Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  He shifted, and then came a hot, hard pressure as he guided himself into her from behind. Closing his hands around her hips, he filled her little by little, pausing between thrusts, letting her stretch to fit him. When he was at last completely sheathed within her, he slipped his arms around her to cup her breasts. Slowly he withdrew, and then pushed in, again and again. Through his heaving chest pressed to her back, she felt the wild beating of his heart; hers felt as if it would burst at any moment. Little by little, he increased the tempo and force of his thrusts until it seemed he had no conscious control over them at all—as if his body had disassociated itself from his mind. He drove into her with unthinking fervor, gripping her shoulders from in front to hold her still, forcing her to take all of him with each fierce thrust.

  He overwhelmed her, possessed her. She craved this possession—wanted him to take her like this, to lose himself in her, wanted it desperately. Could something that felt so right really be so foolish? Was she a fool?

  Thorne perceived her anxiety even through his sensual delirium; she stiffened, and he knew something was wrong. He was close, so close... too close to stop. She was exhausted, that was all; she’d had a long, harrowing day, and now she was suffering for it. “It’s all right,” he murmured, reaching between her legs to renew the intimate caress that had so transported her before. “Easy.”

  Slowing his thrusts to make himself last, for he had to be sure to pull out, he touched her with all the care and skill he could summon, determined to give her the pleasure that would ease her woes, erase her ugly memories. Presently her muscles relaxed and she moaned as if in surrender, clutching at the wolf pelts. Hold off, he commanded himself. Hold off till she’s done. She writhed against him, and he strove for control. She was so tight, so hot, and as she teetered on the brink, so did he...

  He felt a shudder ripple through her, and then, deep within her, powerful spasms that squeezed him with stunning bursts of pleasure, wresting the seed from his body. With a strangled growl, he drove in hard, shaking with the force of his release. It was so right, so perfect, that for a few blissful moments, he allowed himself to forget that he should have pulled out, allowed himself to savor this primal ecstasy.

  With a satisfied groan, he sank into the wolf pelts, drawing Martine’s body tight to his. They were still connected; he wanted that to last forever. Breathlessly he kissed her neck. She was breathless, too.

  “Martine, I... I didn’t mean to finish inside you. I’m sorry.” He reached up to stroke her cheek and found it wet. “Martine?” Levering himself up on an elbow, he pushed her hair aside, but she burrowed her face into the pelts. He felt her sobs deep inside her. “Martine, it’s all right. Don’t cry.”

  Enclosing her in his arms, he held her tight and whispered against her neck. “It’s over. Sleep now. Everything’s all right.”

  She must have had blessed little energy left for her tears, because it wasn’t long before she quieted.

  “Martine,” he whispered, but there was no response save her peaceful breathing. She had fallen asleep with him inside her. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he drew himself out, readjusted their clothes, gathered her in his arms, and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  It was midmorning when Martine awoke and found herself alone in bed. Sunlight flooded the little cottage, a lively fire burned in the pit, and from outside she heard Thorne at the chopping block. Arising, she tidied herself as best she could, then stole to the window to watch the Saxon.

  He chopped with his back to her, wearing an unbleached linen shirt and coarse leggings, having removed his tunic; evidently his exertions kept him warm. He leaned on the crutch with his weak right arm and wielded the ax with his left, splitting chunk after chunk of wood and tossing the pieces onto a large pile next to him. He worked quickly, and with great power and accuracy, despite his injuries and the ax’s broken handle. She gazed in rapt fascination at the bulge and flex of his muscles beneath his shirt, then shook her head and turned away, disgusted with herself.

  Here she stood, just like her mother, staring out the window of a crude mud hut at the man who owned her soul. She was just as foolish as Adela, just as weak. Thorne wielded extraordinary power over her, power she conceded to him every time she yielded to his kisses, trembled at his touch. When would she learn? When would she finally find the strength to close her heart to him?

  Embedding the ax in the chopping block, he grabbed a couple of pieces off the pile, came back inside, and added them to the fire.

  “Do you intend us to stay here long?” Martine asked.

  “Nay.” He reached for his tunic and lowered it over his head. “We should leave this morning.”

  She glanced out the window. “There’s enough firewood in that pile to last through spring.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, which was damp with perspiration. “I got carried away. Chopping wood is so restful.”

  “Restful!”

  “To the mind,” he amended. “It helps me think. I was trying to figure something out.”

  “What?”

  He looked away and took a deep breath, then met her eyes. “How to ask you to marry me.”

  Martine drew in an astonished breath and stared at him, wondering if she’d heard him right. He wanted to marry her! Thorne Falconer wanted to marry her!

  He said, “I know I’m not landed, and I’ve not got the right. But I’m asking you anyway.”

  Martine felt the same peculiar buzz of anticipation that she had felt when she first set eyes on Thorne and mistook him for her betrothed. It is this man, she remembered thinking, this regal man with eyes of sky, who will speak vows with me, who will take me to his bed and sire my babes...

  But, of course, Thorne hadn’t been that man at all. He was unlanded, and even if he weren’t, he wouldn’t have wanted to marry her. He intends to marry a woman with property of her own, Rainulf had explained. What was it Felda had said? Funny thing is, he don’t care much for highborn ladies, though of course, he’ll be marrying one someday. He’s far too land-hungry to settle for a girl without property.

  He was still unlanded, as he had just pointed out. Yet he had just proposed to her. What had changed to make him want to marry her?

  She had become widowed, of course.

  She had also become a woman of property. Edmond’s death meant that she now controlled outright the lands that had comprised her bride-price.

  “Why?” she asked him, dreading the answer but needing to know. “Why have you asked me to marry you?”

  He hesitated. “Why does any man ask a woman to marry him?”

  Evasion. What had she expected? “Some from love.”

  He hesitated, his gaze resting for some reason on Bathilda’s little cradle in the corner. He hesitated too long.

  Suddenly chilled, she continued, “But I don’t pretend to think that’s your reason. You’re incapable of love.” Her hands curled into fists at her side. “And, of course, you’ve never made any secret of the fact that you intend to marry for property. If we were to marry, my lands would, in effect, become yours.”

  His eyes flashed. “The only reason I want to marry you is to fulfill my promise to your brother to take care of you.” He gestured helplessly with his big hands. “Christ, Martine, don’t you realize how much danger you’re in? Lord Godfrey ordered you—ordered you—to marry Bernard.” He seized her by the shoulders. “Bernard is entirely as savage as his brother, but far more intelligent, and therefore far more dangerous. Do you want to be trapped in wedlock with that monster?”

  “Of course not.”

  His grip tightened and his gaze drilled into hers. “Well, that is exactly what’s going to happen if you’re still unmarried when he finds you.”

  “Perhaps he won’t find me,” she said. “I’ll go somewhere far away, where—”

  “Martine, for God’s sake!” He released her abruptly and wheeled around, raking his hands through his hair. “It doesn’t matter how far away you go. Bernar
d is very cunning, very resourceful, and very determined. He will find you. He will find you, and he will force you to marry him.” Facing her again, he added softly, “Unless you’re already married. Think about it, Martine. The only way you can protect yourself from Bernard is to marry someone else. I’m offering myself. Not because I want your land. Because I want to keep you from harm.”

  “But the land doesn’t hurt, does it?”

  He shrugged his big shoulders in a gesture of weary frustration. “Would you have me say I’m displeased that we won’t be poor and homeless? I won’t lie to you, Martine. But if land was all I cared about, I would have taken Bernard up on his offer to join him in exchange for a holding.”

  “You had a more cunning plan—to get me away from Harford, manipulate me—”

  “Manipulate you!”

  “You took advantage of me last night when I was weak and tired and vulnerable. Now I realize why you did it, why you seduced me. You wanted me to think you cared for me, so that I’d agree to marry you. That way you’ll have control over many estates, not just the one Bernard would have deeded you.”

  He took a step toward her. “You think me capable of such cold-blooded—”

  “Absolutely.”

  He slumped down onto a bench, propped his elbows on his knees, and sank his head in his hands. Watching him, Martine felt a discomfiting stab of self-doubt. He’d argued with such disarming sincerity, maintained so convincingly that this marriage was for her benefit, that he didn’t care about the land...

  But that was absurd, of course. Land was all he cared about, all he desired. His hunger for property surpassed all other hungers. If she doubted his avaricious motives, it was only because he wanted her to doubt them and had manipulated her. Some men, Matthew had warned, are remarkably skillful at bending women to their will.

  And Thorne Falconer is one of those men.

  Nay. He wouldn’t make a fool of her this time. She wouldn’t let him exploit her, not again. It was her land he craved, no matter what smooth lies he fashioned. Her land, not her. He didn’t even pretend to love her.

  He dropped his hands from his face and looked at her; she saw the defeat in his eyes. “I take it you don’t want to marry me.”

  She swiftly envisioned the alternative—fleeing to God knew where, hiding from Bernard. Thorne was right, of course; Bernard would find her. He would find her and marry her and make her suffer all the more for having tried to escape him.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry Thorne; even knowing his selfish motives, she couldn’t deny that the prospect intrigued her, even excited her. And, of course, she would be protected from Bernard. But she couldn’t let Thorne think that she was the same pathetically trusting girl who’d let him use her so cavalierly in the past.

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t marry you,” she said. Surprise, then relief, crossed his features. “I haven’t particularly got anything against a cold-blooded marriage, as long as we’re both honest about it... as long as we recognize that it’s naught but a union of mutual convenience. You get your precious lands, and I get protection from Bernard. All I ask is that there are no lies between us... that you don’t pretend to... to feelings that don’t exist. That would make fools of us both.”

  His eyes were sad. “Martine—”

  “Those are the only conditions under which I’ll marry you.”

  He released a long, troubled sigh. “Very well, then. But we’d better do it soon, before Bernard finds us. We can go to St. Dunstan’s. I think Brother Matthew is authorized to perform the sacraments.” He hesitated, and it seemed as if he wanted to say something more, but then he just shook his head and turned toward the door. “I’ll get the horses ready.”

  Martine watched through the window as Thorne saddled up their mounts. She would marry him, but she would close her heart to him. She would keep her distance, at least emotionally. She needn’t be weak and foolish like Adela. Adela had lived for Jourdain.

  From now on, Martine would live for Martine.

  Chapter 21

  “Do you have a ring?” Brother Matthew asked the couple kneeling before him in the dim, candlelit church, empty save for the two monks serving as witnesses.

  This is really happening, Thorne thought with a sense of incredulous wonder. I’m marrying Martine! He pulled off his ruby ring and took Martine’s left hand in his. It was ice-cold and trembled slightly. He gave it a gentle squeeze and tried to meet her eyes, but she wouldn’t look at him.

  Matthew cleared his throat. “In the name of the Father...” The Saxon lowered the ring halfway down Martine’s index finger. “And the Son...” He did the same on her middle finger. “And the Holy Ghost...” He slid it all the way down her ring finger, but of course it was far too big. She transferred it to her thumb, where it seemed to fit. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  * * *

  “This chamber has the largest bed,” Brother Matthew explained, pushing aside the leather curtain in the doorway of the prior lodge’s best guest cell. Thorne noted that this bed was only very slightly wider than the others, but dismissed from his mind the notion of offering to sleep on the floor. When Martine agreed to marry him, she had implicitly agreed to sleep in the same bed.

  “Thank you for letting us stay here,” said Martine, cradling Loki in her arms. “We’ll try to make other arrangements as soon as possible.”

  “You needn’t be in any rush,” Matthew graciously replied. “I’ll enjoy your company.”

  Rainulf still protected her, even from afar, Thorne reflected. For it was surely Matthew’s friendship with Martine’s brother that made him so eager to extend his hospitality to her.

  That evening, while Matthew ate with the brothers and attended to monastery business, Thorne and Martine endured their own carefully polite supper in the prior’s lodge and took turns bathing in their chamber. Finally the servants left and they found themselves alone for the first time since they were wed that afternoon.

  Thorne finally broke the silence. “Martine, there are things we should talk about.”

  “I know,” she said. “We have to decide where we’re going to live.”

  “Aye. And there are other things—”

  She stood. “Not tonight. I’m too tired to think, much less decide anything. I’m going to bed now. We can talk in the morning.”

  With that, she turned and disappeared into their chamber. Thorne sat for a while, nursing a brandy and contemplating the glowing coals in the brazier.

  You’re incapable of love, she had said. Was he? He’d long ago chosen not to expose himself to the torment that weaker men called love. In the process of refusing to give in to it, had he actually become incapable of it? Had he, in fact, become as cold and unscrupulous and grasping as Martine accused him of being?

  For years he’d believed that marrying for love was a mistake. The wise man married for land. Love always died, whether quickly and cruelly, or slowly under the weight of its own lies. Land, on the other hand, lasted forever. Now he had what he’d always wanted—a marriage of property. He should be pleased. In a way, he was. Martine was his wife!

  But she was a wife who mistrusted him and thought he’d used his lovemaking to manipulate her. Yet she had consented to marry him. Presumably that meant she consented to let him bed her. The prospect of having her whenever he wanted should have thrilled him. But could he make love to her now, knowing how powerless and exploited it made her feel? He recalled her tears last night in the cottage. Sex should be a simple act of joy, but to her, it would be an act of submission, a relinquishing of her will, and it would only drive her further from him.

  He couldn’t do it, not knowing that it would only deepen the rift between them. He needed to heal that rift, and the only way to do that was to make her trust him, make her accept the fact that he wasn’t Jourdain. Jourdain had acted unconscionably—had used Adela and then abandoned her the moment she became inconvenient. His cruelty had wounded Martine deeply, had scarred her soul
. To lie with her now would only scratch those scars open, make her feel used and manipulated. He must resist the temptation, at least for a while, gradually reintroducing her to his touch in small ways as he worked on regaining her trust.

  Brother Matthew returned, and if he thought it odd that Martine had retired before her husband on their wedding night, he didn’t say so. Instead, he challenged Thorne to a game of chess, which the Saxon accepted. Centering the board on the table, Matthew said, “I had an interesting message from Olivier this evening. Queen Eleanor is planning to join him at Blackburn Castle sometime soon.”

  “Really?” said Thorne, taking his seat opposite the prior. “I thought she was in France with King Henry.” The two men began setting up their pieces.

  “She was, but she returned to England without him shortly after Advent. Since then, she’s been holding court at various royal seats throughout the realm, attending to the king’s business.”

  “Isn’t that Chancellor Becket’s job?”

  “Aye,” said Matthew, “but the chancellor’s abroad with Henry. According to Olivier, the queen’s taken quite an interest in the siege of Blackburn. She wrote him that she wants to see for herself the impenetrable castle that withstood every weapon except Thorne Falconer. I didn’t realize you knew her.”

  “Rainulf introduced us in Paris after the Crusade. She took a liking to me for some reason. We used to talk a great deal.”

  “They say she’s a perfect combination of beauty and wit. Did she strike you so?”

  “She’s very beautiful,” Thorne said. “And exceptionally intelligent. At the time I knew her, she was rather melancholy, though. She was with child but had already petitioned Louis for a dissolution of the marriage. She told me that she had thought to marry a king, but had married a monk instead. I liked her. I hope she’s happier now than she was then.”