Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  Cackling with glee, she charged him, nearly knocking him over as she grabbed his arms and hooked a leg around his. He struggled to keep his balance, but it was no use. Down they went, a tangle of arms and legs, landing in the white-flowering clover that blanketed the ground. Laughing breathlessly, she made a fist and aimed for his nose, stopping just short of smashing it. “I win!”

  “No you don’t,” he growled, seizing her wrist. “A man with a broken nose can still do this.” He pinned her hand to the side as he lowered his weight on her.

  She twisted frantically, pounding on his shoulder with her other hand. He grabbed it as well and held it down on the other side. “I win,” he rasped, pushing himself up on his elbows, but keeping a firm grip on those wrists; she was unpredictable. “You’re a quick study, but you have much to learn yet.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes, gulping air. Her hair stuck in damp curls around her face. Such an extraordinary face, he thought, taking advantage of this opportunity to gaze upon it at close range. She had the kind of translucent skin that showed so much underneath, if one only looked hard enough. Right now a flood of red burned beneath that sheer skin, the product of her exertions. Her lips, as well, seemed suffused with blood; they were dark as cherries.

  His gaze traveled down her throat, and lower. He stilled, his grip on her hands tightening, dimly aware of her eyes blinking open in confusion. Her struggles had twisted her shirt to the side. The neckline gapped open widely, revealing the left side of her chest. Aware now that she was watching him, but unable to control the direction of his gaze, he followed the creamy curve of the exposed breast to its tip. The nipple, small and rosy, became erect under his scrutiny.

  A powerful rush of arousal uncurled in his loins and strained at his chausses. He felt himself move without his willing it, as if his body had taken over and his mind were shutting down. His hips shifted, seeking the warm cradle of her thighs, their soft juncture—seeking relief from the pain of this sudden, shocking need. Like an animal, his natural urged clawed for dominance within him. With what little rational thought he still possessed, he fought the overwhelming urge to thrust against her.

  Chapter 8

  Astonished, Corliss felt the rigid male flesh press against her through the wool of their chausses. When he shifted, she followed suit, fitting her hips to his as naturally as if they were longtime lovers—all the while utterly amazed that this was happening, that she had the power to arouse him. She knew she shouldn’t want this, but she did, desperately. She had wanted it for weeks.

  Gazing up at him, she saw a raw hunger in his eyes. His face was flushed. That little vein on his forehead throbbed in time to the pulsing heat between her legs—his heat... and hers, too. It was a strange, liquid heat—a heat she’d never felt before, at least not to this degree. It was like an itch that needed scratching, that needed his touch, an itch that made her arch her hips, striving for closer contact.

  He squeezed his eyes closed, his body taut, his fingers digging painfully into her wrists. “Corliss,” he whispered harshly. Opening his eyes and meeting her gaze, he shook his head forlornly.

  He looked down at her open shirt, then released one of her wrists and slowly brought his hand to her uncovered breast. She thought her heart would explode through her chest as his palm hovered over her bare flesh. His jaw clenched, and then he took hold of a handful of her shirt and drew it back across her chest, concealing her once again from his view.

  Raising himself off her, he stood and dragged his fingers through his hair. She sat up and retied her shirt with trembling hands, then examined her wrists, reddened and swollen.

  Squatting down, he took her hands in his, frowning at the red marks. “Damn.” He shook his head and looked away, then froze, his eyes narrowed in the direction of the stable.

  Corliss felt the sudden tension that surged through him. “What is it?”

  “Someone was there,” he said tightly. “Just now. Watching us.”

  “Rainulf, no one was—”

  “Go inside.” He sprang to his feet and strode across the yard toward the stable.

  “Rainulf!” she yelled. “There’s no one—”

  “Go!” he yelled over his shoulder as he broke into a sprint and took off.

  * * *

  Rainulf raced through the neighboring yard, arms and legs pumping, scanning the area for the intruder. There—a dark figure, vanishing into a narrow alley between two houses. “Stop!”

  He turned in to the alley and tripped over something, falling face-first onto the hard-packed earth. As he scrambled to his feet, he glanced back at the big satchel he’d stumbled over, from which dozens of assorted knives had spilled out.

  Rad. “You bastard!” he yelled as he tore off down the alley in pursuit of the peddler. “Come back here!”

  He darted across Kibald Street, right in front of a cart loaded with wine barrels. “Whoa!” screamed the carter, and he yanked on the reins. The two horses squealed and bucked as Rainulf hurriedly sidestepped them. A barrel rolled onto the road and crashed open, spraying its crimson contents in every direction. “Come back here!” the carter bellowed. “You’ve got to pay for this!”

  A shadowy figure disappeared around the corner, and Rainulf followed it. Grope Lane was more populated than Kibald today, but Rainulf easily picked out Rad’s ponderous form, glancing back over his shoulder as he ran with surprising speed. Rainulf, however, had always been fast on his feet, and he easily overtook the peddler, grabbing him by his cape and spinning him around roughly.

  Rad ducked and crossed his arms in front of his face. “D-don’t hur-hur-hurt—”

  “Why were you watching us?”

  “D-don’t...”

  Rainulf shook him hard. “Talk! What were you doing sneaking around behind my house?”

  Rad just shook his head, cowering. Passersby stared openly. Growling a curse, Rainulf dragged Rad into the recessed entryway of a poulterer’s shop and slammed him against the door. “Tell me why you were spying on us.”

  “I... I m-meant no h-h-h-harm.”

  Rainulf made a fist. “Tell me!”

  The peddler’s grotesque face took on an abject expression. “I th-thought you might h-hurt her.”

  “Her.”

  “Cor-Corliss.”

  Her. “Oh, shit.” Rainulf lowered his fist, recalling the sight of Corliss, her shirt askew, one breast exposed. Any doubts Rad might have harbored as to her true sex would have been laid to rest that afternoon. “You were trying to protect her?” Rad nodded. “From me?” He nodded again. “I wasn’t hurting her. I was trying to teach her how to defend herself.”

  Rad nodded. Even when Rainulf stepped back, he continued to press himself against the door, twitching nervously. The magister studied the peddler for a minute, and then said, “Did you suspect she was a woman before today?”

  Rad shook his head, and Rainulf relaxed a bit, grateful it wasn’t that obvious—until Rad said, “I knew.”

  “You knew? Since when?”

  “A-always. E-e-even before I s-saw her face, I saw her light. And I knew.”

  “Her light?”

  Rad nodded. “‘T-twas silver. A w-woman’s light. A-all around her, b-bright as anything and sh-shimmering in waves. S-silver.”

  “I see.” He did. The hulking, disfigured peddler was mad. Had he been merely dull-witted, he’d be no threat, for Rainulf believed him when he claimed to be watching after Corliss, to whom he seemed to have taken a fancy of sorts. But this talk of a shimmering silver light boded ill.

  Rainulf knew more than he cared to of madmen. Of the many prisoners chained into that fetid hole in the Levant, only he and Thorne had retained their senses. The rest howled, wept, laughed endlessly... and attacked one another at regular intervals, for no reason other than that their minds had snapped. Violence was part and parcel of who they were; seven of his cellmates had died at the hands of fellow prisoners.

  “C-c-can I go?” Rad asked.

  Wheth
er this pathetic creature meant to or not, he could easily end up doing harm to Corliss. It was a possibility Rainulf did not intend to invite. “You can go,” he said, “but you must never come back to the house. Do you understand?”

  Rad just stared at him, his eyes wide and sad.

  Steeling himself, Rainulf said, “You must never see Corliss or talk to her again. Or I’ll...” God, how he hated this. “I’ll have to hurt you. Tell me you understand.”

  Rad looked all around the little entryway, his eyes growing moist. Finally he nodded and said, “I un-un-un...” He shook his head vigorously, like a dog shaking off water. “I understand.”

  Rad stared at the ground. Rainulf backed away, feeling like the lowest form of knave. “Your satchel’s in that alley off Kibald Street. Go and fetch it, and then don’t ever come that close to the house again.”

  The peddler nodded miserably. Cursing under his breath, Rainulf turned and walked away.

  When he rounded the corner, someone yelled, “There he is!” It was the carter, the one whose horses Rainulf had spooked. A flock of ragged children were clustered around the shattered barrel, frantically dipping their hands in what remained of the wine and slurping it up. The carter stalked toward Rainulf, his expression fierce. “You owe me four shillings. That there was good Rhenish wine. Four shillings, and not a penny less.”

  It was an outrageous sum, even for Rhenish wine, but Rainulf hadn’t the heart to debate the matter. With a resigned sigh, he pressed the coins into the wide-eyed carter’s open palm, and slowly walked home.

  * * *

  She’d been wrong about him, Corliss reflected as she watched Rainulf and a dozen others—masters and scholars, all shirtless beneath the glaring noon sun—line up for the race. The starting line had been scratched into the dried mud at one end of High Street, in front of East Gate. The finish line was the entrance to Oxford Castle, more than half a mile to the west. Between the two points, hundreds of scholars and a handful of townspeople lined either side of the wide avenue, impatiently waiting for the race to begin.

  Aye, she’d been very wrong, indeed. Three weeks had passed since the incident following the fighting lesson—since she had felt his body respond to hers and realized that Rainulf Fairfax was a man like any other, a man with the same physical needs, the same desire for a woman’s touch. Afterward, neither of them had spoken about it, as if trying to pretend it had never happened, which was probably for the best. Since he hadn’t offered any more fighting lessons, she’d gone ahead and bought a dagger. Not wanting his disapproval, she hadn’t told him about it, but kept it hidden in her boot at all times.

  Squinting against the sun, she watched him plant a booted foot against the great stone gate and lean forward, his thighs and calves hard and well defined beneath his snug chausses. Grateful for the chance to stare openly, she admired the way his back and arm muscles stood out in sharp relief, the way his wide shoulders and narrow hips and strong limbs all balanced together to create a flawlessly proportioned whole. He was the very image of masculine perfection. How could she ever have thought him less than completely male?

  In her mind she contrasted the virile, handsome Oxford master with the two old men she had buried. They’d both had hands as cold as ice, and their attentions were always a vague irritant. Rainulf’s hands—what little she had felt of them—branded her with their heat, scalded her blood, made her heart pound with fevered longing. Neither Sully nor Osred had ever made her feel this strange exhilaration, even when they’d bedded her. Observing the flexing of Rainulf’s muscles, and contemplating his vigor and strength, she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to lie with him. Imagining him on top of her, inside her, stirred her in ways she’d never felt before.

  Thomas nudged her, ale spilling from his tankard onto the ground. “Sixpence says Master Fairfax finishes last.”

  “Last!” Corliss exclaimed. “How disloyal of you!”

  Brad elbowed her from the other side. “That’s what I said,” he declared thickly. “He’ll place in the middle of the pack, I’ll wager.”

  “Shame on both of you! He’s your teacher. You ought to put your money on his winning.”

  The two young men laughed. “He’s six-and-thirty, Corliss,” said Brad, “twice the age of some of the others. He couldn’t possibly win.”

  Shielding her eyes, she studied the tall magister as he whipped his powerful arms back and forth, back and forth. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  Rainulf appeared to be scanning the crowd. His gaze rested on her and his entire being seemed to find its focus. He ceased his stretching to reach up and run his fingers through his hair, pale and fiery in the bright sun. Even from this distance, she saw his lake-colored eyes ignite from within. A hint of a smile played on his lips, and then someone spoke to him and he turned away quickly, with an uneasy look.

  She wondered whether the look had to do with her or the race. He and Father Gregory had organized it as a way of involving both the people of Oxford and the scholars in a social activity—only, at the last minute, Victor had entered the race, and all the townsmen had dropped out in protest. That left just twelve academics, including Rainulf. He had never wanted to participate, for reasons not entirely clear to her; perhaps it just came down to that dreadful dignity of his. Finally Corliss and Father Gregory, working together, had been able to talk him into it.

  She liked the elderly priest. Although he never seemed quite sure how to act with her, being the only person besides Rainulf who knew her true sex, he seemed fond of her as well. He probably suspected that she and the Magister Scholarum were secret lovers, despite Rainulf’s assurance in confession that their relationship was innocent. Even priests knew—perhaps better than anyone—that the flesh was weak and subject to powerful urges.

  Yes, Rainulf had urges of the flesh, and those urges were directed toward women, but Corliss was as convinced as ever that he had little in the way of sexual experience. It was entirely possible that he had never lain with a woman. She knew that many priests went their whole lives without sex, abstaining with apparent ease from something most men couldn’t seem to live without. Perhaps this was because never having experienced such pleasures they simply didn’t know what they were missing. Given Rainulf’s willingness to maintain his celibacy, she thought it more than likely that he was one of their number.

  “Corliss!” Thomas was yanking at the sleeve of her tunic, and swaying on his feet as he did so.

  Brad chuckled drunkenly. “Are you awake, boy?”

  “I asked you,” Thomas pronounced slowly, “if you had six pennies to back up your confidence in Master Fairfax.”

  “I have twelve,” she said. “A shilling says Rainulf Fairfax comes in first.” She produced the coin and held it up; it glinted in the sun.

  The two scholars exchanged grins of disbelief. Thomas grabbed at the shilling. Corliss held it out of his reach, and he toppled dizzily to the ground. Brad howled with laughter.

  “You two get this shilling when and if Rainulf loses,” she said as Thomas awkwardly gained his feet and dusted off his cappa. “And if he wins, you each owe me sixpence.”

  Thomas and Brad agreed to the bet, and presently Father Gregory called the participants to the starting line.

  “Ready... and go!”

  The racers shot forward like a volley of arrows, kicking up a storm cloud of dust as they tore down High Street. Corliss coughed and shielded her eyes. When she uncovered them, the runners were out of sight, the onlookers sprinting after them.

  “Come on!” Tossing their tankards aside, Brad and Thomas each grabbed a sleeve and pulled her along with the crowd, but she couldn’t run as fast as them, and kept stumbling.

  “You two go on ahead,” she said, tugging her tunic out of their grasp and giving them each a push. “I’ll catch up with you.”

  Brad shook his head uncertainly. “Master Fairfax told us to stay with you.”

  “Just to keep me company,” she lied. Rainulf
, who’d worried overmuch since Rad had spied on them, now frequently asked Thomas and Brad to “keep the boy company.” If they haven’t figured out yet that you’re a woman, they never will, he’d said.

  Thomas and Brad looked at each other and shrugged. “All right,” said Thomas as they jogged on ahead. “See you later.”

  They disappeared from sight, with the rest of the throng, where High Street curved in front of St. Mary’s. Corliss and a few dozen other stragglers walked at a more leisurely pace.

  “Corliss!” She looked across the street and saw young Felice, along with her mother and Bertram. The girl waved and grinned; Mistress Clark looked on with a bemused expression, Bertram with one of suppressed rage. “Will you be coming to the shop today?” Felice called out.

  “Nay. Not today.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Oh.”

  “Come, Felice,” her mother urged, guiding her by the arm up Catte Street. “Good day, Corliss.”

  “Good day, mistress.”

  Bertram’s hands balled into fists. He speared Corliss with a threatening glare, then turned and followed the two women.

  From the direction of the castle rose the sound of hundreds of voices shouting “Hurrah!” The race was over, and the winner was being cheered. She thought about that shilling in her pocket, and wondered casually whether she’d get to keep it. Two months ago she never would have believed she could take such liberties with a whole shilling! To be earning such money doing what she loved the most was like finding Heaven on earth. In the beginning she’d spent it as soon as she earned it—mostly on clothes and supplies for her work. Now, however, she saved all but a small allowance in an old, cracked saltcellar under her bed. She smiled; soon she’d have to find a larger container for it.

  A familiar-looking shape drifted in and out of her field of vision to the left. Rad. She’d noticed him earlier in the crowd, but had paid him little heed; he hadn’t been the only townsperson watching the race. But now she couldn’t deny the fact that he was following her. His pace matched hers exactly, although he kept back a bit and hugged the buildings on the edge of the street.