Wild Wind (38 page)

She uncorked the clay bottle and handed it to him. It was wet and cool; the cider filled his mouth with its special sweetness, the taste of autumn. He passed the bottle back to her. She took a sip and recorked it. Without looking up, she said, in a soft, reticent voice, “You’ll be back in England for Christmas.”

It was unlike Nicki to bring this up. By tacit agreement, they never spoke of the future. But then, for almost a fortnight now, she had seemed unusually subdued. Perhaps it was the change of seasons that affected her so. Winter was coming, and by the time its grip was fully upon the land, Alex would be gone.

He took the bottle out of her hand and set it aside, then pulled her onto his lap and cradled her head against his chest. Kissing her hair, he murmured, “When we’re forced to part, I will miss you far, far more than I miss England now.”

“You’ll have other things to think about than me,” she said. “You’ll be back in the king’s service.”

“Soldiering doesn’t excite me anymore,” he said. “You excite me.”

“Aye, but you like the freedom of that life—you once told me so. No estate to maintain, no wife and children to be responsible for. You’ll stop thinking about me—”

“Never! I’ll think of you every hour of every day, until the moment I die. Never doubt that.”

She clung to him, and he to her. They held each other tightly, almost fiercely, for quite a long time.

“We shouldn’t dwell on your leaving,” she said, stroking his cheek. “We still have two months until you have to return to England.”

Unless she quickened with his child, in which case he was obliged by his oath to leave immediately. As much as he wanted to give her a son—both to bring her joy and to save her from destitution—he dreaded their inevitable separation.

“What were you writing?” she asked, with a cheerfulness he knew must be feigned.

With a sheepish grin, Alex handed her the tablet, on which he’d painstakingly scratched out Alexandre de Périgeaux loves Nikolet de Saint Clar.

Her smile of delight warmed his heart. Locking her arms around his neck, she kissed him soundly.

“Nicolette de St. Clair loves Alexandre de Périgeaux,” she whispered, rubbing her cheek against his. “And I’m so proud that you’ve learned how to write.”

“My spelling is abysmal,” he said. “Did I get your name right?”

“Almost. I’ll show you how to spell it correctly, and then perhaps you can write to me after you return to England.”

Alex looked away, remembering that blasted oath...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.

“Do you know I love you?” he asked, drawing her close.

“Aye.”

“Do you really know it, all the way into your soul?”

She looked at him, her eyes like clear pools in the cool forest light. “My melancholy has rubbed off on you. I’m sorry.”

“‘Tisn’t your fault. Our humors are unbalanced.”

She touched her forehead to his. “How shall we realign them?”

He smiled. “I think I know a way.”

She returned his smile. “Do you?”

He glided his fingertips lightly over both breasts. Her nipples grew taut beneath the soft white wool of her tunic.

“Yes,” she breathed, shifting to straddle him as they sat facing each other. “I believe you do.”

He raised her skirt and reached beneath it; she opened his chausses. Amid whisper-soft kisses and breathless sighs, they sought each other’s warmth, their caresses lingering and gentle, as if they had all the time in the world, their bodies swaying in a slow dance of passion. When, at long last, he came into her, so slick and tight, he moaned in utter helplessness. No woman had ever fit him the way Nicki did; no woman had ever been part of him. How would he find the strength to leave her when the time came?

They kissed as the dance continued, the lazy, measured cadence of it intensifying the sensations, deepening the pleasure of their joining. Alex untied the cord that laced up Nicki’s tunic in front and loosened it. He tugged at the sleeves, lowering the gown to her waist and helping her to slide her arms free. But as he tucked his fingers beneath the straps of her undershift, he noticed something. “You’ve forgotten your herbs again.”

Old Edith had made her up a tiny bundle of herbs that Nicki wore around her neck beneath her tunic whenever they were together. She wore them to prevent conception, but Alex had never known such methods to work. Their true purpose, as he saw it, was to lull Nicki into thinking there was no need for him to withdraw when they made love.

Nicki touched her chest absently. “Ah, yes. I did forget them.” For a moment she just looked at him, her expression pensive, as if there were something she wanted to say. Presently, her gaze sobering, she reached behind her for her saddlebags, retrieved the bundle on its leather thong, and hung it around her neck.

This was the second time in the past week that she’d forgotten about it. Alex wondered if, perhaps, she secretly wanted to get pregnant, despite the damage to her reputation. Or perhaps it was simply that she’d been out of sorts lately.

He trailed the back of his hand lightly down her face and throat. “Do you want to talk?”

There was a glimmer of something when she met his gaze, but it was quickly extinguished. “Nay.” Locking her gaze with his, she hooked her thumbs under the straps of her shift and lowered the delicate undergarment past her breasts. Alex throbbed inside her, excited by this small gesture simply because she was so bashful about undressing in front of him. He loved to watch women remove their clothes just for him, and had asked her several times to do so, only to be shyly rebuffed.

Her rosy little nipples hovered tantalizing close to his mouth. He leaned toward one, but she whispered, “Wait.” She removed the embroidered sash looped over her hips and set it aside. Gathering up her tunic and shift, she pulled both garments off over her head, leaving herself in nothing but her stockings and slippers. High color blossomed on her cheeks; she bit her lip. Alex didn’t know whether to laugh at her silly modesty or weep with his aching love for her.

“Nicki, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” It was true. Her body had a delicacy to it, a lissome grace, that was unequaled in his experience. Her breasts were extraordinary, not large, but high and firm and perfectly round—so warm in his hands, so sweet in his mouth. He’d never seen a narrower waist, more supple legs.

Seeing her this way, naked in her braids and stockings while he, fully clothed, was buried deep inside her, aroused him intensely. She raised herself almost until they uncoupled, then lowered herself; and again, and again. The sight of his sex gliding in and out of her undid him. Moaning, he gripped her hips and tried to set a quicker pace, but she seized his hands to prevent that and resumed her maddeningly slow lovemaking.

He captured a nipple in his mouth and suckled as she moved sinuously, her eyes closed, her head back, her breath coming faster, faster. Fulfillment approached all too swiftly. Alex groaned, partly in despair that it should end so soon, and partly because of the escalating pleasure that held him in its grip. He held off as long as he could, shuddering as he strove to make it last. When she cried out with her release, it was all over.

“Oh, Nicki. Oh, God.” Holding her tight, he exploded with a suddenness that stole his breath. An anguished cry shattered the stillness of the woods, and he realized, as his climax ebbed, that it had come from him—or perhaps from both of them, together.

He gathered her in his arms, rocking her and murmuring endearments as if it were she who needed comfort, when in fact his very soul ached with the dread of losing her. “I love you, Nicki. I’ll love you until the end of time. Only you, always and forever. Only you.”

“XAVIERRE?” NICKI WHISPERED
as she stood at the door of a humble cottage on the outskirts of St. Clair early that evening. “Are you home?” She glanced around again to make sure no one saw her here. Luckily, this was a fairly remote area with few other dwellings nearby. And, too, at this hour most folks were indoors preparing their suppers, or eating them.

The deerskin covering the doorway parted, and the midwife’s red, fleshy face emerged. “Go away, I’m in the middle of—” Xavierre gasped when she saw who her company was. “Milady! Come in, come in!”

The corpulent women, dressed in a homespun tunic and apron, with a rag around her head, stepped aside so that Nicki could squeeze through the doorway. The smoky, one-room cottage was redolent with boiled onions and the fragrance of the many bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. Xavierre waved a fat arm toward an iron kettle hanging over the fire pit. “Onion stew, milady. Would you care for some?”

“No, thank you.” Nicki followed Xavierre’s gaze to a heaping bowl of the stuff set out on the table, along with a chunk of black bread and a wooden cup filled with wine. “I can’t stay long. But please go ahead and eat. You mustn’t miss your supper on my account.”

Grunting her thanks, the midwife crammed her massive body between the table and the bench and sat down with a great sigh. “Some wine, at least?”

“No. Thank you all the same.”

Breaking off a piece of bread, Xavierre said, “I haven’t seen your ladyship since that kitchen wench of yours bore them twins. Has someone else at Peverell got herself with child?”

Nicki drew in a calming breath and let it out slowly. “I think perhaps I have.”

“Milady!” Xavierre exclaimed, her words muffled by the bread she’d stuffed into her mouth. “At last! That’s wonderful! What a blessing! It’s...” She trailed off, chewing thoughtfully as she studied Nicki’s subdued demeanor. Swallowing, she washed the bread down with a generous gulp of wine. “Have a seat, milady.”

Nicki sat down at the table, wishing Xavierre’s mother were still alive. Old Ila had been quiet, competent, and above all, discreet—the perfect midwife. It was she who had tended to Nicki when she miscarried so brutally and fell into that terrible fever. If not for Ila’s considerable skill, Nicki might have died. And, if not for her discretion, she might have been ruined.

Her daughter was of a different breed—not inept, but a good deal less troubled with the more sensitive aspects of her vocation. The women of St. Clair knew better than to disclose confidences to Xavierre, lest their neighbors hear it all within days.

“Am I to take it,” Xavierre asked, stirring her stew, “that this pregnancy isn’t cause for celebration?” A rather artless way of asking whether the child had been sired by someone other than Milo. Of course Xavierre would suspect this, regardless of Nicki’s comportment. After all, her marriage had been barren for nine years.

Nicki smiled, mostly to allay the midwife’s suspicions, although deep in her heart she was elated by the possibility—in fact, the likelihood—that she carried Alex’s child in her womb. She shouldn’t be; all of Normandy would share Xavierre’s suspicions. But she couldn’t help it. To be pregnant at last—with Alex’s child!—filled her with a deep and elemental joy that the circumstances could not diminish.

The fact that such a child, if it happened to be a boy, would save her and Milo from homelessness was not lost on her. She was grateful to God for what was likely a late reprieve, despite the probable blemish to her reputation.

Striving for circumspection, Nicki said, “Of course I would celebrate if I’m truly with child. My lord husband and I have waited nine long years for this.”

Xavierre spooned a whole onion into her mouth and chewed it, regarding Nicki with eyes that were just this side of shrewd. “Because, of course,” she said, swallowing, “if you weren’t pleased about it, I could take care of it for you.”

Nicki spread her hand over her belly in an automatic gesture of protectiveness. “Nay, that’s not why I came here. I—”

“Just so’s you know,” the midwife said around another mouthful of stew, “there’s no need to be bearin’ babes that will do naught but bring heartache down on you. I can give you a tonic that will oust the infant from your womb.”

“Xavierre, I really don’t want—”

“Because you’re frightened.” Reaching across the table, Xavierre patted Nicki’s hand. “You’ve heard the stories about such tonics. I won’t lie to you. ‘Tisn’t a pleasant process, losin’ a babe that way. ‘Twill pain you somethin’ fierce—but then, so will the birthin’, and—”

“I don’t want one of your tonics!” Nicki cried, rising from the table. “I want this baby! I’ve wanted this baby forever. How can you think—”

“Calm yourself, milady.” Bracing her hands on the table, Xavierre heaved herself to her feet.

“I think I’d better go.”

“Nay, stay! I misunderstood, milady. You were just so solemn-like, I thought...but I was wrong, and I won’t bring it up again.”

Somewhat mollified, Nicki sat down. It stood to reason that Xavierre would be confused about Nicki’s feelings when Nicki herself felt so torn. For all the gladness it brought her to think that Alex’s baby might be growing in her belly, the inescapable truth was that it would bring no happiness to Alex. He’d never made any secret of the fact that he didn’t want any bastards. Indeed, he’d gone to considerable pains to avoid siring any. Although she’d suspected for the better part of a fortnight that she was with child, she had hesitated to tell him, knowing how distressed he would be, and hating to cast a pall over what little time they had together.

On top of Alex’s inevitable dismay, there was the fact that this child was the product of adultery. Milo wouldn’t care—he’d most likely be thrilled—but there would be whispers, perhaps outright censure. Would people think she’d given herself to another man simply to hold onto Peverell? She’d go mad if she thought about that now.

And why should she? Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions. “I’m not even completely sure I’m pregnant,” she told the midwife.

Xavierre crumbled the remains of her bread into the bowl. “When did your last purgation befall you?”

“On the tenth day of August.” Nicki recalled her mixture of relief and disappointment when her flow arrived on the expected day. “‘Twas due again September seventh, but it didn’t come.”