Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (25 page)

He cleared his throat. “My lady?” He heard an inarticulate murmur of distress. “My lady?” he repeated, a little louder. Then she spoke, and he strained to hear the mumbled words, but couldn’t make them out.

He parted the curtain just far enough to see into the little room. Her narrow cot stood against the wall immediately to the right of the doorway; he could have reached down and touched her sleeping face, but he stilled his hand.

She lay on her stomach, her one long braid dangling off the side of the bed. The linen sheet was crumpled about her hips, revealing the bare expanse of her back—the fine bones, the elegantly subtle curves, the narrow waist. Her pale skin, illuminated by the meager light filtering through the horn panes of the lantern, took on a faintly golden glow. It looked as smooth as ivory, and the impulse to touch her, to caress that silken flesh, to toss aside that sheet and take her in his arms, nearly overwhelmed him.

He must leave.

But as he turned, she spoke again. This time he could make out the sleep-slurred words, edged with panic: “Mama’s wedding gown is in the lake!” It was more the voice of a frightened little girl than that of the self-possessed woman he knew.

Her breathing quickened, and she tensed, her hands twitching convulsively. A moan of fear arose from her, and he saw that her face gleamed with perspiration, despite the coolness of the night.

He stepped into the room, letting the curtain close behind him, and set his lantern on the floor. Taking hold of the crumpled sheet, he pulled it up to her shoulders. Beneath it, her hands began to clench and unclench violently.

“My lady.”

“M-Mama’s... w-wedding gown—”

“Wake up, my lady.” He sat on the edge of the bed and gently shook her shoulder. “Wake—”

Her eyes flew open and she jerked awake, crying, “Mama! Mama!”

Her face held a look of pure terror, and she shook uncontrollably. With no thought except the instinct to comfort, Thorne stretched out next to her on the little cot and gathered her in his arms.

She shivered at his touch, like a hatchling just taken from the nest. But he did not release her. He held her tight, stroking her through her cocoon of linen sheeting and murmuring comforting words, as he had done so many times with agitated young falcons. “Shh, ‘twas just a dream...”

“Th-Thorne? Sir Thorne?”

“Aye.” He brushed a wisp of hair from her damp forehead. “You were having a nightmare.”

She moaned despairingly and nodded against his chest. Without thinking, he brushed his lips to her hair, inhaling warm sunshine and sweet lavender. Her body felt invitingly warm and soft; he wanted to wrap himself around her, bury himself within her. With an effort, he reminded himself that he was here to lend solace.

He heard her soft intake of breath as the intimacy of their situation struck her. It was the middle of the night, and she lay enclosed in his arms, naked beneath her thin sheet.

Gathering his wits, he said, “I’ll go fetch your brother from church.”

She shook her head. “Nay. I—I can’t bother him every time. It’s just a dream. It’s nothing.”

He rubbed her back to soothe her. “You’re
trembling
from nothing, my lady. Do you often have nightmares?”

“Just the one. Every night it’s a little different, but it always ends the same way.”

“Every night? This happens to you every night?”

“Lately. The closer I get to—to the wedding, the more it comes.”

After a few moments of silence, Thorne said “Tell me,” and tightened his arms around her. He could not be all that he wanted to be to Martine, but he could be a comfort. He could share her pain, perhaps even ease it, if only she would let him.

“It’s about my mother, about finding her body in the lake. She was... she’d been so beautiful, and suddenly she was just this
thing
, this grotesque thing.”

“Oh, my lady,” he whispered.

“If it weren’t for Rainulf, I would have died, too. He saved my life. Not only that, he made it worthwhile. He educated me. Everything I am, I owe to him. I’d do anything in the world for him.”

“Even marry Sir Edmond.”

Her answer emerged as a whisper. “Aye.”

“Even though the very thought of marriage terrifies you.”

She nodded.

“Perhaps... perhaps you’ll like being married. Edmond’s not such a bad sort, just a little young.” The words sounded hollow even to his ears. “You could probably learn to love him.”

“Dear God, I hope not!” Her vehemence both gratified and alarmed him.

“You’d prefer a loveless marriage?”

“I’d prefer no marriage at all. I dread the very idea. But since my preferences don’t seem to matter, I’d much prefer a civilized, bloodless union to one of love. Men use the love that grows in women’s hearts to control them, keep them in their place, or even to destroy them if that becomes convenient.”

He hadn’t realized the depth of her bitterness. “I’m surprised you agreed to this marriage even for Rainulf’s sake.”

“He gave of himself in my time of need, and now I’m going to do the same for him.”

“Are you willing to forfeit the rest of your life for him?”

“I’ve made my decision. There is no ‘rest of my life.’ I’ve lived quite well up till now, thanks to Rainulf. Now it’s his turn.”

What could he tell her? That she should default on a betrothal contract that he himself had arranged, and upon which his future depended? Thorne was not a man accustomed to self-doubt, so it was with some degree of confusion that he now pondered his role in negotiating this union. For Rainulf to benefit from her marriage was one thing, since she felt she owed him his freedom. But she owed Thorne nothing, and he hadn’t hesitated for a second to barter her hand in exchange for property.

And now... now that he couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop wanting her, needing her...

Things that had been simple were now complicated. The control he maintained over every aspect of his life seemed to be slipping away. His feelings, his desires, always so carefully schooled, rioted within him. They put him in mind of a bear roaring in frustration at being baited, straining at tethers that threatened to snap at any moment.

Through the hush of rain outside the window came the distant chanting of the long midnight service, dreamy and hypnotic.

He looked down at the woman in his arms, so warm, so sweet. Against his bare chest, through the thin sheet, he felt the delicious roundness of her breasts, the thrumming of her heart... She still quivered with anxiety.

To be here with her this way, in her chamber at midnight, sharing her bed, was insanity. He knew he should leave, but he couldn’t, not while she was so overwrought.

He would try to ease her mind, to soothe her enough for her to get back to sleep, and then he would leave. He lifted her braid, which felt remarkably heavy, pulled off the ribbon that held it, and began unweaving the plaits. In a few moments she relaxed in his arms, and her breathing steadied.

She said, “Do you ever think about fate?”

“Fate?” He trailed his fingers through her loosened hair, a blanket of golden silk.

“I do,” she murmured. “I think fate is like a ribbon, a long, golden ribbon. It trails through our lives, and at first we just notice it slipping around us every now and then. We don’t give it much thought until one day we discover that we’re completely bound by it, wrapped tightly within its power, incapable of breaking its bonds.”

He smiled at such fanciful imagery from such a rational woman. “Hasn’t Rainulf told you about free will? ‘Twas my very first lecture from him.”

She chuckled. “Mine, too. Free will exists, make no mistake. That makes it all the more frustrating to find oneself a prisoner of fate.”

He pulled his fingers lazily through her hair. “I like to think I have more command over my destiny than that.”

“Everyone does. But haven’t you ever felt as if you were being carried along by forces you couldn’t control?”

He instantly pictured the raging, tormented bear within him. “Nay,” he lied. Well, not entirely a lie. Yes, he was being carried along by unwanted feelings for Martine, but they were feelings he could control. The bear wouldn’t break free if he had the strength to hold it back.

“My mother was a victim of fate,” she said. “Her love for Jourdain kept her captive for years. ‘Twas only at the very end that she was able to break free. Drowning herself was the first, and last, independent act she ever performed.”

His hands stilled in her hair. “You praise her suicide as an act of free will?”

“I don’t praise it, but I do understand it. In a way, I even admire it. ‘Twas the only way out, and she made the decision and acted on it.”

“There was nothing admirable about what she did, Mar... my lady. I know she was miserably unhappy, but you’re wrong to misinterpret her weakness as strength. She surrendered. And in doing so, she condemned her child to almost certain death.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t been responsible for me? If she hadn’t had a child?”

“This isn’t some academic dispute, my lady. Don’t set up hypotheticals. The fact is, she had a daughter for whom she spared not a single thought when she took her own life.”

“I survived.”

“Thanks to Rainulf. But you carry deep, unhealed scars, do you not? These nightmares of finding her body... ‘tis a wonder they haven’t driven you mad by now.”

After a moment, she said, “The worst part isn’t the body. I usually don’t even see that. It’s the water itself. In the dream, it turns to blood. A lake of blood.” She shivered and wrapped an arm around him. “I’ve been terrified of water ever since that day. As a child, I swam constantly, but I haven’t in years.”

“But you did,” he pointed out. “When you saved Ailith.”

“I had no choice.”

“Ah, but you did have a choice. You could have given in to your terror and let her die, but you didn’t. You exercised your free will and overcame your fear and saved her.” She seemed to ponder that. His fingers entwined themselves in her hair once more, and she sighed.

“You should swim again,” he said, “just for your own pleasure.”

“I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“Fear exists to be conquered.” He stroked her scalp, massaging with his fingertips. “You should swim.”

“Mmm.”

“You should.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She grew heavy in his arms.

“Tell me you will.”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me you’ll swim again, soon. It’s important. Once that fear is conquered, you can work on the rest. Promise me.”

She mumbled something blurry that sounded like “I promise.”

He smiled ruefully. “You’re humoring me.”

She didn’t answer that, merely snuggled against him, warm and drowsy.

“You are,” he said, “but that’s all right. I’ll take what I can get.”

*   *   *

Men were laughing.

Martine opened her eyes. Someone was in bed with her, his arms enfolding her, one long leg thrown over hers. She breathed in his familiar, masculine scent.

Thorne.

From the other side of the curtain, she heard voices. More laughter, followed by muffled conversation. “What—” she began.

Thorne clamped a hand over her mouth. Even in the half-light from the lantern, she could see his incandescent eyes, read the warning in them. She nodded, and he took his hand away.

Bringing his mouth to her ear, he whispered, “They came back while you were asleep, Rainulf and Matthew. They’ve been talking out there ever since. I can’t very well let them see me leaving your chamber in the middle of the night.”

Again she nodded. It was still dark outside, but raining harder, and she had the impression that she had slept for a while.

She lay nestled snugly within his embrace, her outside arm draped over his waist. Her hair was loose, and he had a length of it wrapped around one hand. He was bare from the waist up, and they were crushed together like lovers. She felt a surge of panic before recalling that nothing had happened between them, nothing like that.

He had listened to her, had soothed her fears, had held her until she fell asleep in his arms. He hadn’t kissed her. No, she was sure he hadn’t. She would remember that. And she would remember if he had taken advantage of her in any way, done anything he shouldn’t have.

It would have been little trouble for him, had he wanted to. A simple matter to pull the sheet aside and do as he wished. He was not a saint, but a man, with a man’s appetites. And he was strong. She could feel the long, hard muscles of his legs, the unyielding planes of his chest. He could easily have overpowered her, had his way with her.

Or perhaps he wouldn’t have had to force her. A man like Thorne would know how to coax a woman into giving herself to him. He would know how to touch her, how to caress her secret places until she begged him to take her. She grew warm thinking of the things he might have done, the things she might have wanted him to do.