When Lady Sybila had launched into her fit of rage over Alex’s resolve to run away with Nicolette, Gaspar promptly mixed her up a sedative tonic—extra strong. Not only would it make her stop shrieking in his ear, but she’d be all the more receptive to his solution to the dilemma of Alex de Périgeaux. As it happened, she suggested the beating even before he could plant the idea in her mind. And if he never wakes up from it, she’d drawled as the tonic took effect, so much the better.
In the end, he’d chosen to stop just short of killing the boy, though it had taken some doing to call Vicq and Leone off. Once they tasted blood, those two were damnably hard to rein in. Lady Sybila had been peevish upon hearing that the object of her wrath had survived, but the trouncing had served its purpose. Alex had ceased to be a problem. Indeed, for almost a decade, it was as if he’d never existed.
Until now.
Having stripped Milo down to his drawers—Jesu, but he was scrawny as an old man—Gaspar drew the sheet up to his chin, thinking how very much he looked like a corpse in a shroud. It would be a simple matter to turn appearances into reality...stir a bit of poison hemlock and white hellebore into his wine, and that would be that. If Milo’s death would solve anything, Gaspar would have brought it about long ago, but Nicolette as a widow was a dangerous prospect. William the Bastard would marry her off instantly, to preserve the castellany, and her new husband might not be the meek and pliable puppet that Milo had proven himself.
Gaspar watched in disgust as Milo muttered unintelligible things in his drunken torpor. Pathetic bag of bones. A far cry from the man he’d been in Périgeaux, yet even then Gaspar had detected a frailty of character hidden deep within his facade of urbane good humor. He’d sensed Milo’s weakness as any good predator should, and once they were settled in at Peverell, he’d set about nourishing it. This he’d done for the most part by encouraging his new master’s dependence on wine. After Violette’s suicide, it had taken little urging for Milo to steep himself in it.
Milo grumbled and turned onto his side, disturbing the little red brocade pillow, which slid to the floor, taking the shift with it. Gaspar replaced the pillow on the bed, but held onto the shift, stroking the silk that had caressed Nicolette’s body so provocatively.
Gaspar had grown to relish the power he’d carved out for himself at Peverell—just as he’d grown increasingly consumed by his need to possess its mistress, although his desire for her had taken on a bitter taste over the years. Not once had that cold-hearted bitch ever looked at him as a man. He was her subordinate, her apothecary castellan. He always was and always would be beneath her.
Gaspar gripped the silken garment in his fists, wondering how it would feel to throw her onto a bed and yank it up—or better yet, tear it off her until it hung in shreds. He’d drive himself into her like a battering ram, fuck her till she screamed. She’d notice him then, by God.
Looking down, he saw that he’d ripped the shift along a seam. Now he’d have to take it with him; how could he explain the damage?
He wondered if Nicolette even suspected the depth of his hunger for her. What would she think if she knew how often he’d imagined finding her alone in the woods and forcing her to strip for him...she’d weep and plead as he shoved her down on her hands and knees. Often he pictured Vicq and Leone there with him, watching. Sometimes he even imagined letting them have a go at her while he watched.
How many times, in his waking dreams, had he done things to her, or forced her to do things to him, that a woman like her couldn’t begin to imagine, things even whores balked at. He’d humble her, degrade her, and then she’d know how he’d felt all these years. Then she’d know.
Patience...he’d have her soon enough. His only regret—and it was a major one—was that she’d be in a drugged stupor while he took her, unaware of what she’d be made to submit to.
But at least he would have her, at long last...with or without her lord husband’s permission. Milo had been so tractable at first, letting Gaspar foster in his inebriated mind the logical solution to his lack of an heir...Of course, if another man were to sire the child...but surely you’ve thought of that, milord...no doubt you’ve considered me for this service, and if you order it, it shall be done, with the utmost discretion...
Only, once he’d sobered up, Milo had rejected the scheme on the grounds—all too sound, but vexing nonetheless—that Nicolette would never voluntarily take Gaspar to her bed. And so Gaspar had suggested the sleeping draught, but Milo seemed squeamish about such measures. That drunken fool might be willing to let Peverell slip through his fingers, but Gaspar had no intention of allowing it. Losing Peverell would destroy everything he’d worked for all these years, and what’s more, he’d never have Nicolette.
He would have her; he would. If it must be without her knowledge, so be it. He didn’t need Milo’s approval to dose her wine with sleeping draught. And once his seed was sprouting in her belly, Milo would be so relieved that he wouldn’t care how it came about.
Patience...wait for the right moment.
Gaspar wadded up the torn shift and stuffed it beneath his tunic and shirt. It felt slippery-smooth against his chest. Her naked flesh would feel this way against his, smooth and warm and arousing.
The hell with patience, he thought as he left the little chamber and descended the tower stairs. He’d dose her wine at the first convenient opportunity after they returned to Peverell. He’d waited long enough for Nicolette de St. Clair.
No more waiting.
Chapter 9
St. Clair, Normandy: Peverell Castle
“Is there a relic in that sword?” Milo demanded of Alex as he struggled to sit up against a mound of pillows in his narrow, curtained bed. He spoke quietly to avoid being heard by the people at the opposite end of Peverell’s enormous great hall—two serving wenches clearing away the last of the supper dishes and some soldiers playing draughts. Alex could barely hear him over the rain pattering against the window shutters.
“Aye.” Standing next to the bed, Alex reached for the hilt of his sword, his hand closing over the knob that contained the hair of St. Augustine.
“Swear on it.”
Alex shifted to take his weight off his bad hip, which the weather had set to throbbing. “For pity’s sake, Milo, I don’t need to—”
“Swear on it!” Milo sat forward, his goblet clutched in a quivering fist. “I want to know that the thing will be done!”
“‘Twill be done,” Alex whispered, glancing uneasily at one of the wenches, who’d looked toward them at Milo’s outburst. “Why do you think I’m here?”
In truth, Alex had been asking himself what he was doing here ever since their arrival early that afternoon. After a full week of dazzling sunshine in Rouen, the steady rain that had plagued their journey to St. Clair—and which had persisted past sundown—struck him as a bad portent. He’d found Peverell Castle to be entirely as huge and dismal as he’d been warned, although it had clearly been modified somewhat for comfort during the century or so since it was built.
The vaulted ground floor, through which entrance was gained to the keep, had once housed a kitchen. When a freestanding cookhouse was constructed in the inner bailey, this undercroft was partitioned via walls of stone into guest chambers for important visitors. One of these chambers, a modest corner cell with a feather bed and two window slits, Milo had assigned to Alex. Upon discovering the other chambers to be empty, Alex had asked for the large one with the fireplace, but his cousin had smiled cryptically and insisted that he’d find the corner chamber more to his liking.
A stairwell in the keep’s single turret provided access to the raised hall, a cavernous space with a hearth at one end and a cluster of smaller rooms—buttery, pantry and dairy—at the other. Here meals were served on collapsible tables to the scores of soldiers quartered, along with Gaspar, in barracks located in the outer bailey.
The level above the great hall was a solar which served as a great chamber for Peverell’s lord and la
dy. However, immediately upon their arrival today, Milo had ordered his bed to be disassembled, carted downstairs, and rebuilt in front of the hearth in the great hall. His wife’s bed would remain upstairs, but until further notice, he would sleep in the hall. The visit to Rouen and the journey back had drained him, he explained, making the trek up and down the turret staircase a torturous prospect. Milo did appear particularly pale and shaky of late, but Alex suspected his new sleeping arrangements had less to do with his health than with a desire to provide Nicki with as much privacy as possible during Alex’s stay.
“We both know why you’re here,” Milo said under his breath, “and I know your intentions are good. You’re a man of honor, after all, but still—”
A huff of disgusted laughter rose from Alex. “I used to be a man of honor. I don’t know what I am anymore.”
Milo waved a bony hand toward the hilt of Alex’s sword. “Swear to it, so I can rest easy.”
With an exasperated sigh, Alex gripped the hilt of his sword. “I swear to Almighty God and all the saints that I will...” Christ, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, even to Milo.
“That you’ll endeavor to sire me a son,” Milo provided.
“I so swear it.”
“And that you’ll keep your true purpose from Nicolette, and when it’s done, you’ll leave here and never contact her again—or the child, of course.”
“Fear not,” Alex assured him. “I’ve no desire for such attachments. I do have one condition, though. You mustn’t attempt to trade the babe away, if it’s a girl. I don’t mind your procuring a boy and claiming your wife bore twins, but—”
“Yes, very well.” Milo waved a hand dismissively. “Swear to it—all of it.”
Alex hesitated as he pondered the implications of this oath...You’ll leave here and never try and contact her again.
“Cousin?” Milo prompted.
Alex squeezed his eyes shut. Women have been known to use one fellow to make another one jealous....Not only had she lost her virginity years before, but she’d already been with child. “I swear it,” he said quickly. “I will do all that you’ve asked of me.”
“And what is that?” came a soft voice from behind. Alex wheeled around to find Nicki standing in the turret doorway.
Milo greeted her with a mild smile. “Nicolette, my dear. I thought you’d retired for the evening.”
“It occurred to me that you might need...a few things during the night.” Nicki set a candle on the little table next to him and placed a chamber pot beneath his bed. She still wore the tunic she’d had on earlier that day—a pink one—but she’d freed her hair of its veil and brushed it out of its braids. It swayed in a rippling sheet as she moved, reflecting the light from the low fire that crackled in the hearth. Nicki had ordered the fire built in an attempt to ward off the damp chill of the hall for Milo, who got cold easily, but Alex appreciated it, too. The warmth eased the pain in his hip.
“The servants who sleep in the hall can tend to my needs,” Milo assured his wife. “Go back upstairs. I’m fine.”
Her gaze lit on Alex’s hand resting on his sword hilt. “You were swearing sort of oath when I came down.” Her eyes reflected the firelight, too, sparkling like pale green crystals.
“I...” Lying had never come easily to Alex; he groped for words. “I was merely...I wasn’t really...”
“He was promising to instruct the men in swordplay while he’s here,” Milo said easily, and brought the goblet to his mouth.
Nicki’s elegant eyebrows drew together. “You made him swear to do it?”
Milo shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do. Perhaps my thinking was muddled.”
Her consternation appeared to deepen. Little wonder; Milo’s memory lapses and confusion had gotten worse over the past few days, no doubt from the stress of the trip.
“I want you to eat something before you go to sleep,” she said.
He made a face. “Don’t start trying to shove food down my throat again.”
“You haven’t eaten since we got home. I’m going to go out to the cookhouse. There may be some of that stew left. If there is, I’m going to sit here and see that you eat it.”
“Damnable harpy! You can bring it back, but you can’t make me eat it.”
“It’s raining,” Alex said as she turned to go. “I’ll get the stew.”
“I’ll be fine—I’ll wear my mantle,” she called out as she disappeared into the stairwell with her husband hurling threats and insults at her back. Milo didn’t seem to notice when Alex bid him good night and retreated to the undercroft.
Alone in his candlelit chamber, Alex sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his hip until the band of pain loosened a bit. He tugged off his boots and hung up his tunic, and had started pulling his shirt over his head when he noticed a small oaken door tucked into a corner. Perplexed at not having noticed it earlier, he realized that it had been concealed by a tapestry, now gone. His first thought was that the door must lead to an adjoining chamber, but that was impossible, seeing as how it was positioned at the juncture of two outside walls. Perhaps he had his own private garderobe.
Lowering his shirt back down, he opened the door and ducked his head into it, discovering a dark shaft with narrow stone steps winding steeply upward—a secondary stairway, probably intended for servants, hidden within the thickness of the keep’s massive walls. Wondering where it led, Alex took his candle and climbed awkwardly up the musty, spiraling passage until, halfway up, it opened onto a tiny landing with another small door. He had to push the door hard to get it to open, sacks of something heavy having been piled against it. Inside he found a small, whitewashed room lined with benches on which were stacked loaves of bread and various other foodstuffs; dried fruits and meats hung from the ceiling. It stood to reason that there would be access between the pantry and the undercroft, seeing as the lower level had once been a kitchen.
Withdrawing to the landing, he gazed up the stairwell, which rose to the keep’s third level—the solar, now Nicki’s private domain. Alex wondered if it was as unrelentingly grim as the rest of Peverell Castle. After a moment’s hesitation, he made his way up the stairs to the topmost landing, silent in his stocking feet. Pausing at the door, he listened for sounds from within. Nicki was out fetching her husband some stew, but her personal maid might be puttering about. On hearing nothing, he cautiously turned the door handle. It opened without resistance.
Alex stepped into the spacious, lamplit room, remembering the other time he’d stolen into Nicki’s domain uninvited, the night before her marriage to Milo. Part of him felt like the lowest form of knave for trespassing on her privacy, but he found he could not stifle his curiosity. As it happened, Nicki’s solar was a far cry from the rest of Peverell Castle.
The windows were large, the walls whitewashed and festooned with colorful, exotic rugs. One was draped over a long bench, on which a dozen embroidered pillows had been scattered, along with a book that had a white ribbon hanging out of it. He recalled that Nicki sometimes used to undo her braids when she was reading to him in their cave, so that she could use her ribbons as bookmarks. There was an empty spot where Milo’s bed had apparently been. Next to it, coming out from the wall, stood another narrow bed, curtained in pale yellow. The insides of the window shutters and turret door had been painted the same summery color. Sunflowers with long, crooked stems sprouted from a clay pot on a writing desk.
Rain drummed on the oak-shingled roof overhead, rattled the shutters. Yet the solar felt snug and cheerful, bearing as it did Nicki’s intimate stamp. It looked like her—like the best of her, the sweet and girlish Nicki he’d known in their dreamy afternoons together in Périgeaux. Or rather, the girl he’d thought he’d known—untouched, unspoiled. Reality had been a different matter entirely, he reminded himself.
So this was why Milo had insisted on giving him that little corner chamber downstairs—because it connected, very discreetly, with his wife’s private sanctum. No doub
t he had ordered the tapestry removed, so that Alex would not be long in overlooking his chamber’s most significant amenity. Shaking his head, Alex prowled around a bit, peeking into a chest, opening a bottle and sniffing its contents. Did Milo expect him to bed her up here, he wondered, or take her downstairs? Alex had tupped married women on occasion, but never with their husbands sleeping beneath the same roof. This arrangement felt increasingly unsavory by the moment.
The slanted writing desk with its attached chair drew him. She must have had two dozen ink-stained quills of varying types and sizes all laid out in an orderly row. Alex lifted one that looked as if it had come from a raven and stroked his lips with the glistening black feather. Picking up her bone-handled pen knife, he scraped its blade against his cheek; it was sharp enough to shave with. A sheet of parchment, blank but neatly ruled, was pinned to the desk next to a wax tablet and stylus. On a table next to it sat a small wooden chest, its lid open to reveal a stack of heavily inked pages—her poems. The stack was untidy, as if she’d been searching through it—apparently with success, for one page had been removed and set aside.
Alex lifted this page, mystified by what was written on it, of course, but intrigued by the delicate little drawing above the title: two hands clasped within a thorny wreath that bore a single delicate rose.
The door to the turret staircase squeaked as it opened. “Alex!” Nicki stared at him from the doorway.
“Nicki. I...”
“Give me that!” Crossing the room swiftly, she snatched the sheet of verse from his hand. “You had no right to read this.”
“I didn’t. I...can’t.”
“Ah...yes.” Seeming both chagrined and relieved, Nicki returned the page to the box and locked it with a key that she retrieved from the pouch on her girdle. Avoiding his gaze, she unpinned her blue mantle, drenched from the rain, and hung it on a peg, then kicked off her sodden slippers and stepped into a pair of dry ones. Her hair shimmered enchantingly in the lamplight.
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