Free Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] by Falcons Fire

up... and beheld the lady Martine, gazing down on him from the landing.
    Shock kept him rooted to the spot, robbed his tongue of the power of speech. At first she frowned slightly in obvious puzzlement. Then, with a strange and horrible detachment, Thorne saw her gaze travel slowly from his face to Zelma’s, and finally to Zelma’s hands where they disappeared beneath the hem of his tunic. Her eyes widened, and she took a step back.
    With her nunlike dress and her hands clasped primly before her, she looked like a saint who had just stumbled upon some sinners and didn’t quite know what to make of them. Despite her coolness and her intellect, she was, he reminded himself, a convent girl, unused to the ways of the world. He would have understood if she had gasped in horror, had turned and fled. But she merely returned her gaze to his, and he lacked the power to look away. His eyes were riveted on hers as the kitchen wench, oblivious to everything but her little game, continued to fondle him.
    To look upon Martine’s face as those skilled hands worked their magic both aroused and disturbed him. He wondered what Martine was thinking. Did she know that he had imagined her in Zelma’s place, had seen her eyes behind the shifting veils, felt the warmth of her lips on his? Did she know?
    He saw something in her eyes... a secret knowledge, an understanding.
    His heart pounded; he could barely breathe. He closed his eyes, willing Martine gone. She mustn’t be here. She mustn’t know.
    “Are you all right?” Zelma asked, her hands stilling.
    He opened his eyes. The landing was empty.
    Zelma said, “You looked dizzy for a moment.”
    A moment. Yes, a moment. It had just been a moment. Martine had appeared and left in the space of two heartbeats, but it had seemed much, much longer.
    He took a deep breath and banished all thoughts of Martine from his mind. “I’m fine. Come outside with me.” Zelma’s teasing had driven him perilously close to the edge. He would not let her finish him here in this stairwell, like some randy youth who had to take what he could get. He had to get her to the hawk house.
    She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
    “You won’t get pregnant. I’ll finish outside of you.”
    “I’m barren as a stone. Doesn’t matter.”
    He wouldn’t have to pull out! He had to have her. Perhaps she feared that he would hurt her. She had commented on his size, something about him doing her damage.
    “I’d be so gentle,” he said. “You’d never even know I was in there.”
    “Ah. Well.” Abruptly she let go of him, pulled her hands out of his chausses, tightened the cord, and adjusted his tunics. “There’s hardly any point to that , now, is there?”
    “What?”
    “If I wanted to fall asleep in the middle of it, I’d spread my legs for that Sir Guy or one of them other fine Norman ladies. A real Saxon stallion should be able to make a woman scream.”
    “Zelma—”
    She turned and descended the stairs, saying, “Try again when you’re not in such a gentle mood.”
    He watched her disappear and stood staring after her, still holding the pitchers. The throbbing ache in his groin was suddenly matched by a headache of blinding intensity. He turned, closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead against the cool stone wall. It had been a trying day.
    More voices came from below—Peter and Guy on their way back up from wherever they had gone—but still Thorne didn’t move. Their conversation trailed off as they came up behind him. For a moment they regarded him in silence, and then Peter put a hand on his shoulder, saying softly, “Thorne?”
    “Aye?”
    He tapped his empty tankard against one of the pitchers. “Mind giving me a refill?”
    *   *   *
    Martine sat down in the hot, scented water and leaned back against the smooth wood of the tub. She closed her eyes and sighed. All the woes of the world were expelled from her in that sigh, replaced by a delicious, consuming warmth. She