t keep myself reined in.”
She pulled back to look at him. “Even when you’re inside me?”
“Especially then. You’re not like... the women I’m used to. I’m not quite sure how to make love to someone like you.”
“You seem to have managed fairly well so far,” she said dryly.
He snorted. “Merely because you’re so forgiving of my lack of delicacy.”
She laughed outright. “There are many things I might want from you in bed, Luke de Périgueux, but delicacy isn’t one of them!”
“Exasperating wench!” He chuckled. “You know what I mean.”
“Unfortunately, yes. And I want none of it. Lovemaking should be joyous and without restraint.”
“I’ve trained myself to exercise restraint,” he said. “I’m afraid to abandon it now. You mean too much to me.”
“Foolish, foolish, foolish man.” Rising onto an elbow, she ran a light fingertip down his forehead and nose; when it reached his lips, he kissed it. “One of these days,” she threatened softly, “I shall have to seize those reins you’ve got such a tight grip on, and show you what it’s like to let go of them.”
His gaze darkened. “Are you sure that would be a good idea?”
Smiling, she lowered her mouth to his, whispering against his lips, “Quite sure.”
Chapter 15
Luke came awake slowly, as if he were drifting to the surface of a warm, clear pool, drifting toward the sunlight...
He blinked and yawned. It was sunny, more so than when he usually awoke. He’d slept late, then. Little wonder, since he and Faithe had spent the night—most of it, anyway—making slow, spellbinding love while the rest of Hauekleah slept soundly.
A glance at Faithe’s side of the bed revealed that she’d already awakened and gone downstairs. He’d never known her to sleep past dawn.
He stretched luxuriously, growling with contentment. The linen sheets shifting over his bare flesh reminded him that he was naked; his nakedness reminded him of last night—and yesterday afternoon in the barn.
Luke smiled. He was going to like being married to Faithe of Hauekleah.
He washed and dressed quickly, eager to see his wife again, to put his arms around her and feel her arms around him. Such need, such desire, such euphoria. It was like a drunkenness of the soul—a state of ecstatic inebriation. He couldn’t wait to be with her, to touch her, to bury his face in her hair and inhale her very essence.
I’m lost, he thought as he descended the stairs into the main hall, and I’m glad of it.
Joy rose within him when he saw her standing near a window, inspecting something in her hand. His cheer faded when he saw that Orrik was with her, pointing to what she held and saying something Luke couldn’t bear. Baldric, his arms crossed, leaned against the wall.
His brother sat on a bench nearby, getting a haircut from one of his twins—to the obvious displeasure of young Firdolf, who eyed them sulkily as he stacked firewood on the hearth. Of course, it was the twin with one braid, the one of whom he was so enamored, Leola. Luke wondered why he’d taken a fancy to just the one and not the other, since they were so very much alike. Love, he decided, knew no logic nor reason.
Alex grinned when he saw Luke. “Good day to you, brother. You’ve awakened just in time for the midday meal.” Alex’s eyes sparkled with secret humor, as if he could guess why Luke had slept so late.
Faithe smiled with unabashed pleasure when she noticed Luke. He smiled back, feeling, already, that tingle of gratification he felt whenever he was near her. She waved him over, and he crossed to her.
“What do you make of this?” she asked, holding out the shiny object in her palm.
Luke reached for it, stilling when he saw what it was—a golden disk inset with tiny pearls in the shape of a wolf’s head. Alex’s mantle pin. He cut his eyes toward his brother, who met his gaze with a fleeting quirk of the mouth, a twitch of an eyebrow.
He finds this amusing, Luke realized, summoning enough presence of mind to take the pin and make a show of examining it.
Orrik scowled. “That belonged to the Norman devil who murdered Caedmon.” The bailiff cast an uncomfortable look in Faithe’s direction, and received a rather chilly gaze in return. Faithe had told Luke of her intention to dress Orrik down for keeping the truth from her all these months; it appeared she had already done so.
Alex gestured toward the pin. “‘Tis of Frankish origin.”
Luke glared at his brother, appalled that he would offer any such helpful insight.
“Well, it is,” Alex said nonchalantly. “Anyone can see that.”
“He’s right,” Orrik agreed. “‘Tisn’t English-made. That was obvious just from the design. And there’s that inscription in French on the back.”
Luke turned the pin over numbly, knowing perfectly well what was inscribed there: To my youngest son: Be strong and of good courage.
“It looks like your mantle pin,” Faithe said.
Luke stared at her.
“Does it?” Orrik asked, his voice soft, his silvery eyes glinting.
“So it does,” Alex said easily as he brushed bits of snipped hair off his face. He smiled mischievously at Luke, who glowered back. “They’re the same size and shape, and the design around the edge is nearly identical. We should compare the two. Where is yours?”
At the bottom of the river, as you know very well. “I’ve lost it,” Luke ground out, vexed by his brother’s flippant attitude. This was all a game to him, though clearly both Orrik and Faithe took it very seriously.
“You lost your mantle pin?” Faithe asked, reaching out to touch Luke’s arm. “The one your father gave you? I’m so sorry. I’ll tell everyone to look for it. ‘Twill turn up.”
I sincerely hope not. For the two pins to be compared would be disastrous. “That would be... good,” he said, guilt twisting in his stomach. “Thank you.”
“It matters not whether we find your pin,” Orrik snapped. “This one” —he jabbed a finger at the wolf pin— “is Frankish for sure.”
“For sure,” Baldric echoed.
“Aye,” Faithe said, “and most likely it came off the mantle of a Norman soldier. After all, ‘twas found in a...” Her composure faltered slightly, just for a moment. “In a brothel,” she said briskly. “Soldiers frequent such places, do they not?”
She paused, looking around at the four men. They all cleared their throats and muttered in the affirmative.
“All we know about this pin’s owner,” she said, “is that he’s someone’s youngest son.”
“And that he’s a whorin’ murderer,” Orrik snarled.
Faithe’s cheeks stained pink, and Luke guessed why: If the murderer had been whoring that night, so had his victim. One of the many regrets consuming him of late was that this gentle, loving woman had been forced to confront the unsavory circumstances of her husband’s death.
Faithe took the pin out of Luke’s hand and flipped it over thoughtfully. “I mean to find the man who lost this,” she said, softly but firmly.
Luke glanced toward Alex to see a flicker of unease in response to Faithe’s quiet resolve.
She looked up and met Luke’s gaze, her expression sad and intent. “He was my husband, Luke. I can’t let this pass. I have to find the man who killed him. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”
“I understand,” he said, because it was clearly what she wanted to hear. She needed his approval. S
he needed to know that he accepted her decision to apprehend the man who’d murdered her first husband. That Luke himself was the man she sought was a fact he intended to keep from her at all costs. It would devastate her; it would ruin him. And he would lose her.
He would lose her. He couldn’t let that happen. All that mattered now was keeping the truth from her, though doing so would only further tarnish his soul.
“I must find out why Caedmon disappeared from Hastings,” she said, “and why he lived... and died... as he did. And I must and will bring his killer to justice. Nothing will deter me.”
Luke risked another glance at his brother. Alex’s subtly arched eyebrow conveyed no humor this time, and his mouth was set in a grim line that Luke didn’t often see on the affable young man’s face. It was clear that he discerned, as Luke did, the very real threat behind Faithe’s quiet resolve, so different from Orrik’s fierce but unfocused bluster. Her determination could not be dismissed, and should not be ignored.
“I will continue my inquiries,” Orrik said. “I’ll show that pin in every village the Normans have passed through—”
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all along?” Faithe asked.
“Aye, well, I’ll step up my efforts. I’ll talk to every Englishman between here and—”
“Every Englishman?” Faithe asked.
“Aye. Every man, woman, and—”
“Why not the Normans?”
“The Normans! The soldiers?”
“Aye.”
“You mean for me to question Norman soldiers?”
“You’re looking for a Norman soldier, are you not? Who better to identify the man who wore the insignia of the white wolf than one of his colleagues?” Faithe spoke quietly, but there was a layer of steel underlying her words.
“Milady, I—”
“If you’ve restricted your efforts to the English, ‘tis little wonder you’ve been unsuccessful.”
“I’ll be damned if I’ll go begging information from those bastards. ‘Tisn’t worth it.”
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 90
