Orrik stopped at the east edge of the orchard and turned to Luke, his expression bemused. "Is that so?"

"It is."

"A ploy to ingratiate yourself with your villeins?"

"An attempt to see justice done," Luke said, "nothing more, nothing less."

"I wonder why he did kill himself, then," Lady Faithe said. "He'd been a.s.sured of mercy if he talked, and it seemed as if he had every intention of doing just that. Now we'll never find out why he and Hengist turned so murderous."

Orrik grunted and continued on, pointing out the beehives at the edge of a patch of woods to the north and the dovecote directly ahead.

"Straight through those woods to the east," Orrik said, "is Middeltun, the demesne field. It's worked partly by demesne staff and partly by bondmen owing week work to her ladyship. Middeltun's right in the elbow of the river. Within that horseshoe, you've also got Hauekleah Hall and the village proper. Then there's Norfeld and Surfeld."

Luke must have looked puzzled, because Lady Faithe said, "Those are the two fields that the villagers share. They're both on the other side of the river, accessible by bridges. One is north of the horseshoe, one south."

"Surfeld's right over here." Orrik led them to the edge of the river. On the south side lay a great expanse of unplowed earth.

"Why has this field not been planted?" Luke asked.

Orrik rolled his eyes.

"For the same reason half of Middeltun lies fallow," Lady Faithe explained. "'Tis how the soil is kept fertile. Each season, one field is given a rest, while the other is divided up into furlongs and cultivated by the villagers."

Luke couldn't imagine his father having granted so much autonomy to his serfs. "And they cooperate in this with no supervision?"

Orrik grumbled something about soldiers playing farmer without learning the role properly.

"I oversee things to some extent," said Lady Faithe with a warning scowl in Orrik's direction. "But for the most part, they handle it all themselves. It works out rather well, actually. Last year we produced eighteen hundred bushels of barley-"

"And nine hundred of wheat," Luke interrupted, "plus a goodly harvest of oats, peas, and beans. I know. And I know prices were high last year. You got a shilling for a bushel of wheat, if I'm not mistaken."

Lady Faithe blinked at him. Orrik's poleaxed expression evolved into a grimace, and he looked away.

"The dairy produces about two hundred cheeses annually," Luke continued, "and a good deal of b.u.t.ter for the market. Fifty piglets, thirty goslings, and eighty chicks are born in the average year."

His wife was unnerved, but impressed; he could see it in her eyes and in the smile that kept tugging at her lush mouth. He liked to see her smile; he especially liked to make her smile. "How many eggs?" she challenged.

"Four hundred. And you collect annual cash rents of twenty-six pounds."

"I take it Lord Alberic gave you this accounting when he offered you my hand in marriage," she said.

"Nay, I had to ask for it. He a.s.sumed I wouldn't care, but I do. This is my home now. Hauekleah is mine," he said pointedly, taking in both of them with his gaze, "and I want to find out everything I can about it."

Lady Faithe pressed her lips into a thin line and wrapped her arms around herself. So-she didn't like him referring to Hauekleah as his. Yet, by law and custom, it belonged to him now. Didn't she want him to show an interest in it? Would she prefer he governed her estate in ignorance?

"It's getting late, my lord," she said. "Orrik and I both have things to attend to before nightfall, if you've seen enough..."

My lord. "Enough for now," Luke said tightly. "I'm going to saddle up my mount and do a little exploring on my own. I'll be back in time for supper."

"As you wish, my lord."

Faithe picked at her supper of rabbit stew and toyed with the rim of her goblet, her husband's words from this afternoon echoing in her head: Hauekleah is mine.

She glanced at him as he distractedly sipped his wine.

He's too interested in Hauekleah, Orrik had said as they'd watched him walk away this afternoon. I don't like it.

She'd reminded Orrik that Caedmon had never been interested enough, and he hadn't liked that, either.

This is worse, he'd said. Luke de Perigueux is a Norman, and they're a sly breed. It doesn't sit well, him coming in here like this and telling us how many eggs we produce, and what we got for wheat last year. Why does he need to know all that, if he's got you to keep running things for him?

And then he had nodded slowly, his keen gaze narrowing on the spot where Sir Luke had disappeared into the orchard. Unless he means to cast you aside.

Faithe had stared at him, the blood chilling in her veins.

I'll wager that's exactly what he's got in mind, the shameless b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Faithe had been preoccupied all afternoon, performing her ch.o.r.es numbly as she replayed Orrik's comments over and over in her mind. Despite the rage that had simmered within Orrik ever since Hastings, he was a wise man; Faithe had relied on his counsel for years, and he'd never let her down. She couldn't remember his ever having been wrong about anything.

Part of her still wanted to believe that Sir Luke was too honorable to stoop so low, yet how well did she really know him? The more she thought about it, in a panicky daze, the more likely it seemed that Orrik was right-that her husband meant to find out everything he could about Hauekleah, in preparation for the day when he would pack her off to a nunnery. By refusing to bed her, he was essentially stripping her of her rights as his wife. He could toss her aside at a moment's notice. She would have no security whatsoever. And she could lose Hauekleah.

She couldn't permit it, couldn't simply stand by and let him steal her ancestral home from her. Today's tour of Hauekleah only served to remind her of all she'd be giving up if she allowed that to happen.

Her problem was a simple one: Her husband was scheming to secure an annulment, and therefore steal Hauekleah from her, by refusing to bed her.

The solution? Force him to bed her. It was the only way to protect her rights.

"Why do you frown so?" asked Sir Luke.

She flinched. "Sorry." Fool. She sounded like some meek little child. Why shouldn't she frown, if she was so inclined?

"Is there something wrong with the ring?" he asked, eyeing the emerald encrusted band as she twirled it around her finger.

"Nothing." She released it. "Sorry." Idiot.

Force might not be the best approach. How did a mere female force a man of his size and strength to do anything? She smiled as it came to her. One place she'd never felt like a mere anything was in bed. It was during lovemaking with Caedmon that she'd discovered the true power of being a woman-the power to arouse and delight and finally satisfy. She'd learned to enjoy that power, to use it for her own pleasure and his. She'd learned how to be seductive.

She knew she was comely; she saw her beauty reflected in the eyes of nearly every man who looked at her. And in Sir Luke's eyes she saw not just attraction, but longing. The feeling, of course, was quite mutual; to deny it would be absurd. Every time he looked at her, with that probing gaze, her skin grew tight and shivery; her lungs felt as if they were being gently squeezed, leaving her starved for breath.

Faithe stole another glance at her husband, who was leaning forward to listen to some story his brother was telling. His gaze was focused, his eyes intent. He seemed to bring that fierce concentration to everything he did. She wondered if he would bring it to lovemaking as well.

She lifted her goblet with an unsteady hand and drained it, setting it down with a determined thunk.

That was it, then. There was no other solution to her problem. She'd have to make Sir Luke want her so badly that he had to bed her, regardless that it meant throwing aside his plans to take Hauekleah from her. She'd have to seduce her own husband.

She could do it tonight, when they retired to bed. She'd tease him a little, entice him a little... just enough to get under his skin. He wanted her already; it shouldn't take that much effort on her part for his simmering desire to escalate into a roiling boil. And then, when his need was too great to deny any longer, she could roll up her sleeves and finish the job.

A simple problem with a simple solution.

No great challenge, and she might-probably would-enjoy it quite a bit.

If she could stop this incessant shivering.

Don't be nervous, she chided herself. You want him and he wants you. You're already married to him, for pity's sake. There's nothing to be afraid of.

She could do this. This could work.

Chapter 7.

"Milady's out of her bath now, milord."

"Thank you, Moira."

The stout maid bid Luke and Alex good night and left for her own home, leaving the two men alone in the vast and silent great hall. "Are your wounds healing well?" Luke asked his brother, reclining on his pallet in a shirt and loose braies.

"Very. That disgusting muck Faithe keeps slathering on seems to work."

Faithe. His wife and his brother had called each other by their Christian names since the beginning. Luke envied Alex his easy relationship with her.

"Now that you've expressed a measure of brotherly concern for my welfare," Alex said with a half smile, "I suggest you go upstairs and help that lovely bride of yours to dry off."

"I'm sure she can manage on her own."

"Perhaps not. Ladies tend to have trouble reaching the most interesting places-"

"I said she can manage," Luke bit out.

Alex fixed his all-too-knowing gaze on Luke. "This isn't right, brother."

Luke's hackles rose. "Who are you to scold me about right and wrong? I'll go up when I'm good and ready."

One of Alex's industrious twins emerged from the b.u.t.tery, bearing a flagon and a cup. "Some brandy before bed, milord?" She glanced at Luke as she knelt at Alex's side, unable to completely disguise her disappointment at his presence. "I mean, milords. I can fetch another cup."

Alex turned doleful eyes on Luke as he rested a hand on the wench's bottom. "Are you good and ready yet?"

Luke rose from his bench. "It seems I am." He bid the couple a perfunctory good night. They were locked in an ardent embrace almost before he'd turned away. He took the stairs to the bedchamber slowly, letting Lady Faithe hear his footsteps so she'd know he was coming. When he got to the landing, he knocked softly.

"Enter," she said in French.

Luke opened the door. She sat on a stool next to the big wooden tub in the corner, a threadbare linen towel wrapped around her, pouring something from a green vial into her palm. Setting the vial on the floor, she rubbed her hands together, then leaned over and slid them up one leg from ankle to thigh, leaving a gleaming liquid trail.

Swallowing hard, Luke turned and shut the door, then stood facing it for a few moments to collect himself. She had extraordinary legs, as lithe and shapely as her arms, and surprisingly long. He almost wished he hadn't seen them, for the sight sorely undermined his resolve to keep his distance from her until she'd ceased to tremble at his touch.

Forcing himself to face her again, he saw that she'd finished her legs and was now rubbing the contents of the vial onto her arms. Her skin gleamed like polished ivory in the golden half-light from the oil lamps scattered around the room.

He cleared his throat and nodded toward the vial. "What is that?" he asked, just for something to say.

"An oil I use after bathing to keep my skin soft." Flipping her wet hair behind her, she tilted her head back and lazily worked the emollient into her throat and upper chest. The towel was so old and thin that he could almost, but not quite, see her nipples through it. "I extract the essence from almonds and thyme, and add a little to the oil. Not too much-just enough to lightly scent it." She held the vial toward him. "What do you think?"

He approached her almost warily and took the little bottle from her, bringing it to his nose. So this was the source of the enigmatic scent that always tickled his nerve endings when he was near her. Breathing in so much of her fragrance at once caused his senses to reel drunkenly. "It's quite nice."

He tried to hand the vial to her, but she stood up and turned her back to him, tugging the towel loose and lowering it. "I can't reach my back. Would you mind?"

Ladies have trouble reaching the most interesting places...

For a moment, he thought she was going to remove the towel entirely, but she wrapped it low around her hips, securing it-rather tenuously, he thought-with a quick tuck. Gathering her hair to one side, she draped it over her shoulder, then stood in expectant silence, her arms loose at her sides.

Her back was as sleek and well shaped as the rest of her, her waist exquisitely slender. The damp linen towel hugged a beguilingly dimpled derriere. Luke's hand twitched as he studied the spot where she'd tucked in the towel. All he'd have to do was pull it...

Glancing over her shoulder at him, Lady Faithe said, "I can do the front while you do the back." She lifted her hand, palm up. It took him a moment to realize what she wanted, and then he loosened his white-knuckled grip on the green vial and poured a bit of the oil into her palm. "Thank you." She rubbed her hands together, and then began smoothing them over her chest. He couldn't see what she was doing, of course, since her back was to him, but his imagination filled in the details. In his mind's eye he saw her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, slick with oil. He felt their weight and warmth as she stroked them...

"My lord?" she murmured. "Are you going to..."

He choked out some sort of response, then tilted the vial onto his palm and laid it hesitantly on her shoulder. Her skin felt hot to the touch, and slightly damp, and so incredibly smooth already that he couldn't imagine why she felt the need to soften it further. He moved his hand slowly, gliding it over an elegant shoulder blade and down along the inward curve toward her waist. As friction heated the oil, it released more of its intoxicating fragrance. He breathed the scent in deeply, letting it enter him, wreaking havoc with his equilibrium. He ma.s.saged her with firmer pressure, feeling the compact little muscles and smooth bones beneath the satin skin. He caressed her waist, her hips, reveling in her womanly contours and the sweet, feverish heat of her.

It was intimate to be touching her this way, astonishingly intimate. To be privy to her toilette was disarming enough; to partic.i.p.ate in it implied an understanding, a sort of s.e.xual promise. Luke's body reacted to that promise with a surge of arousal that stole his breath. His hand tightened reflexively around the curve of her hip as he swelled and rose beneath his tunic.

"My lord?" As she turned to face him, he thrust the vial in her hand and walked away. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He strode to the edge of the bed and looked down on it, picturing her naked and luminous on the wolfskin blanket.

Fine? He was far from fine. He ached with need, he pulsated with it. She must know what she was doing to him. No woman could be this provocative unless she were deliberately trying to tempt a man. And yet, what did he know of women like her? The women he was used to were coa.r.s.e creatures adept at firing a man's l.u.s.t and dispatching it as quickly as possible. Highborn women, according to his father, were largely blind to the pa.s.sion they inspired in men and ill-prepared to deal with its consequences-which was why the chivalrous man must learn self-control.

"Would you like me to undress you?" She came up behind him as he stood facing the bed.

G.o.d yes. "That won't be necessary."

He felt her hands brush the back of his neck as she untied the thong that secured his braid and unplaited it by trailing her fingers through his hair. His scalp tingled where she lightly grazed it.

She closed a hand over his shoulder and urged him to face her. Her damp hair hung down on either side of her chest, cloaking her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His gaze stole downward, along her flat stomach with its delicate navel, and then further, to speculate on mysteries barely obscured by the swath of flimsy toweling that stopped at her calves.

"I'm your wife," she said in a near whisper. He met her gaze and she abruptly looked away. "A wife ought to... do these things for her husband."

These things? Just undressing him, or did she mean more? Regardless of what she meant, she was obviously uncomfortable-a wife performing her duty. Luke didn't know precisely what he wanted to be to Lady Faithe, but he knew for certain that he didn't want to be her duty. "You needn't-"

"I should." She reached for his belt, and he stilled. He was so hard, so inflamed. Her hands as she unbuckled him hovered so close to the source of his hunger, yet never directly touched it. The effect was maddening. He wanted to throw her onto the bed and drive himself into her. He wanted to race from the room, to protect her from his animal l.u.s.t.

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, wondering if it were possible to go mad from s.e.xual frustration.