Wild Wind (44 page)

“What are you writing?” Alex asked, wandering over to the desk.

She hesitated. “You may read it if you like.”

Alex smiled at that. You may read it if you like. Only a year ago, she would have had to read it to him. Lifting the sheet of parchment she’d been inking, he saw that it was a letter, or rather, the start of one.

To Martin, esteemed prior of St. Clair, from your most devoted friend, Nicolette of Ravenhurst.

Beloved Brother Martin, cherished companion, how I miss you. I think of you frequently, wondering how you fare and what new marvel you have devised. Aside from the lack of your fellowship, however, I have found in England such happiness as I have never known.

Thank you for overseeing the management of Peverell in my absence. The steward you engaged has kept me well informed of all new developments, including the windmills you erected in the outer bailey and the star-viewing machine you are building in the athletic field. I only wish I could see them.

My husband and I are filled with pride and rejoicing, dear brother, for the Lord has blessed us with a strong and healthy baby. Our joy is boundless. I would, however, be obliged if you would inform Father Octavian that the deed to Peverell is to be transferred to the abbey forthwith. Our child, you see, is a daughter.

“I’m ready,” Nicki said, holding her arms out.

Alex returned the unfinished letter to the desk and brought young Bryan to his mother. Baring one of her breasts—more ripely beautiful than ever—she set about feeding their son.

Nursing generally filled her with heavy-lidded contentment, so Alex was surprised to see little creases forming between her brows. “Do you think it’s a very great sin to lie to a man of the cloth?” she asked.

Alex smiled. “Brother Martin is a wise man, Nicki, and he wants what’s best for you. He would understand.”

“Giving up Peverell is best for me,” she conceded, “but is it best for our son? Peverell is one of the most important holdings in Normandy. Are we wronging Bryan by denying it to him?”

Alex sat behind her on the bed, gently easing her back until she was leaning against him. Wrapping his arms around her and their child, he tucked them up close to him. “Bryan will grow up an Englishman, Nicki. He’ll inherit this estate, or earn another, even better one.”

“Aye, but Peverell is—”

“Old and gloomy,” he finished.

She chuckled. “Aye, it is that.”

“And too many sad memories are buried there,” he said softly. He kissed her silken hair, inhaled a whisper of roses and spices mingled with a baby-sweet milkiness—a scent he wanted to surround him, be a part of him, always and forever. “We’ll make new memories, Nicki—happy ones—right here in England.”