Secret Thunder Part 23

Luke came awake slowly, as if he were drifting to the surface of a warm, clear pool, drifting toward the sunlight...

He blinked and yawned. It was sunny, more so than when he usually awoke. He'd slept late, then. Little wonder, since he and Faithe had spent the night-most of it, anyway-making slow, spellbinding love while the rest of Hauekleah slept soundly.

A glance at Faithe's side of the bed revealed that she'd already awakened and gone downstairs. He'd never known her to sleep past dawn.

He stretched luxuriously, growling with contentment. The linen sheets shifting over his bare flesh reminded him that he was naked; his nakedness reminded him of last night-and yesterday afternoon in the barn.

Luke smiled. He was going to like being married to Faithe of Hauekleah.

He washed and dressed quickly, eager to see his wife again, to put his arms around her and feel her arms around him. Such need, such desire, such euphoria. It was like a drunkenness of the soul-a state of ecstatic inebriation. He couldn't wait to be with her, to touch her, to bury his face in her hair and inhale her very essence.

I'm lost, he thought as he descended the stairs into the main hall, and I'm glad of it.

Joy rose within him when he saw her standing near a window, inspecting something in her hand. His cheer faded when he saw that Orrik was with her, pointing to what she held and saying something Luke couldn't bear. Baldric, his arms crossed, leaned against the wall.

His brother sat on a bench nearby, getting a haircut from one of his twins-to the obvious displeasure of young Firdolf, who eyed them sulkily as he stacked firewood on the hearth. Of course, it was the twin with one braid, the one of whom he was so enamored, Leola. Luke wondered why he'd taken a fancy to just the one and not the other, since they were so very much alike. Love, he decided, knew no logic nor reason.

Alex grinned when he saw Luke. "Good day to you, brother. You've awakened just in time for the midday meal." Alex's eyes sparkled with secret humor, as if he could guess why Luke had slept so late.

Faithe smiled with unabashed pleasure when she noticed Luke. He smiled back, feeling, already, that tingle of gratification he felt whenever he was near her. She waved him over, and he crossed to her.

"What do you make of this?" she asked, holding out the shiny object in her palm.

Luke reached for it, stilling when he saw what it was-a golden disk inset with tiny pearls in the shape of a wolf's head. Alex's mantle pin. He cut his eyes toward his brother, who met his gaze with a fleeting quirk of the mouth, a twitch of an eyebrow.

He finds this amusing, Luke realized, summoning enough presence of mind to take the pin and make a show of examining it.

Orrik scowled. "That belonged to the Norman devil who murdered Caedmon." The bailiff cast an uncomfortable look in Faithe's direction, and received a rather chilly gaze in return. Faithe had told Luke of her intention to dress Orrik down for keeping the truth from her all these months; it appeared she had already done so.

Alex gestured toward the pin. "'Tis of Frankish origin."

Luke glared at his brother, appalled that he would offer any such helpful insight.

"Well, it is," Alex said nonchalantly. "Anyone can see that."

"He's right," Orrik agreed. "'Tisn't English-made. That was obvious just from the design. And there's that inscription in French on the back."

Luke turned the pin over numbly, knowing perfectly well what was inscribed there: To my youngest son: Be strong and of good courage.

"It looks like your mantle pin," Faithe said.

Luke stared at her.

"Does it?" Orrik asked, his voice soft, his silvery eyes glinting.

"So it does," Alex said easily as he brushed bits of snipped hair off his face. He smiled mischievously at Luke, who glowered back. "They're the same size and shape, and the design around the edge is nearly identical. We should compare the two. Where is yours?"

At the bottom of the river, as you know very well. "I've lost it," Luke ground out, vexed by his brother's flippant att.i.tude. This was all a game to him, though clearly both Orrik and Faithe took it very seriously.

"You lost your mantle pin?" Faithe asked, reaching out to touch Luke's arm. "The one your father gave you? I'm so sorry. I'll tell everyone to look for it. 'Twill turn up."

I sincerely hope not. For the two pins to be compared would be disastrous. "That would be... good," he said, guilt twisting in his stomach. "Thank you."

"It matters not whether we find your pin," Orrik snapped. "This one" -he jabbed a finger at the wolf pin- "is Frankish for sure."

"For sure," Baldric echoed.

"Aye," Faithe said, "and most likely it came off the mantle of a Norman soldier. After all, 'twas found in a..." Her composure faltered slightly, just for a moment. "In a brothel," she said briskly. "Soldiers frequent such places, do they not?"

She paused, looking around at the four men. They all cleared their throats and muttered in the affirmative.

"All we know about this pin's owner," she said, "is that he's someone's youngest son."

"And that he's a whorin' murderer," Orrik snarled.

Faithe's cheeks stained pink, and Luke guessed why: If the murderer had been whoring that night, so had his victim. One of the many regrets consuming him of late was that this gentle, loving woman had been forced to confront the unsavory circ.u.mstances of her husband's death.

Faithe took the pin out of Luke's hand and flipped it over thoughtfully. "I mean to find the man who lost this," she said, softly but firmly.

Luke glanced toward Alex to see a flicker of unease in response to Faithe's quiet resolve.

She looked up and met Luke's gaze, her expression sad and intent. "He was my husband, Luke. I can't let this pa.s.s. I have to find the man who killed him. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."

"I understand," he said, because it was clearly what she wanted to hear. She needed his approval. She needed to know that he accepted her decision to apprehend the man who'd murdered her first husband. That Luke himself was the man she sought was a fact he intended to keep from her at all costs. It would devastate her; it would ruin him. And he would lose her.

He would lose her. He couldn't let that happen. All that mattered now was keeping the truth from her, though doing so would only further tarnish his soul.

"I must find out why Caedmon disappeared from Hastings," she said, "and why he lived... and died... as he did. And I must and will bring his killer to justice. Nothing will deter me."

Luke risked another glance at his brother. Alex's subtly arched eyebrow conveyed no humor this time, and his mouth was set in a grim line that Luke didn't often see on the affable young man's face. It was clear that he discerned, as Luke did, the very real threat behind Faithe's quiet resolve, so different from Orrik's fierce but unfocused bl.u.s.ter. Her determination could not be dismissed, and should not be ignored.

"I will continue my inquiries," Orrik said. "I'll show that pin in every village the Normans have pa.s.sed through-"

"Isn't that what you've been doing all along?" Faithe asked.

"Aye, well, I'll step up my efforts. I'll talk to every Englishman between here and-"

"Every Englishman?" Faithe asked.

"Aye. Every man, woman, and-"

"Why not the Normans?"

"The Normans! The soldiers?"

"Aye."

"You mean for me to question Norman soldiers?"

"You're looking for a Norman soldier, are you not? Who better to identify the man who wore the insignia of the white wolf than one of his colleagues?" Faithe spoke quietly, but there was a layer of steel underlying her words.

"Milady, I-"

"If you've restricted your efforts to the English, 'tis little wonder you've been unsuccessful."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'll go begging information from those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. 'Tisn't worth it."

"It is to me," Faithe said softly.

The bailiff's face grew dark. "What makes you think they'd cooperate? Why should they implicate one of their own in the murder of a Saxon?"

"There are ways to get information from unfriendly people. But you didn't even try."

"And I won't. Even for you, milady."

Luke took a deep breath. "I will."

Everyone looked at him. Alex's eyebrows shot up.

He thought fast. "I'm one of them. They'll talk to me. And I'm expendable here. It matters not if I'm away from Hauekleah from time to time, but Orrik is indispensable, especially with Dunstan away."

Alex nodded slowly, clearly perceiving the reason for Luke's offer. If Luke did the investigating, he'd have control over what was discovered-and revealed. Engaging in this charade would only compound his guilt over misleading Faithe, but what choice did he have? Left to her own devices, she could ferret out the truth, and he mustn't let that happen.

Faithe stepped toward him and laid a hand on his chest. "You would do that for me?"

Contrition flowed hot through Luke's veins. "Aye. Of course."

She touched his cheek. "You're a good man, Luke. Thank you."

Christ. All he could do was nod.

"Perhaps you could start by questioning Lord Alberic's men at Foxhyrst," she suggested. "Those men were your friends-you fought alongside them. Surely they'll tell you who the pin belonged to."

"If they know," Luke said. "There are thousands of Norman soldiers in England, Faithe. Trying to locate one based on nothing more than a mantle pin..." He shrugged, hoping he seemed convincing.

Faithe turned the gleaming object over and over in her hand. "Perhaps if we knew more about the pin itself, its origins..."

Orrik snorted. "It came from France. We know that."

"The Frankish Empire is huge," Faithe said. "This could have been made in Normandy, Anjou, Poitou... anywhere. If we knew where it was made, that would help us to identify its owner."

She was smart. Too smart. "An excellent suggestion," Luke allowed, "but I couldn't begin to tell you where it came from. I don't know anyone who could."

"I do," she said thoughtfully.

Luke sighed. "Do you?"

"He's a goldsmith with a shop in Foxhyrst," she said. "I commissioned this from him." She fingered the chain around her neck.

Baldric frowned and cleared his throat to get Orrik's attention. "The only goldsmith I know of in Foxhyrst is an old Jew."

"That's the one," Faithe said. "Isaac Ben Ravid is his name."

Orrik shook his head. "Nay. We don't need help from infidels."

"This particular infidel," she said icily, "happens to have been quite a renowned jeweler in his day. He served most of the royal houses of Europe before he got too old to travel."

"How do you know this?" Orrik demanded.

"We talk whenever I go marketing in Foxhyrst," she said defiantly. "I like him. He told me every region has its own distinct style-that the differences between a piece of jewelry from Paris and one from Rouen might be subtle, but they were there. He said he'd gotten to where he could pinpoint not only the city of origin of a piece, but sometimes the craftsman who'd made it."

Luke exchanged another uneasy glance with his brother. Faithe noticed. "Don't tell me you refuse to talk to Jews!"

"Of course not," he answered automatically. "I'll go to Foxhyrst on the morrow." Best to get this out of the way. He could simply stay the night in an inn and return the next day, claiming he'd had no success.

"And while we're there, we can question the soldiers garrisoned at Lord Alberic's castle."

d.a.m.n. "We?"

"Of course. I'm going with you."

"That's really not necessary," Luke said.

"Nay, but 'twould help. Isaac knows me. He might be more forthcoming with me than with a stranger. And I... I need to do this. I need to be a part of this. Can you understand that?"

Luke admitted truthfully that he could, knowing that nothing he could say would persuade her not to accompany him. The apprehension of Caedmon's murderer had become a crusade with her. Her eyes glittered with determination. He respected her for it; it showed the fort.i.tude of character he'd come to love in her. And it heartened him to think that if he were the one found dead in some dark little loft somewhere, she wouldn't rest until she'd avenged him.

But it chilled him to the bone to think of that vengeance directed toward him.

Luke couldn't get to sleep that night. The lovemaking that should have left him pleasantly exhausted only deepened his remorse over the deceit he was perpetuating against Faithe. After several sleepless hours, he rose and opened the window shutters, letting the watery moonlight bathe him. He breathed deeply of cool night breezes perfumed with the mingled scents of Hauekleah, and thought, I can't lose this. I can't lose Faithe.

Turning, he gazed on her, asleep on her back with the sheet pushed down to her hips, as naked as he. No-not completely naked; last night, he'd told her he wouldn't object if she wanted to resume wearing her chatelaine's keys to bed, and she'd taken him at his word. Now, as he studied the golden chain looped securely around her neck, the keys nestled between her lush b.r.e.a.s.t.s, he regretted that magnanimous gesture.

She'd locked up Alex's wolf pin in the little cabinet in which she kept her jewelry. In the morning she would retrieve it, and they would take it to Foxhyrst to be examined and speculated upon. Had her keys been lying on the little table next to the bed, it would be a simple matter to unlock the cabinet, take the pin, and hurl it into the river to rest alongside his. The theft would be investigated, but no one would ever suspect him-and the pin could not then be taken to Foxhyrst and shown to this Isaac Ben Ravid.

Luke crossed to the bed and sat carefully, looking down upon his sleeping wife. Holding his breath, he reached out and gently slid his fingers beneath the keys cl.u.s.tered on the end of the chain. The back of his hand brushed the silken resilience of a breast. She sighed and arched her back; Luke closed his hand around the keys to silence them, even as his loins stirred.

He shook his head ruefully, awed at her power to rouse him even in sleep. Tempted as he was to awaken her with a kiss, he forced himself to keep still until her breathing had become steady again. Gripping the keys with one hand, he slowly-so slowly-eased the chain upward, over her head. Could he disentangle it from her hair and slide it out from beneath her without disturbing her?

The question became moot, for the chain grazed her ear and she stirred. "Luke?" she murmured in a sleepy rasp.

"Aye." Distracting her with a kiss, he carefully lowered the keys to her chest. What had made him think he could take them without waking her up? A pointless attempt, born of desperation and tainted with guilt. He loathed this deception, especially in light of their newfound intimacy.