Maiden Bride

“Nay. She but lives there with those who are.”

Nicholas saw Darius relax slightly. Although, as far as Nicholas knew, the Syrian did not practice any religion, he had a high regard for the places he deemed holy, both Christian and Muslim. “Ah,” he said softly. “And what shall you do with her?”

Nicholas did not answer immediately, for he was still considering his plans. The future, which had only a few hours ago seemed so bleak and senseless, now held endless possibilities. Nicholas tried to tamp down the clamor in his blood to a dull roar, but the patience that had been his mainstay seemed to elude him now. Thwarted by Hexham’s death, and the long, hollow months that had followed, he craved immediate recompense. Now. At last.

“I would make her suffer as Hexham did me,” Nicholas finally replied.

“You mean to leave her to bleed to death in the desert sun?” Darius asked.

Nicholas ignored the Syrian’s sarcasm, for he did not wish to be reminded of the torment of those burning days and freezing nights, or of the slow year of recovery that had followed.

“Nay,” he said. “But I would find out that which she cherishes most, and I would take it from her, just as Hexham tried to do to me and mine. I would discover what she most fears and reviles, and I would present it to her. I would torment her and take pleasure in it. I will have my revenge.”

In the ensuing silence, Nicholas felt Darius’s hard stare upon him. Although the Syrian’s dark eyes held no censure, he knew that Darius had a deep-rooted respect for women. More than likely he did not approve of Nicholas’s plans, but he would not interfere.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Darius dropped his gaze. “You go to kill her, then?” he asked, his exotic features, swathed in cloth, revealing little of his mood.

“No,” Nicholas answered, as he let a slight smile play upon his lips. “I go to marry her.”

Chapter Two

Nicholas was vaguely aware of the rapid rise of his pulse, but he did not seek to slow it with his usual discipline. Not this time. He had pushed himself and his men to reach the nunnery in ten days, and he was going to savor the small surge of satisfaction that filled him as he awaited his bride.

Victory was nearly his! Victory over the demons that had haunted him for years, that had destroyed the life of an optimistic young knight, changing his path forever. Finally, he would claim his revenge, and then, mayhap, he would be whole again.

Darius settled in behind him, and Nicholas slanted a glance at the Syrian. As usual, Darius’s face was an enigmatic mask, but Nicholas sensed his disapproval. Darius was far more chivalrous than any knight, and Nicholas knew he did not care for a scheme that involved a woman. Already he had pushed the boundaries of their relationship by asking Nicholas what came after the vengeance. Nicholas had not deigned to answer; he did not let himself think that far ahead. She was to be his wife, and unless she proved herself too frail for that task, he would have many years in which to exact payment from the last of Hexham’s line.

Gillian, she was called. Nicholas pictured her in his mind—a smaller, female version of his enemy, with Hexham’s blue-black hair and the pasty-white skin of the idle. Convent-bred she was, too, Nicholas thought with contempt. He knew the type: delicate and helpless. He had only to look at the woman who headed the order to confirm his beliefs. Small and bent, the abbess moved with the slowness of age, but had risen to do his bidding immediately. It would be easy enough to shape such a creature to his will, and he looked forward to it.

“I would wed as soon as she arrives,” Nicholas said, hiding his eagerness behind an impassive expression.

“But that is impossible, my lord!” the abbess protested, her lined face easily showing her dismay. “Father Goode has gone to visit his ailing sister, so the nearest priest is in Litton, a good day’s ride from here.”

In deference to the nun, Nicholas bit back his oath. Then he turned to the burly man who flanked him, along with Darius. “Renfred, fetch the priest,” he ordered tersely.

“Aye, my lord.”

“And have him back here tomorrow.”

“Aye, my lord,” Renfred said, grinning evilly. He moved quickly, ducking through the arched entranceway just as three more women appeared.

“Ah, Gillian,” the abbess said, and Nicholas felt a rush of excitement. She was here! But which one was she?

All three wore the black robes and white wimples of their calling and kept their faces lowered in a deferential manner that made it hard to see their features. The only apparent difference between them was the height of the middle one, who towered over the other two. Studying her closely, Nicholas was startled by her sudden, sharp glance of curiosity as she and her companions filed in and took seats on a worn bench.

“Gillian, dear, I have good news for you,” the abbess said, and again the tall one lifted her head, her bright eyes shifting quickly toward the speaker. Surely that brazen creature was not his bride, Nicholas thought. Perhaps she simply lacked the manners that the other two exhibited with their discreet silence.

“The king has sent you a husband,” the old woman continued, her voice trembling with age—or was it trepidation? Nicholas glanced back at the bold one again. Her gaze was fixed firmly on the abbess, and what he could see of her face showed not meek submission, but determined dissent. She certainly did not act like any nun he had ever seen.

“I do not believe it. Why would Edward have any interest in me?” she said, and Nicholas felt a sharp stab of awareness. This tall, rebellious creature was Gillian Hexham?

“‘Tis true, my dear,” the old woman said, speaking gently. “The king sent word of your uncle’s death, and that you were to marry Lord de Laci to unite the lands.”

The girl’s gaze swept over Nicholas in a swift assessment that he found both unseemly and oddly exhilarating. Aye, Gillian, know your master and weep, he thought grimly, and he let her see a glimpse of his triumph.

She did not flinch, but met his hard look with one of her own, and he saw that she was younger than he had expected. No child, to be sure, but neither was she old. Eighteen years, Nicholas judged, give or take, and she was not ugly, or even plain. Her face was a creamy oval, her skin clear, her nose small and pert, her mouth well formed. And her eyes… They were not Hexham’s black, but a deep green, and they were burning with a cold fire. Abruptly she glanced away, dismissing Nicholas with a contempt that stunned him.

“You knew of this, but informed me not?” she asked, turning on the abbess. Her voice betrayed strong emotion that Nicholas could only guess was despair, but that, oddly enough, sounded more like repressed fury. This female was convent-bred?

“Now, Gillian…” the abbess said, and Nicholas’s attention was caught by the movement of the two other women, who exchanged wary glances, just as though they expected some outburst from his bride.

They were not to be disappointed. “Do not patronize me!” Gillian said, rising to her feet. “You received word, but you failed to tell me. Were you afraid that I would run away and lose you a fat purse from this popinjay?” she cried, pointing a finger at Nicholas.

Popinjay? The casually flung insult inflamed Nicholas, and he had to gain control of himself, lest he beat her here and now, when she was not yet his wife. Only great strength of will kept him from moving, but he held still, his features impassive, while his blood boiled and his hands itched to reach for her. Later. Later she would suffer for her words, and more…

The nuns gasped in horror, while the old woman stepped forward with a placating smile. “Gillian, you know that gold holds no sway with me. If you would but take the time to think, you would see that I have your best interests at heart. You have not been happy here, but now you have a chance for a new life. Take it, child, with God’s blessing.”

“I would be more inclined to view this news as good fortune if you had deigned to share it, instead of keeping it from me. I suspect that you did not let me know the truth for fear I would try to escape.”

Escape? What kind of woman was she, to babble such nonsense? Did she truly think to defy the king? “Enough!” Nicholas said sharply, astounded that she dared raise her voice in a convent. “It matters not when you were told. We are to be wed, and you have no choice.”

She whirled toward him, and the other nuns reached out for her, murmuring soothingly, but she shook them off and walked forward until she stood directly in front of Nicholas.

“There are always choices, my lord,” she snapped, and Nicholas was stunned to silence by the enmity flashing in those green eyes. What cause had she to hate him? He was the one who had been ill-used, first by her uncle and now by her sharp tongue! Then she turned and stalked from the room, without waiting for the dismissal of her lord or her abbess.

Nicholas was not even aware that he moved, but suddenly he was at the door, Darius holding firm to his arm. “Let her go for now,” the Syrian said, his voice low and pleading for reason.

Startled by his own loss of control, Nicholas drew back. His blood was pounding so fiercely that it took an effort for him to gain mastery over it. And so it became a small victory simply to hold his position and not give chase to Gillian Hexham like some herder after an errant pig.

“Forgive her, my lord,” the abbess urged. “Gillian is impetuous, a bit headstrong, even, but she will come around. She simply needs some time to grow accustomed to the idea.”

Amazed at the depth of his rage, Nicholas breathed slowly, seeking his vaunted discipline before he spoke. “Why did you not let her know that I was coming, so that this display might have been avoided?”

The abbess did not meet his penetrating stare, but turned her head away, forcing Nicholas to wonder whether Gillian had spoken the truth. Would she flee, rather than wed him? But why? She had no notion of his hatred or of what lay between her uncle and himself. The abbess had told him that Hexham had taken no interest in his niece save to tuck her away in the convent, and that no communication had passed between them in the years since. Gillian could hardly be devoted to a man she had never even met.

An oddly unsettling notion took root in Nicholas’s fevered brain, and he watched the abbess closely for her response. “Has she a lover nearby? Or some tie that would make her refuse to leave here?”

The nuns gasped at his plain language. “No, no, my lord, I assure you that Gillian has nothing holding her here. ‘Tis only her own strong will, my lord,” the abbess answered. Her reply filled him with a strange relief, which Nicholas put down to a desire not to be cuckolded.

“She is stubborn, my lord,” one of the nuns whispered.

“She dislikes anything that is not her idea,” the other one said, her face pinched with disapproval.

“She has had a hard life, my lord,” the first nun added.

“In a convent?” Nicholas asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

“After her father died; she and her mother were forced to live very meagerly, and then her mother, too, passed on. She was cast adrift until her uncle finally sent funds for her to join us here,” the abbess explained.

Cast adrift? “What do you mean? Where did she live?”

“She took shelter with a burgher’s family, as little more than a servant.”

Wonderful. His wife had been as one lowborn. Oddly enough, the thought of her trials did not give Nicholas pleasure, perhaps because they had been brought on by fate, and not by himself. Perverse as it might seem, he wanted to be the sole source of distress to Gillian Hexham.

“She hardly seems subservient,” he commented dryly.

“She is a good girl, my lord, but lacks the proper disposition for the holy life. Perhaps she is better suited to be a chatelaine,” the abbess suggested, with a gleam in her eye.

Nicholas frowned. If the old woman was likening Gillian’s behavior to that of her betters, she was sadly mistaken. The ill-mannered creature little resembled any lady he knew. His sister, Aisley, never raised her voice, and she was the most regal of females.

Nicholas nearly laughed at the comparison. His tiny, fair-haired sister was nothing like this green-eyed jade. Convent-bred, indeed! Obviously, the old woman could not control her flock, but Nicholas would put the fear of God into Gillian Hexham quickly enough.

The ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth as he contemplated his revenge. By faith, by the time he was done with her, Gillian would look back on her past with longing. Aye, she would envy even a peasant’s meager lot!

Gillian rushed to the dormitory in which she slept, frantically wondering how much time she had. Soon it would be time for vespers, and her absence from prayers would be noticed. Oh, why her? And why now, when she had finally resigned herself to the convent? Suddenly the existence she had viewed as stifling and regimented seemed wholly satisfying.

It was her own fault. She had become complacent and bored with her lot, forgetting that the very same walls that hemmed her in kept the outside world at bay. She had never fit in here, lacking the patience and commitment that was needed to answer a holy calling, but she had been clothed and fed and, most of all, kept safe.

Too late, she remembered that a life outside the convent was fraught with dangers. Poverty, starvation, degradation and horrors too evil to contemplate lay but a short walk down the road. And Gillian knew most of them well. Swiftly she considered her choices while she gathered together her bedding—small payment for her years of service.

Already she could feel the breathlessness that took her when she was frightened. How long had it been since she had been forced to struggle for air? It all came back to her now: the hunger that had gnawed at her belly too often, the cold that had chilled her to the bone, the grimy smell of a body too long between baths and the frustration that had never found surcease.

Gillian’s hand stilled as she sucked in a harsh breath. It did not have to be like that again! She was older and wiser now, with many skills to her name. Surely she could become a servant in a respectable home. No, she thought, with a shudder, it would have to be something else. Although the guilds kept a stranglehold on most of the trades, the city must have other jobs that would keep her out of harm’s way.

Tossing in her meager belongings, Gillian yanked the linens into a knot, then slipped out of her room. Although she knew she ought to take food with her, she could hardly dare the kitchens. Obviously, several of the nuns were aware of her situation, and they might expect her to bolt. Unfortunately, she was not known for her cool head, and now she rued her reputation.

Deciding that the doorways might be watched, Gillian snuck toward a window. It was a good drop to the ground, but there was no help for it, she thought, gazing down at the grass below. She had no time to dither; she had to get away before he came after her.

Long ago, she had dreamed of a family of her own, of a husband who did not waste his coins, as her father had. A shopkeeper, a knight… Gillian smiled humorlessly. Even then, she had not aspired as high as the de Lacis, famous throughout the country for their wealth!

Gillian could still hardly believe that she, lowly daughter to an unsuccessful second son, was betrothed to the owner of Belvry. Although she had long since changed her mind about marriage, still Gillian might have been tempted, if the man had been kind and gentle and patient. A man who would not frighten her with his brute strength, or…

Gillian shuddered again, for he was none of those things. One look at that face—so handsome, yet so implacable-and those strange eyes filled with hatred had settled her mind. She had no idea why he despised her. Perhaps he did not want to wed her, or harbored some grudge against her uncle; the reason mattered not. She knew only that his icy gray gaze frightened her far more than a flight into the unknown. She had managed once before on her own, and she would do it again, rather than face a life with that one! Tossing her bundle to the ground, she swung a leg over the stone and jumped.

The fall knocked the breath from her, and Gillian lay on her back, gasping for air. Luckily, the grass was soft beneath her, but she gingerly wiggled her fingers and toes, just to make sure that she had suffered nothing more than a few bruises. She was sprawled in an unladylike pose, her legs apart, her gown hiked up to her knees, her wimple askew, yet it hardly mattered. Her days of strict decorum were over, she thought, smiling slightly.

That was when she saw him.

He was standing a few feet from the top of her head, so that he looked upside down to her, and so close that she could have reached out to touch his boots, below the rich material of his long tunic. The thought startled her, and she jerked her eyes upward. His hands were fisted against his slim hips, and above his wide shoulders, his face was dark with contempt, those silver eyes like the points of twin daggers.

“If you were trying to kill yourself, you should have picked a higher window,” he commented. For a moment, Gillian could only lie there, staring up at him, so stunned was she by his words. What kind of monster was he to make such a twisted jest?

“I will make sure that the ones in your room at Belvry are barred,” he said, the low purr of promise in his voice making the threat sound serious. Gillian sat up abruptly then, tugging at her skirts and twisting around—the better to see her enemy. His lips were curved into the ghost of a smile, as if her discomfiture pleased him well, and Gillian’s blood ran cold.

“Resign yourself to your fate,” he said softly, “for tomorrow we wed.”

He had not locked her in, for there was no need. No woman, not even Gillian Hexham, could get by his men, Nicholas thought with grim satisfaction. He lay with his arms crossed behind his head on a hard pallet in one of the small cells reserved for visitors, content that on the morrow she would be his.

But what a strange creature she was! Nicholas could not understand why she would flee the convent with nothing but a change of clothing rather than marry him. And to jump out a window! The stupid wench could have broken her neck, and then where would he be? She would not rob him of his revenge, as Hexham had done!

Nay, he would see to it that she did not endanger herself again, foolish chit. She obviously needed a firm hand to keep her from such escapades, Nicholas thought, clearly remembering the absurd picture she had made sprawled upon the ground. Some of her hair had escaped, spilling like molten fire from her wimple. Red it was, bright and clean, and Nicholas wondered what it would look like loose. He had yet to really see her, although she had given him a glimpse of shapely calves, the way she had displayed herself on the grass, her legs wide open like a whore’s…

Taking a slow breath, Nicholas shifted, bringing his arms down to his sides and firmly crushing such thoughts. What mattered to him the color of her locks or the manner of her form? She was nothing to him but a tool for his revenge.

Yes, Gillian Hexham would soon be his wife, but Nicholas wanted no part of her body. Although he had seen many a man fall prey to that feminine trap, slave to their own desires, he had never let passion rule him. Hexham’s niece would not gain mastery over him in any way.

She might as well have taken her final vows, Nicholas thought, his lips curling at the irony, for she would never know his touch, nor any other man’s. And that small deprivation would be just the beginning…

“My lord?”

The voice broke into his thoughts, seemingly out of nowhere, and Nicholas could have cursed his own inattention. Without a sound, his fingers closed over the dagger at his hip. Although he had removed his tunic, he had left his girdle in place, and now he was glad, for even a convent held its dangers, it would seem. As he had learned long ago, nowhere was safe, and no one—not even a nun, apparently-could be trusted.

Nicholas glanced toward the low opening, which had no door or covering, but he could see nothing in the darkness except the vague shape of a bent figure. He moved swiftly into a low crouch.

“No! Please, stay where you are. It is I, Abbess Wright.” The old woman’s voice came low and oddly breathless as she stepped back behind the entrance, cold, thick stone separating her from his sight. “I wanted to have a word with you privately.”

At this hour? Despite her vows, Nicholas might have suspected her of seeking out his male flesh, but the abbess was far too old for such sport. “What is it?” he whispered.

“‘Tis a most delicate matter, my lord, that I could not easily say to your face.”

Better to sneak up on him in the middle of the night and risk a knife in her gullet? Nicholas wondered at her reasoning, but did not send her away, for her office allowed her some respect—and some allowances. “Go on,” he said.

“It is about Gillian, my lord. I would beg you not to treat her ill.”

Annoyance flared. “She is to be my wife, and no longer your concern,” Nicholas replied dismissively.

“Yes, my lord, but I would not have you.. .force yourself upon her person.”

What the devil? Was the abbess giving him advice upon his marital duties? “You do not want me to consummate the marriage?” he asked, incredulous.

“Not until your heart has warmed to her, my lord.”

“Forgive me if I am confused, Abbess,” Nicholas said, not bothering to disguise his sarcasm, “but doesn’t the church demand that wedding vows be consummated?”

“I would only remind you that rape is a sin,” the abbess said, a bit vehemently.

“There is no such thing as rape between man and wife!” Nicholas snapped. His amusement at lying half-naked in a darkened convent cell, discussing sex with a nun faded, replaced by rising annoyance.

“Nevertheless, the Lord sees and knows all, and he will judge accordingly!” The old woman’s voice broke, and Nicholas reigned in his spleen with some difficulty.

“Abbess, what makes you think I would rape my bride?” he asked, as mildly as he could.

“I have seen the hatred in your eyes when you look at her!” The words rang out clearly, an accusation that he could not deny, and then a rustle of skirts signaled the abbess’s departure. Astonished by her behavior, Nicholas stared at the opening to his cell, wondering if all holy women were as mad as those to be found here.

Cursing silently at the folly of females, he lay back down upon his hard pallet, struggling against the pain in his belly. If the old woman had not had the effrontery to scold him, Nicholas might have assured her that he had no intention of bedding his wife.

He had much worse planned for her.

Nicholas knew a heady triumph he had not felt since he had destroyed Hexham’s army and given chase to his enemy. They had never faced each other, never engaged in personal combat, since Hexham had fled like the coward he was, but now Nicholas stood beside the bastard’s niece, before a priest who would make them man and wife. And then she would be his…

She was wearing her black nun’s garb, and Nicholas felt a stab of annoyance. Had she no other clothes? Probably not, for she had no money of her own. And then he wondered at his perversity. What cared he what she wore? If she liked fine things, he would keep her in rags, and if she wanted to wear drab garments, then he would dress her in finery. His lips curled in anticipation.

His bride was not as tall as Nicholas had first thought, for the top of her head reached only to his chin. He watched it now, wondering about the hair that lay hidden, and then let his gaze rove over her features: delicately arched brows over thick-lashed eyes, creamy cheeks, and lips of the deepest rose. They were gently curved, and yet, even when she was prompted, they remained silent. With a tingle of surprise, Nicholas realized that she was hesitating over her vows, and he moved closer, menacing her without a word.