Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (46 page)

The world around her receded into nothingness, and then she felt only his mouth, hot and insistent. At what point she began, with no conscious thought, to seek that heat, to need it, to instinctively return the kiss, she knew not. She only knew that, when it ended, she found her arms wrapped tightly around him, holding him close. In her chest she felt the frantic hammering of not one heart, but two... Over the roar in her ears, she heard not just her panting breaths, but his as well.

He drew away slowly, and with a seemingly great reluctance, as if it took all of his strength to do so. She withdrew her arms from around him, feeling a pang of regret that the kiss was over, and that he’d managed to uphold his promise to do nothing more. Of course, it was the worst kind of idiocy to want more. She mustn’t hunger for his kisses, mustn’t long for him to raise her kirtle and lift her up against this tree and take her, right here in this orchard beneath the overhanging pear trees—yet she did.

“Can we go back now?” she asked quietly.

His gaze lowered to her mouth, his brow furrowing slightly. He paused, then reached out and delicately stroked first the top lip, and then the bottom; they felt swollen, and very tender to his callused touch.

Nodding, he murmured “As you wish,” then took her hand in his once more and guided her slowly back through the darkness of the orchard toward the waiting sunshine.

*   *   *

“What think you, milady?” called the glazier from across the great hall, indicating the window that he had just finished working on. Martine stepped carefully through the mayhem that separated them, sidestepping the plasterers with their buckets and trowels, and the woodworkers with their stacks of wainscoting.

“I think my husband is mad,” she murmured, reaching out to touch one of the tiny panes of bubbly, greenish glass. There were dozens of them set into lead, the whole shaped precisely to the dimensions of the tall, arched window. Thorne had ordered every window in the castle glazed; those in the chapel would be fitted with fragments of colored glass pieced together to form designs. It was a wonderment, a miracle. “Will this really keep out the cold in winter?”

“Aye, milady. But ‘twill let in all the sun you want. And it opens”—he pulled a handle and demonstrated—“so that you can have fresh air on mild afternoons such as this.”

During the month that they had been at Blackburn, winter had finally yielded to spring. From dawn till dusk, Martine planted gardens—herb gardens, kitchen gardens, even flower gardens—enlisting the aid of as many servants as could be spared from Thorne’s never-ending tasks. There were so many things that needed doing, and although labor was plentiful, supervisors were scarce.

Peter, Guy, and Albin were in still France, fighting for Henry. Two days ago Thorne sent them a message via Eleanor, who was due to set sail this day for Normandy to rejoin the king, informing them of recent developments and requesting their service when they returned. However, if they were in the field, it could be months before they even received the message.

And then there was Felda, whom Martine hadn’t seen since escaping from that dreadful cell beneath Harford Castle. She wanted Felda with her, as did Thorne. Yesterday he sent two armed villeins, large men with soldiering experience, to Harford with instructions to fetch her, as well as his precious Freya. They were to do it quietly, avoiding Bernard if possible. If forced to confront him, they were to be diplomatic, using their weapons only as a last resort. They weren’t back yet, but according to Thorne, it was too soon to worry, so she tried to put it out of her mind.

She leaned out the window to breathe in the blessed warmth. On the far side of the inner bailey, beyond the gardens, stonecutters measured and marked blocks of granite for a hawk house; judging by the plans for it, it would be as large as a manor house, and more elaborate. Thorne said he wanted the birds to have enough room to fly around inside it.

In the courtyard, Thorne stood with his back against an oak tree and his arms crossed, observing Burgess as he presided over a hallmoot. Twelve freemen listened in silence as a large man made his case, railing furiously in English.

“What’s he saying?” Martine asked the glazier, a Saxon. Since few people at Blackburn spoke French, she’d had no choice but to put her mind to learning English, and in fact, she could already understand quite a bit if it was spoken clearly. But the man in the courtyard was sputtering and screaming, and she had no hope of following along.

“He’s a miller, milady,” the glazier said. “He’s defending himself against charges of falsifying weights.” The miller finished his tirade, the jury voted, and Burgess rose and said something that made the miller bellow in protest. “They found him guilty, milady, and now he’s to pay a fine to his lordship.”

Thorne said something, and the jury and onlookers cheered. Martine looked toward the glazier, who chuckled disbelievingly. “I do believe your husband is mad, milady, no disrespect intended. He says the miller’s got to pay the fine to the people he cheated, and if he cheats them again, he’ll lose his mill.”

It struck Martine that, whatever his faults, she had married an extraordinary man. Just as she had that thought, the object of her contemplation looked up and smiled at her. Even at this distance, she could see the sky in his eyes, the dimples carved into his cheeks. He had regained the weight shed during his convalescence at St. Dunstan’s, and with it, the impression of strength and vigor that had always emanated from him. As lord of Blackburn, he was completely and perfectly in his element. He was a strong man, a man of honor and compassion... but also ruthless ambition. If he had to choose between her and his beloved Blackburn, she had no doubt whatsoever how he would choose.

In truth, Martine loved Blackburn as much as he. For both of them, it was the first home they had known—the first real home of their own—since childhood. She felt more of a sense of belonging here than she had ever felt elsewhere, even at St. Teresa’s and St. Dunstan’s. Keeping her from complete contentment, of course, was her strained but studiously polite relationship with Thorne. If only she could cease this terrible longing she felt whenever she looked at him; if only she didn’t secretly crave his company, his touch. It would be better by far if she didn’t care at all about him. But to care like this, despite her better judgment, to care so much she could scarcely think of anything else, was a constant irritating distraction.

A movement in the distance caught her eye—two horsemen on the road leading to the castle. She squinted. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed, making out Thorne’s two villeins, one of whom had Felda riding pillion behind him. Behind the other was... She frowned.
Clare?
What was Estrude’s maid doing with them?

She negotiated her way through the mayhem of the great hall and met the party as they dismounted near the courtyard. Thorne left the hallmoot to join them. He thanked and dismissed his men, took Freya’s basket from Felda, and greeted her, as did Martine, with a hug and a kiss.

“Lady Clare,” Martine said, “why did you come here?”

Tears spilled from Clare’s eyes, and she buried her face in her hands. “Oh, my lady! You have to help me! I had nowhere else to go!” She dropped to her knees. “I throw myself on your mercy!”

Martine bent to put her arms around the sobbing girl and urge her to her feet. “My lady, what’s wrong?”

Clare collapsed against Martine, burying her wet face in the crook of her neck. “Oh, I’m such a fool! I brought it on myself. It’s my fault. God forgive me!”

Taking the hysterical young woman by the shoulders, Martine held her at arm’s length and demanded, “What happened, Clare? Tell me.”

Clare’s tear-stained face twisted in anguish. “‘Twas... ‘twas Sir Bernard, m-my lady.”

Martine and Thorne exchanged a look. Felda, her plump arms crossed over her chest, scowled at Clare.

“All right,” Martine said quietly. “Tell me.”

Clare’s little eyes slid toward Thorne, then she looked at the ground. “I... I’m too ashamed.”

Thorne cleared his throat. “I’d best be seeing to Freya. Perhaps a brandy would soothe the lady’s nerves.”

When they were settled at a table in the lesser hall and Clare was halfway through her second brandy, Martine again gently pressed her for an explanation.

Clare stared for some time into her cup, glassy-eyed. “I threw myself at him,” she said hoarsely. “God, I’m such a fool. Everyone says it, and it’s true.”

“Nay,” Martine insisted, knowing how it felt to be exploited by a man. “‘Twasn’t your fault.”

Shaking her head, Clare said, “I thought he was... different. But he was...” She bit her lip. “He defiled me. He...” She glanced nervously toward Martine and Felda, then whispered, “I’m not pure anymore.”

“Oh, Clare,” Martine said. “It’s not your fault. Men have this way of making one lose one’s senses. You’re not to blame.”

“My father won’t think so,” she rasped. “He’ll... oh, my God, he’ll kill me. He will, he really will, when he finds out.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“You don’t know him, my lady.” Her eyes refilled with tears. “I can’t go home. Not now that I’m... that I’ve been... I can’t!” Leaning over the table, she cradled her face in her arms and wailed.

Martine looked toward Felda, who frowned and shook her head. Felda had never liked Clare—for that matter, neither had Martine—but to let those base feelings stand in the way of simple human compassion would be unforgivable.

Martine stroked Clare’s hair. “Would you like to stay here, my lady—”

Clare seized Martine’s hands and squeezed them, looking into her eyes with teary gratitude. “Oh, my lady, thank you, thank you!”

“For a while, at least,” Martine amended. “Until we can—”

“Anything!” Clare gasped. “Anything! Oh, my lady, I’ll do anything you want! I’ll be your slave.”

Felda rolled her eyes.

“That won’t be necessary,” Martine said. “I’m just happy to be able to help.”

*   *   *

“Do you know what day it is?” Thorne called out in English, sitting up in their enormous bed and pulling aside the curtains.

Martine, having already arisen, sat with her back to him in front of a window in the dressing alcove, brushing her hair. It shimmered like fire in the early morning sunlight that flooded the master suite—fire reflected in the gold silk of her dressing gown and the jeweled tones of the new tunics hanging on the alcove walls. Thorne smiled to himself, remembering how she had tried to dismiss the seamstresses he’d summoned...
I don’t have time for fittings. I have gardens to sow!
But he’d insisted, wanting not only to adorn her, but to give her something personal, something most women seemed to love. Her eventual concession had been less than gracious...
All right, all right! But no tight laces, and none of those damned barbettes!

Martine stopped brushing and sat still for a moment. He knew she was struggling to translate his question and compose an answer in English. Finally, “Is it... May the first?” she asked without turning around.

Her accent was so charming that he laughed. “Aye, Mayday,” he said, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. “The first day of summer.” He stood and stretched, rubbing the kinks out of his arms and raking his fingers through his hair. She looked over her shoulder at him, flushing when she saw that all he had on were the drawers he’d slept in. Turning back toward the window, she resumed her brushing.

He started to reach for his shirt off the carpeted floor, and then stopped. He’d been patient with her. They’d been married for nearly two months, and not once had he pressed for his husbandly rights. He’d hoped, of course, to ease her into acceptance of him, to regain her trust, perhaps even her affection, so that when he did come to her, she would want it as much as he... and she would not, afterward, feel manipulated. But she revealed so little of her true feelings that he honestly didn’t know how much progress he’d made toward mending the rift between them. Perhaps this morning would be a good time to find out.

“Do you know how the Saxon peasants celebrate Mayday?” he asked as he entered the alcove. Loki lay curled up on the cushioned bench next to his mistress. Thorne tossed him off, straddled the warm spot where he’d lain, and took the brush from his wife’s hand.

“Wh-what?” Was it the question or his nearness that flustered her so? he wondered.

He ran the brush through her satiny hair. Quietly he said, in French, “Do you know how my people celebrate this day?”

“Nay,” she murmured, her head falling back as he pulled the stiff boar bristles across her scalp. With his free hand he gently massaged her nape.

“They spend the night in the forest.” Still brushing, he trailed his hand down her back and curled it around her waist. “Making love.”

Her head came up. He put the brush down, encircled her waist with his other hand so that he held her in a loose embrace, and kissed the top of her head. She sat perfectly still, offering no encouragement, but no resistance. He kissed her temple, inhaling the scent of her hair and skin, his body responding with an urgency born of long abstinence. He tightened his left hand around her waist and glided his right up, between her breasts, to rest on her upper chest. Her heart tripped wildly against his palm; her breathing raced. Slowly lowering his hand beneath her dressing gown, but over her satin shift, he cupped a deliciously soft breast, lightly thumbing the nipple until it puckered.