"We have to leave. Do it-please."

After a pause, she said, "All right."

Another minute or so pa.s.sed, as the ladder squeaked, and then Luke felt a strong hand on his back. "She's gone. She's getting the horses."

Luke looked up. He saw his brother's face, familiar and comforting, and felt things slip back into place. Alex was crouching behind him, one hand pressed to his wounded hip, his expression strained.

"Alex, you shouldn't have climbed up here. What were you think-"

"What happened?" Alex asked.

"I killed him."

"Yes, I know. I shouldn't have let you come up here."

"Nay." Luke grabbed the front of his brother's tunic. "I... I killed him, but... I didn't mean to. 'Twas just one punch, just the one punch, and he..." Luke studied the spot in the straw where Caedmon had lain, as if he might materialize there.

"He was ill," Alex said, "and probably frailer than he looked. That's why he died from the one punch."

Luke nodded. "Aye."

Alex closed a hand over Luke's shoulder. "Let's go downstairs. Let's get away from here. We never should have come."

Luke shook his head. "Nay... we should have come a long time ago. I should have."

"What are you talking about?"

"He was beating her."

"Caedmon? He was beating the wh.o.r.e?"

"Aye, I didn't remember it till just now. The herbs... all that brandy. But he was... he was like an animal. She was screaming. I came up here to-"

"To stop him," Alex finished. "To save her."

"I didn't save her."

"You saved her from him." Alex squeezed Luke's shoulder, smiling in the dark. "You couldn't stop the lightning, but you stopped him. You weren't fighting over her, you were trying to protect her."

"Aye... thank G.o.d."

The crime that had blackened Luke's soul had been no crime at all, just an ill-fated effort to do the right thing, the honorable thing.

"Father would have been proud of you," Alex said.

Luke nodded. "I need to tell Faithe, to make her understand."

"Christ, that's the last thing you should do!"

"'Tis the right thing. I'm sick to death of doing the wrong thing, keeping everything hidden."

"'Twould be a mistake, Luke. A dreadful mistake."

"No more secrets," Luke growled.

"Just one," Alex said. "This one."

Luke shook his head and started to rise.

Alex grabbed his arm. "Luke, think about it. Even if you could make Faithe understand, and I'm not sure you could, why bring this trouble down on your head? And it could be very big trouble, brother. You'll be admitting to killing a man in a brothel. No matter how you explain it away, it won't look good."

"I'll explain it by telling exactly what happened. How Caedmon was attacking that woman-"

"And how do you think that will make Faithe feel?"

Luke thought about that and swore rawly.

"You've gone to some pains to keep the truth of Caedmon's madness from her," Alex said, "because you don't want to hurt her. And now you want to-"

"Nay! I don't want to, but I'm sick at heart from lying to her."

"Just one lie," Alex said, "a lie of omission. If you don't admit to killing Caedmon, no one will ever suspect you. No one will ever know, Luke. No one. Faithe will never find out, which is all for the best. Why cause her that kind of pain? Why let her know what kind of creature her husband had become at the end?"

Luke closed his eyes. "I hate this."

"I know, brother. But at least now you don't have to bear the burden of all that guilt. You can go on with things, knowing you did nothing wrong. On the contrary, you acted n.o.bly."

Luke rubbed his neck. That was some consolation. A great deal of consolation, if the truth be told. He had never been quite the monster he'd thought himself, even at his worst, even with the blood l.u.s.t thrumming in his veins and those d.a.m.ned herbs clouding his mind. Beneath it all, he'd been-and still was-a good man, a man who deserved a good life-a man worthy of Faithe of Hauekleah.

"You're smiling," Alex said.

"Am I?" Luke felt as if the storm cloud that had hung over him for months was finally dissipating, leaving the sky pure and blue.

"Come." Alex thumped him on the shoulder. "Let's get out of here."

"Gladly."

Chapter 19.

Faithe sat in her warm bath, basking in the late afternoon sun streaming through the slats of the window shutters, her head resting against the smoothly curved lip of the tub, her eyes closed, her mind and body drifting...

The ride back from Cottwyk had been uneventful, even relaxed, despite Luke's distress in the loft. Alex had explained it away as an attack of dizziness, and a.s.sured her that Luke had recovered, Indeed, he'd seemed fine on the way home. More than fine; she couldn't remember his ever having been in better spirits. So gratifying was it to see him laughing and engaging in careless banter with his brother that Faithe was able to forget, for the duration of the journey home, her purpose in going to Cottwyk.

The more she explored the secrets of Caedmon's final months and brutal murder, the more impenetrable the mystery became. Her visit to that dismal little cottage had served one important function, however; it forced her to confront the unsavory truth. At the end of his life, Caedmon had been sick and alone, dependent for his food and drink and shelter on the goodwill of people he barely knew. And he'd died in a stinking little hut, fighting over a wh.o.r.e.

Self-delusion not being one of Faithe's weaknesses, she had to admit to herself that she didn't particularly care to be confronted with yet more heart-wrenching details about how Caedmon had died-and, more important, had lived. It broke her heart to think of him stumbling along like the village leper, holding his hat open for sc.r.a.ps, for G.o.d's sake!

Her marriage to him had been pa.s.sionless but amicable. She'd liked him, and he'd liked her. He'd been like a slightly galling but essentially agreeable big brother, and her memories of him and their years together were by and large happy.

Closing her eyes, she thought back to last year's revelry around the St. John's Eve bonfire. She recalled how Caedmon had lifted her up and swung her around and around as she'd squealed and laughed.

That was how she wanted to remember him, she decided. That was who he'd been to her and how she would always think of him. She didn't need to learn anything new about him that would sully that comforting memory. What would be the point?

She heard the door hinges creak. Slitting her eyes open, she saw Luke duck through the doorway, which was too short for him and barely wide enough for his shoulders, and close the door behind him. He was so large and powerful that he dwarfed the enormous bed chamber, yet he moved with exquisitely controlled grace.

Something loosened inside her, like a knot coming undone. For the first time since she'd found out how Caedmon had died, she felt truly at ease, truly content. Caedmon was in the past. Her future was standing in front of her. It was time to let go of what had gone before and embrace what was yet to be.

"Luke, I've been thinking about something."

His gaze lingered on her wet hair, her face, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s cresting the surface of the water. "So have I. All the way back from Cottwyk."

She grinned indulgently. "Not that. I've been thinking about Caedmon."

His smile faded. She sat up and wrapped her arms around her updrawn knees.

"The men you've appointed to investigate his murder," she said. "They're to leave for Hastings on the morrow, is that not right?"

"In the morning, aye."

She shrugged. "Perhaps we oughtn't to send them. Perhaps we ought to" -she let out a long sigh- "simply let the dead rest. Let Caedmon rest. Let the whole thing go."

He stared at her for a long moment, and then he came and squatted down next to the tub. Running a finger along her chin, he asked, "Why this change of heart?"

"I found out everything I needed to know today in Cottwyk."

"But we didn't find out anything, not really."

Smiling into his eyes, she cupped his beard-roughened cheek with her wet hand. "I saw where he died, and I found out that I didn't want to know any more. I don't need to seek out his killer and see that he's punished. G.o.d will exact His own vengeance. 'Tis time for me to leave the matter in His hands and get on with my life-with our life."

Luke closed his eyes and leaned into her palm, whispering something.

She leaned closer. "What?"

"I love you." He took her face between his big hands and kissed her. "I love you." Smiling, he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, "I love you so much, and I'm so happy. I used to think I didn't deserve such happiness. But now I think perhaps I do, and that makes it all the better."

They kissed again, sweet and slow. When they drew apart, Luke looked down and said, "Is that water still warm?"

"Aye. I'm finished here if you want a bath."

Gaining his feet, he unbuckled his belt and hung it on a hook. "I'd like one." He whipped off his tunic, shirt, and crucifix and hung them next to the belt. The muscles in his back and shoulders flexed as he moved. Unshaven, his hair loose and disheveled, and wearing only his chausses and boots, he looked savage and virile and incredibly provocative. Heat pulsed in her lower belly; she didn't think she'd ever grow tired of looking at him.

Faithe stood and twisted the water out of her hair. He paused in the act of untying his chausses and stared at her-her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, hips, arms, and legs-his dark gaze caressing her until her skin erupted in gooseflesh and her nipples tightened.

"Cold?" He lifted her towel from the stool next to the bathtub and shook it out. "But it's so warm in here."

She stepped out of the tub, the rushes crackling beneath the soles of her bare feet. "I'm not cold, but I wouldn't mind getting dried off."

"I'm at your service." Crossing to her, he wrapped her in the towel and rubbed her arms and back through it. He pulled her toward him, kneading her with his strong hands until she sighed with gratification.

"Mmm. I like that."

"So do I." He kissed her as he ma.s.saged her b.r.e.a.s.t.s through the damp linen, then lowered his hands to her bottom. "I love touching you."

Dropping to his knees in front of her, he stroked the towel over her legs, his breath hot on her most sensitive flesh. He pa.s.sed the towel between her thighs, dried the wet curls there. The soft friction was sweetly maddening. Did he know the effect this was having on her? She smoothed wayward strands of hair off his forehead, the better to see his eyes.

He looked up at her. He knew.

Draping the towel over his shoulders, he opened her with gentle fingers, studying her intently, as if he'd never seen a woman's mysteries this close before.

Perhaps he never had, given what he'd told her about his s.e.xual past-the swift couplings with anonymous wh.o.r.es.

He drew closer, his breath coming in quickening rushes of heat that made her tingle. He looked up at her again, almost bashfully. "Would it be all right if I..."

"Yes," she breathed, burying her hands in his hair to urge him closer still.

"Tell me if I'm doing it wrong."

She chuckled breathlessly. "I don't think it can be done wrong."

Closing his eyes, he touched his lips to her very softly, almost tentatively. She gasped at the hot tickle of pleasure. Looking up sharply, he opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself and smiled. She returned the smile. "Yes, I'm all right," she murmured.

"I know. I'm learning." Closing his hands over her hips, he glided his tongue over her aching flesh until she moaned and clutched at his hair. He kissed her, suckled her, even nipped her lightly with his teeth. Her climax approached swiftly, exploding with luxuriant intensity as he continued to pleasure her, gripping her hips tightly to hold her still.

He nuzzled her lightly as the blood slowed in her veins and her breathing steadied.

"Are you certain you've never done that before?" she breathed as he stood and took her in his arms.

"I think I would have remembered." He kissed her, and she tasted herself on his lips.

"Would you like me to do that to you?" she asked him.

He chuckled deep in his chest. "Yes, and possibly a few other things-all in good time. Right now I'd like to know where you keep that oil that smells like almonds and thyme."

She pointed to the green vial on the floor near the tub. Bending to retrieve it, he removed the cork and poured some of the fragrant balm into both palms. Standing behind her, he slid his rough, oily hands over her back and hips and waist, working it in with lazy, circular strokes.

"You're using too much oil," she murmured.

"You can wash it off."

"You mean to tell me I'll have to bathe all over again?"