Maiden Bride

Nicholas was surly at supper, and so inattentive to the steward who tried to report upon his holdings that the man gaped at him in astonishment. The food seemed to sit like a hot stone in his belly, and he soon pushed away his trencher, though he knew that if he did not eat, he would regret it later. The promised pain meant little, for he had lived with it for years. Instead, his thoughts traveled to the upper chamber where his wife was taking her repast alone.

It was only natural, Nicholas told himself, to wish to keep the object of his revenge within view. Although he had sent a soldier up to guard her door, he trusted no one, least of all Edith, to watch over his wife. The foolish old servant did not know, nor could anyone guess, that the little nun was really a vixen who might leap out a window at the slightest provocation.

The thought of her escape attempt made Nicholas rise halfway from his seat, and he would have gone up to check on her, but for the startled gaze of his steward. He shifted slightly, nodding to the man, then stared at his cup. Had the meals at Belvry always been so interminable? Was there no way to hasten the serving and eating of food?

He looked at the members of his household, seated side by side along the trestles that lined the tables of the great hall, and realized that they had become soft, taking their ease at length. He ought to send them scurrying to their pallets, and then…

“I am glad to see that you abandoned your previous attire for something more suitable.” The sound of the low voice, suddenly so close to him, startled Nicholas, and he cursed himself for the lapse in his alertness. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the Syrian, who leaned near.

“What are you talking about?”

Darius lifted his dark brows in an enigmatic expression that made him look all the more exotic and foreign. “I had heard you were running around the castle wearing nothing but a scrap of linen to cover your modesty.”

For the first time in years, Nicholas felt heat rise in his cheeks, at the reminder of his headlong rush after his wife. He picked up a bare bone and rolled it absently between his fingers. “‘Twould be a bit chilly for continual wear,” he said coolly.

Darius smiled slowly. “At first, I thought you were but donning your emir’s robes, but from what I gather, your costume was even less substantial.”

Nicholas did not comment. He had no intention of explaining himself to the Syrian, or of dwelling upon an incident best forgotten. If Darius’s object was to inform him of the gossip, then he had done so. He had no wish to discuss it further.

“They say you charged after her like a bear—”

“Enough!” Nicholas said. Immediately he regretted his response. Was the Syrian trying to goad him? Nicholas assessed his companion with narrowed eyes. Although his expression revealed nothing, Nicholas had the distinct impression that the Syrian was amused. And he did not like it.

The bone in his hand snapped abruptly.

“Do you find something humorous, Darius?” Nicholas asked. The Syrian shook his head, his dark face impassive, his black eyes cloaked. But Nicholas persisted, staring hard at his companion until he realized that he would welcome a fight to ease his frustrations. Finally, he looked away, angered by his own lack of discipline.

“I will see to the sentries,” the Syrian said. Nicholas nodded, and was grateful for a respite from that knowing gaze when Darius left his seat. It was getting late. He ought to seek his rest and attend to his wife.

Gillian. Nicholas’s heart seemed to pound faster and harder as he pondered her fate, come the night. After what had happened in the bath, he was leery of sleeping with her. Nun or novice she was not unfamiliar with womanly wiles. Aye, innocent as she might seem, she could entice as well as the sultriest of harem dwellers. And he had no intention of becoming a slave to her body, when it was she who was at his mercy.

In truth, he ought to make her lie on the floor at the foot of his bed, like the meanest of servants. And yet her skin was so creamy and fine, Nicholas wondered if such a hard berth might not mar it. Perhaps he should just let her stay in Aisley’s room.

Daunted by his indecision, Nicholas took a deep breath to clear his head. Usually his judgment was swift and sure, and he liked not this continued dithering. With a frown of annoyance, he resolved to keep his wife within his sight. She was a clever, bold thing, and he would be wise to keep an eye on her, lest he find himself deprived of his vengeance come morning.

His. vengeance. Nicholas’s blood quickened as he contemplated his course. Already he had discovered her deepest fear and how effortlessly he could torment her with it. He would let the vixen sleep on a thick pallet, so that she would suffer no bruises, but he would keep her within reach… at the foot of his bed.

For the first time this evening, Nicholas’s lips curled into a ghost of a smile. Absently he stroked the curve of his cup with his thumb, again and again, while he pictured Hexham’s niece on her knees before him. Aye, he would taunt her easily enough—with his sex.

Chapter Five

Gillian sat back, a bit uncomfortable under Edith’s constant attention. Being waited upon took some getting used to, and the habits of the nunnery died hard. Still, the older woman seemed offended by Gillian’s offers of help, so she played at the role of lady, and wondered just how long this treatment would last.

Somehow, she did not think Nicholas would approve.

“Well, you certainly have a healthy appetite,” Edith commented. As the servant cleaned away the remains of the meal, she eyed Gillian closely. “Could it be that he has got you with child already?”

Gillian blanched. “Certainly not,” she answered sharply. Then, feeling guilty for attacking her only friend here at Belvry, she took a deep breath and tried to find the words to explain. “‘Tis an old habit,” she said. “There was a time when I…when I did not have enough to eat…and since then I have filled myself whenever I can.”

“Oh, my poor child,” Edith said. Gillian turned away, too proud to see the pity she knew would be in the old servant’s eyes, but to her relief, Edith did not belabor the subject. The woman simply made a brisk sound in her throat and moved on.

“Well, you look fine and healthy, so I am sure that a baby will be not long in coming, especially since Lord Nicholas wants you to attend him in his chamber this night,” she said, giving Gillian a broad wink.

Gillian was horrified. The good food and friendly company of the older woman had relaxed her, but that easy mood fled at such news. She sat up straighter, so as to take slow, simple breaths, and stared, wide-eyed, at the door that had kept her closed away—and safe—from him.

“See, my lady, he cannot hate you as much as you say, or else he would not take his pleasure with you,” Edith rambled on. Suddenly the woman’s chatter seemed irritating, and Gillian would stop it before it embarrassed her further.

“The only pleasure he will take is in abusing me.”

“My lady!” Edith said, with a gasp of surprise. “I admit that Lord Nicholas is not the gentlest of men, but you cannot mean to say he has hurt you?”

“Not yet, for he has not had the opportunity to…to consummate the marriage,” Gillian said baldly.

“Oh!” Edith put a hand to her bosom, as if heartily relieved. “‘Tis your fears that are speaking, my lady. Lord Nicholas is a fine figure of a man, tall and strong and well made. Why, he is the most handsome man I have ever seen, excepting my own dear Willie, of course.”

“Yes, he is beautiful. Beautiful and terrible,” Gillian muttered.

“Nonsense,” Edith said. “He has been to the East, where men are said to acquire an expertise in the arts of love. You cannot tell me that Lord Nicholas does not know his way about a bedchamber.”

Gillian blushed and ducked her head, unprepared for this frank discussion of what transpired between a man and a woman. Not since her days in Master Freemantle’s household had she heard such bold speech, and the memory of the burgher’s foul breath and loathsome touch made her shudder.

“Have no fear, my lady,” Edith said. “There are ways and there are ways, and if Lord Nicholas does not please you as he ought, you can take things into your own hands, so to speak,” she said with a loud chuckle.

“What?”

“I am only saying that there are some who do not respond to kind words and sweet smiles, but most men are swayed easily enough by a woman’s attentions under the covers.”

Stunned, Gillian stared, openmouthed, at the older woman.

“Aye, my lady,” Edith said conspiratorially. “I have marked the way Lord Nicholas looks at you, and to my mind, you could have him at your feet easily enough, should you but make a bit of effort.”

Gillian felt dizzy at the thought. She was distrustful of men and fearful of their lusts, and yet, when she bathed Nicholas de Laci, she had felt only a strange excitement. His body was so compelling that she had found her hands lingering at their task, her fingers exploring the broad pelt of dark hair that covered his hard chest. Trying to maintain a modicum of privacy, she had averted her eyes from the water’s hidden depths, but she had found out later that everything about Nicholas de Laci was larger than life.

Gillian’s heart started beating wildly as she remembered Nicholas de Laci as he had stood in the doorway, naked but for a scrap of linen. She pictured him leaning close, touching her, doing things to her that Master Freemantle had whispered in her ear. The images held a certain forbidden allure that Gillian would never have thought herself capable of feeling, and she closed her eyes, as if to block them from her sight.

When she did, her husband’s face swam before her, handsome enough to turn any girl’s knees to water, yet his expression showed not ecstasy but triumph, and his silver eyes glittered with malice. With a gasp, Gillian lifted her lashes, knowing that she could never turn him away from his twisted course of vengeance.

“Here now, calm yourself, my lady,” Edith said, bending over Gillian, concern in her gaze. “I did not mean to upset you. ‘Twas just a thought, and should you change your mind, you just ask old Edith for some advice. We will have haughty old Nick begging for your favors like a trained pup!”

Gillian smiled bitterly at the woman’s words, for she knew just how impossible it would be to accomplish that feat. Edith was gentle and kind, but she saw what she wanted to see, and she had never faced Nicholas de Laci’s dagger eyes, empty of all but his hatred.

“Well, now, you had better come along, and remember what I said, child,” Edith added.

Gillian stood and nodded, but when the older woman turned, she made sure that her eating knife was secreted upon her person. Although not much of a weapon, she would use it, if endangered. By rights, her body belonged to her husband, but before God, she would not let him harm her.

Grimly she followed the servant toward the great chamber, where he was waiting. Fighting against the same sensations that must have assailed Daniel upon entering the lions’ den, Gillian went in with head held high. She heard her husband’s sharp dismissal of Edith and the ominous thud of the door closing behind the servant, but still she refused to look at him.

Silence settled around her, thick and ominous, and Gillian decided there was something horribly close about the bedchamber, although it was the biggest one she had ever seen. Large, warm and luxurious, it was typical of Belvry, this fantastic home of the de Lacis.

A huge bed with heavy hangings stood against one wall, across from a clean hearth surrounded by coffers and settles soft with thick pillows. Eyeing a fat woven cloth with exotic designs that must have been made in the East, Gillian realized that she had never dreamed of such a place. Truly, it must resemble paradise.

There was only one problem: He was in it.

He had never shared her tent while on the road. In fact, they had been alone only once, right here, when she attended his bath, running her hands over his sleek, wet skin and discovering the hard muscle that ran beneath it. Shivering at the memory that beckoned to her, Gillian forced herself to look at him.

All her longings disappeared in a rush. He stood before her now, so arrogant and cruel that she could hardly believe him to be the same man who had relaxed under her touch, or that she had felt anything other than revulsion toward him.

“You will stay here tonight, wife,” he said, and she drew in a sharp breath. His mouth curved wickedly, as if promising myriad horrors, and without volition, Gillian’s gaze dropped to his groin. He whirled away suddenly, pointing to a thick straw pallet at the foot of the bed. “There is where you shall sleep,” he snapped, as though angered anew.

The floor was traditionally the repose of servants and squires, but Gillian did not protest. Although the bed was big enough to hold six people, she was relieved that she did not have to share it with him. Better to feel the hard tiles beneath her than his body against hers… naked. She trembled.

As if sensing her dismay, he turned on her again, leering spitefully. “I have been lenient with you, vixen, but our trip is over, and now you will be expected to pay the price for your uncle’s treachery.”

He walked slowly around her, like a cat stalking a mouse, but Gillian lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated by his threats. “I have thought long and well on my revenge,” he added, his eyes glittering as they always did when he spoke of his one true passion.

“Of course, it would have been better, if Hexham’s brother had sired a son. Then, I could have killed him outright, but since you are a woman, and at the king’s behest my wife, I shall have to devise other methods of enacting my revenge.”

His sharp gaze raked her slowly, and Gillian struggled to maintain her composure under his sly insinuations. “There are many ways to torture a man, but a woman—?” He left the question dangling in the silence, and Gillian’s breath grew short. His lips curled, as if her fright pleased him mightily.

“Get to your pallet, wife, and await me at my leisure,” he ordered, but Gillian could not move. Too busy trying to fill her lungs to heed his command, she could only gasp, and she kept on gasping until the scowl left his face and he eyed her with alarm.

“What the devil?” Stepping toward her, he took her by the shoulders and shook her slightly. His attentions only agitated her further, and Gillian could do naught but stare at him wide-eyed. His face swam before her, hard and beautiful, before dizziness engulfed her. He must have felt her sway, for the next thing she knew she was scooped up in strong arms and laid upon a soft fur on the great bed.

“By all the saints, ‘tis no wonder you cannot breathe in this gown,” he snapped, and, turning her, he began to loosen the ties. Gillian felt his hand, warm even through her shift as he rubbed his palm across her back, and despite all his warnings and her own wariness, it was not unpleasant.

Although his was not the gentlest of touches, neither was it threatening, and Gillian felt her terror ease at the rhythmic pressure. Indeed, to her surprise, she found the sound of his breathing, low and quick, and the sensation of his heavy hand against her, oddly soothing—until his callused fingers slid onto the bare skin above her shift.

Abruptly her comfort fled, for his fingertips seemed to sear her flesh with their heat and incite in her an unwelcome excitement. Starting, she gasped again, and he moved away, muttering imprecations.

When he returned, he pressed a cup of ale upon her, apparently from a flask he kept in the chamber. “Here, sit up and drink,” he said. Although gruff, his voice seemed different to her ears, as if stripped of its usual cool distance. Though conscious of her gown gaping behind her, Gillian let him help her up against the pillows and took a sip.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Gillian nodded, acutely aware of how close he sat beside her, warm and solid and no longer fearsome. “Are you prone to these fits?” he asked, his tone harsher.

“No,” Gillian answered softly. “Only when I am… Only rarely,” she said, catching herself just in time. She would not let him know how well he had terrorized her—or did he gloat in triumph already? Gillian stiffened and glanced up at him, but he avoided her gaze, surging to his feet, with his back toward her.

“Good! Then I shall expect never to see you possessed by such demons again,” he snapped. As Gillian watched, he leaned forward and pressed a hand against his stomach before straightening swiftly to his full, impressive height. The movement was so subtle that she would not have noticed, had she not been eying him so closely. Did her invincible husband suffer some ailment?

Gillian’s concern fled when he whirled back toward her, his handsome face once more composed and cruel. “Rest yourself,” he advised coldly, “for I will not have you die on me, as your traitorous uncle did. I will have my revenge!”

He stalked to the door and slammed it behind him, the loud bang of the wood echoing into silence, and Gillian was aware of a sharp pain in her chest that had nothing to do with her loss of breath.

Slowly she set the cup down upon a coffer and climbed from the bed. Easing the rest of the way from her outer garment, she folded it neatly and set it aside. Then she settled onto her pallet, still clad in her shift, and pulled a fur over herself. Accustomed to sleeping with a roomful of other women, Gillian found the quiet of the empty chamber strange.

The fire glittered nearby, making Gillian realize that this nest was far softer and warmer than her cot at the convent had ever been. And she would not have to rise again at midnight to kneel upon cold stone for lengthy prayers.

But Belvry held dangers that the nunnery did not. Perhaps this evening her husband would leave her alone and she might snatch some badly needed sleep, yet she could not count upon this respite. There were many long nights ahead, and Gilhan knew the mysterious Syrian would no longer whisper to her of safety.

Suddenly, Gillian recalled the brush of warm fingers across her back, rhythmic and comforting and something more. An odd sensation that she had never known before had taken hold of her…

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