Wild Wind (43 page)

“What’s it to be?” Gaspar demanded.

“I...” Nicki wrested her gaze from Alex, cautioning herself not to look that way again, lest she draw attention to him. He was trying to catch them unawares—as well he might, for it was three against one—but it would be a challenge even for someone as stealthy as he, given the dried leaves underfoot. She had try to capture the attention of her tormenters, and hold it.

“I’ll do it.” Her hands shook so badly that she could barely control them, but she raised them to her throat and fumbled with the knot that secured the cord lacing up the front of her tunic. The attention of all three men was riveted on her.

From the edge of her vision, she saw Alex nod at her as he slowly approached. Clearly, he knew what she was doing, and he appreciated the diversion.

She swallowed dryly when the knot came undone. Drawing a shaky breath, she pulled the cord through the top set of eyelets, then the next, and the next, taking as much time over it as she felt she could get away with.

Gaspar smacked the belt against his thigh. “Faster.”

Nicki’s fingers grappled numbly with the cord until it slid free and dropped to the ground. Her tunic fell open all the way to her waist. She was grateful for her concealing undershift—until Gaspar clutched it and ripped it open, revealing a band of bare flesh down the middle of her chest.

Alex started sprinting; they would hear him for sure! “Nay!” she cried, grabbing Gaspar’s wrists as he began to part the torn fabric. She risked a quick glance in Alex’s direction, begging him silently to slow down; he did, thank God.

“I’ll do it myself,” she told Gaspar. “I will, just give me a moment.”

“The more impatient I grow,” he warned, stroking the belt, “the worse it will go for you.”

Time... She needed time, Alex needed it. Her hands hovered near her throat.

“Show yourself,” Gaspar said. “Do it.”

She tucked her fingertips beneath the ragged edges of her shift and slowly skimmed them downward, parting the fabric just barely—enough to make all three men stare, mesmerized. The bile rose in her throat when she saw Vicq’s hand—the one that wasn’t gripping the club—crawl toward his crotch.

Alex was almost upon them. What would happen when he made his presence known? Despite his skill with the sword, she doubted he could take on three men at once, and Gaspar had that damned mallet of his.

An idea occurred to her. Lowering her trembling hands to the embroidered sash draped over her hips, she untied it.

“What are you doing?” Gaspar asked. “I told you to—”

“I need to get this off before I can take the tunic off.” She slid the sash free and gripped it tightly with both hands, her body coiled in readiness.

Whether Alex knew what she was planning or not, he chose that moment to make his move, leaping forward, sword outstretched. All three men heard him and spun around. Gaspar swore and turned to yank his mallet out of the tree.

Nicki acted fast, whipping the sash around Gaspar’s throat as he bent over the mallet. She pulled it tight, praying for the strength to hold him just long enough for Alex to dispatch at least one of the others. Gaspar made a strangled sound of outrage, clawing at the sash. She kicked his legs out from under him and knelt on his back. His astonishment alone should immobilize him for a few seconds.

Leone drew his dagger as Vicq swung his club. Alex rolled beneath the club and came up behind Vicq, who wheeled around to face him. As the two men squared off, Leone darted behind Alex with his dagger. Nicki screamed a warning. Alex turned, but not before Leone sank the blade into his upper arm, yanking it out again and backing quickly away.

Vicq swung again. Slamming his sword against the club, Alex halted its progress. In a blur, he swept the huge blade across Vicq’s throat; blood sprayed as he fell backward. He twitched convulsively for a moment and then went slack.

Gaspar thrashed as Nicki struggled to squeeze the sash tight, her arms shuddering with the effort. She knew she couldn’t hold him much longer.

Alex whirled on Leone, who, seeing his companion’s blood pumping from his throat, dropped his dagger and ran, disappearing into the woods. With a roar of effort, Gaspar hurled Nicki off of him, slamming her to the ground. He stood and wrenched the mallet out of the tree. Nicki rolled swiftly away and scrambled to her feet.

Gaspar and Alex faced each other warily, brandishing their weapons. Alex’s gaze darted to Nicki. “Are you all right, Nicki?”

“I’m unharmed,” she said, knowing how she looked—with her bloody nose, snarled hair and filthy, ripped clothes—and wanting to reassure him. “Alex, your arm...” Blood blossomed slowly on his right shirtsleeve, and the arm quivered slightly.

“It’s nothing,” he said, probably for Gaspar’s benefit, but Nicki knew better than to believe it. That was his sword arm. He was in trouble.

Gaspar swung the mallet; Alex blocked the blow, but just barely. The problem, Nicki saw, wasn’t just that Alex was hurt. Gaspar was bigger and deranged with fury, and he wielded that mallet of his with savage skill. Moreover, his reach, Nicki saw, was longer than Alex’s, keeping Alex on the defensive. The two men circled each other warily, their fierce gazes locked.

“I thought you were on your way to the Channel,” Gaspar said.

“I changed my mind.” Alex glanced toward Nicki. “Run back to the road, Nicki. I left Atlantes there. Take him and—”

“And leave you here, alone against this monster? No!”

“You can’t help me, Nicki!”

“I daresay he’s right there,” Gaspar said as he struck again; Alex jumped aside and countered with a lunge, which Gaspar blocked easily. “So you turned back,” Gaspar said conversationally, swinging the mallet to and fro, “and came across our horses on the road. And, of course, you couldn’t help trying to play the hero. But I hardly need remind you what happened the last time you tried to take me on.”

“As I recall,” Alex said, “I swore an oath to slice you open if you ever aimed that thing at me again.” He spared another glance at Nicki as she pried Vicq’s club out of his lifeless hand. “Nicki, I mean it—you can’t help me. Get away from here. Ride back to Peverell and—”

“No, Alex.” Nicki knew that Alex had not forgotten his disastrous encounter with Gaspar in the athletic field. And this time, the odds against him were even worse; his sword arm shook badly, and the sleeve covering it was crimson from shoulder to wrist. His facing down Gaspar this way was an attempt to buy her the time to get away; in all likelihood he expected to die.

The irony was that it was the very magnitude of Alex’s sacrifice that made it impossible for Nicki to abandon him. Perhaps she could help him, perhaps not. But they were a part of each other now. This fight was her fight, too. If he fell, she would be empty, lost; she wouldn’t want to go on without him.

“Damn it, Nicki, go!”

“Speaking of oaths,” Gaspar said, “what of the oath you swore to Milo? You were supposed to leave for good once you’d done what you came here for. Aren’t you the tediously honor-bound young knight who never breaks his oaths?”

“That oath was to God, not Milo. And I’ve never broken one until today. But I gave it a great deal of thought during my journey this morning, and decided I didn’t have any choice.” Alex’s gaze connected with Nicki’s for a brief, intimate moment. “And that God would just have to forgive me.”

“How very touching.” Gaspar whipped the mallet through the air, catching on Alex’s shirtsleeve. Alex grimaced as the spike tore a fresh gash in his injured arm, but he countered swiftly, with a two-handed circular sweep that sliced Gaspar’s tunic open. Blood seeped through, but Gaspar grinned. “It’s just a scratch. But it looks as if I’ve done some real damage to your sword arm. Face it, de Périgeaux. You’re done for. Give up now and I’ll finish you off quick.”

“Nicki, for God’s sake, get out of here!” Alex yelled. “Go back to Peverell and have Milo send some of the men—”

“Milo is dead, Alex,” Nicki said.

Alex fell silent for a moment, sorrow darkening his eyes. He whispered something under his breath—it might have been a curse or a prayer—and said, “Go back, anyway. The men respect you, Nicki. They’ll follow your orders. Tell them to hunt Gaspar down and—”

“I’m not leaving you.” She retrieved Leone’s dagger from where he had dropped it. Could she use it if she had to? She thought about Gaspar’s raw malevolence, and his determination to kill Alex, and decided she could. If the opportunity arose, she would shove it up to its hilt in the bastard’s back and not feel a twinge of remorse. The trick, of course, lay in getting close enough to Gaspar to hurt him without falling victim to that mallet.

“Go!” Alex shouted. “Damn it, Nicki—”

“I’d rather she stayed,” Gaspar said. “She’s distracting you, just as she did that other time. You’re easy pickings when your attention wanders in a fight.” As if to prove his point, he rammed the mallet down hard on Alex’s wounded arm. Alex’s hand opened; the sword fell.

No! Please, God, no!

Alex crouched and reached for the sword, but Gaspar kicked it away.

“Run, Nicki!” Alex screamed as Gaspar lifted the mallet high over his head.

“Alex!” Nicki threw the dagger, which fell at Alex’s feet. He grabbed it and rose, thrusting it into Gaspar’s belly and wrenching it sharply upward.

The mallet fell from Gaspar’s hands. Alex seized him by the front of his tunic and jammed the blade in harder.

“What the...” Gaspar looked down, blinking, for a few long seconds. “Shit. Oh, fuck. You fucking...You’ve killed me, you bastard.”

“I should bloody well hope so.” Alex yanked out the dagger; blood spattered.

Gaspar sank to his knees. He met Alex’s gaze with an expression of virulent loathing, but when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. Presently his eyes lost their focus, and then he sighed and fell forward, landing heavily in the leaves.

Alex closed his eyes and swayed on his feet. For the first time, Nicki noticed how pale he was. His sleeve was saturated with blood; it dripped off his hand, forming a puddle in the leaves.

“Alex.” She went to him, gathered him in her arms. “Alex, lie down.”

He opened his eyes; they sparked with devilment. “Why?”

“Because you’re going to faint.”

“Oh.”

With Nicki’s help, he lowered himself to the ground and lay with his head in her lap.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” he asked.

“Look at your arm! How can you be thinking of kissing?”

“I’ve been hurt worse than this,” he said. “I never die.”

“That’s most reassuring.” She reached into the gap of her tunic and tore several strips from her ruined undershift.

Alex slid his good hand into the gap and opened it wider, lightly stroking her. “You have such pretty breasts.”

“Stop that,” she chided. “Lie still so I can bandage that arm.” Nicki almost fainted herself when she got his sleeve torn off and discovered the extent of the damage. She wrapped the injuries tightly to stanch the flow of blood. Aiming for a tone of nonchalance, she said, “You’ll have another scar—a bad one.”

“Good. They give me character. Kiss me.”

“I can’t believe that’s all you can think of after everything that’s happened today.”

His smile dimmed; his gaze grew melancholy. “What happened to Milo? Did Gaspar kill him?”

“Nay. Well, in a manner of speaking he did.” She told him about the poisoned wine, and Milo’s final act of redemption.

Alex touched her hand. “In his own way, Milo loved you.”

“Just as he loved you.”

He caressed her belly. “Are you truly unharmed?”

“The baby’s fine. He’s fast asleep inside me. He never knew what happened.”

Alex frowned. “They didn’t...do anything to you?”

“No, Alex. They didn’t have the chance. You came in time.” She smoothed an errant strand of hair off his forehead. “You came back. I’m so glad you came back.”

“Every hoofbeat that took me away from you,” he said, “felt like a stake being pounded into my soul. At seventeen, I’d been ready to fight for you, regardless of the consequences. I wondered what had become of me, that I was willing to give you up—and our child as well—with so little struggle. Once I was truly faced with losing you, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. Oath or no oath, I had to come back for you.”

“God understands about the oath.”

“I know that now. Nicki...” He reached up to touch her cheek. “Milo gave his life for us, so that we might be together. ‘Tisn’t a gift to take lightly.”

“If you want me to marry you,” she said, “just ask.”

He looked through her eyes, into her very soul. “Will you marry me, Nicki?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I would love to marry you.”

“Good.” Curling his hand around her neck, he lowered her head, murmuring, “Then come here.”

“AH, HERE YOU
are,” Alex said from the bedchamber doorway when he saw Nicki at her writing desk, working by the light of the late afternoon sun streaming in through the windows. “I should have known.” He patted the baby in his arms, rooting busily on Alex’s chest through his shirt, the damp little mouth blindly inquisitive. “This hungry babe is asking for something I can’t give him.”

Nicki turned and graced them—both of them—with one of her breathtakingly luminous smiles. “I’m only too happy to oblige.” She crossed the room to sit on the edge of their big bed and tugged at the cord that laced up her tunic.

Alex bounced the infant gently while she got unlaced. He’d never wanted children until his own child started growing in Nicki’s belly. And then, wanting a home to take his wife and babe to, he’d let King William grant him a substantial Cambridgeshire estate—in return, of course, for dismissal from his service, an offer Alex accepted eagerly.

Their manor house was sizable enough to be imposing, but airy and full of sunlight, thanks to the many large windows. It was their bedchamber, though—their private sanctum—in which Alex felt most at ease. The sprawling room, which encompassed the entire upper floor, bore Nicki’s distinctive touch. Colorful rugs adorned the whitewashed walls, the bed was draped in buttercup curtains...there was even a pot of sunflowers on the writing desk.