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“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.
Although Nicholas expected her to be firmly cowed by his movement, she glanced up at him in challenge, just as if she dared him to threaten her. Their eyes locked, and he tried to force her to speak through sheer strength of will, but she did not flinch. Nay, Nicholas had the distinct impression that she would have spat in his face, if she could. But she could not, and, ultimately, no matter how fierce her pride, he would be the victor. The knowledge made him smile, and she looked away from his triumph, fairly snarling her vows to the startled father.
Her bravery took him aback, if truth be told, for his years in the East had made Nicholas value courage above all else. How odd to find such a staunch heart beating in Hexham’s heir. Nicholas caught himself studying her curiously and glanced away, telling himself that her actions were born of foolishness, not valor.
As soon as the priest had finished, Nicholas turned his back on his bride in blatant dismissal. “We leave at once,” he told the startled abbess.
“Come, wife, say your goodbyes,” he snapped, hoping to dismay her with their abrupt departure. But she only gave him a stony-faced nod. Nor did she weep any farewells. Indeed, she stunned him, yet again, by walking past the nuns without a word. Faith, she was an unnatural female!
For a moment, Nicholas stared after her as she stepped toward the doors, head held high, but then he returned his attention to the abbess. “Have no fear, I will not touch her,” he said, jeering.
The old woman did not seem relieved by his assurance. Indeed, her wrinkled face showed only consternation, and she reached out toward him with a trembling hand. “Now, my lord, I know that Gillian is not as fair as some, but God tells us to go forth and multiply.”
Nicholas fixed her with a glare. His bride’s beauty, plain for all to see, was not the issue. “That is not what you said last night,” he reminded her with a sneer.
“Last night?” The old woman appeared flustered, or was she confused? Perhaps she did not care to be reminded of her unseemly visit to his quarters, he thought, but when she lifted her pale eyes to his, Nicholas saw only bewilderment. Suspicion pierced him like a blade, and without volition, he swiveled toward the doors.
She was standing outside, by her palfrey, her back to him. He knew, without a doubt, that it was Gillian who had come to him in the night. She had snuck through the darkened convent to his cell, pretended to be the abbess and made a fool of him, right enough!
When Nicholas thought of the red-haired minx giving him advice as to the bedding of her, his blood boiled. Faith, was there nothing she would not dare? Slowly, as he gained control of his anger, his outlook altered, his lips curving slightly with satisfaction. Although she was not at all what he had expected, perhaps that was all to the good.
Have at your tricks, then, vixen, Nicholas told her in a silent challenge. The war has just begun.
Chapter Three (#ulink_e9d58e30-bd38-5457-bc87-665fd1a8fa3c)
Nicholas had driven them hard until dusk, and he took satisfaction in seeing the little nun stumble from her mount, barely able to walk after the journey. He and his men were well used to such travels, but Gillian would have done little riding at the convent.
Now her head was bent over her supper in what Nicholas could only assume was exhaustion. In another woman, he would have thought the pose a sign of submission, but not so with this one. He suspected that she would not reveal even this small weakness, if she knew he was watching from underneath the trees.
She was a strange creature, but a worthy opponent, Nicholas decided. Aye, in the brief time he had known her, she had shown more courage by far than her worthless uncle! Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. Only her midnight visit to him at the convent smacked of Hexham’s deviousness, and he had yet to discover the reason for that foolery. Still, it served to remind him that treachery and deceit ran in her blood, and he had best not turn his back on her, wife or no.
The knowledge fueled his hatred for her, and Nicholas stepped forward, impatient to torment her. She had eaten more than enough already. Indeed, he was beginning to wonder where all that food was going. His bride might be taller than most women, but she was certainly not fat. Yet he had been finished for some time, and still she continued to feed. Perhaps she sought to delay speech with him, he mused, his lip curling. The suspicion urged him on, and he stalked to where she sat by the fire and stood over her in purposeful intimidation.
“Have you had your fill, wife?” he asked.
She stiffened and straightened her drooping shoulders, her chin lifting imperceptibly, and Nicholas spared a bit of admiration for her strength. It was quickly replaced by annoyance, however, when she refused to look at him.
“No,” she answered, sharp as a fishmonger’s wife. Then she took another bite of bread, without even bothering to acknowledge his lordship over her.
Her impudence made him bristle. “Whether you wished it or no, I am your husband now, and I say you are finished,” he snapped, reaching for her trencher.
She glanced up at him then, her green eyes flashing contempt. “Would you starve me, my lord?” She spat the appellation at him as though it were a curse.
“Ha! ‘Twould be hard to waste away on what you have put in your belly this night!” Nicholas replied. Then he paused, as if to reconsider her suggestion. “But ‘tis a notion, wife. Perhaps I will, if you do not please me.”
Instead of lashing out at him, as he expected, she released the trencher and dropped her gaze to her lap. Did she think to ignore him? Nicholas would not allow it. He took her chin in his hand and raised it, forcing her to meet his eyes. The antagonism he had come to know greeted him, but something else lurked in those green depths.
Fear. Nicholas could almost smell it. Her nostrils flared, and her breasts began rising and falling rapidly with the force of each breath. Despite her bravado, the vixen was terrified, for the first time since he had met her. Why now? Nicholas wondered briefly, before the answer came to him, clear and swift.
The bedding. This daredevil who had braved her abbess, his wrath and a leap from a convent window was afraid of doing her marital duty. She had come to him last night begging him to spare her body not out of whimsy, to make him look the fool, but because she was frightened of his lust.
His first reaction was to feel insulted. Nicholas never made an effort to please women; his de Laci looks had always guaranteed female attention, more than he wanted, in fact. And although he did not pride himself on any particular skills, those he took to his bed had never complained of their treatment there.
Nicholas could feel her pulse beneath his finger, racing wildly, but not with anticipation. Why should he be offended? He had sought to torment her, and he had succeeded. His proud, defiant wife was scared to death. Nicholas told himself the means did not matter.
But, somehow, it did.
Nicholas released her chin, and though she made an effort to keep it from falling, her bold stance was gone. Her fists were closed so tightly that her knuckles had gone white from the strain, yet Nicholas took no delight in the sight. Her discomfiture was strangely affecting, and without thinking, Nicholas took her wrists and drew them forward.
She flinched, but he held them fast and gently ran his thumbs across the fleshy part of her palm until her fingers unfurled like a reluctant blossom. Her nails had left marks so deep that Nicholas was surprised they had not drawn blood. Slowly he moved his thumbs over the punctured skin, wondering when last he had touched another person.
He could not remember ever holding a woman’s hands, though there was something oddly compelling about the act. Gillian’s were soft, yet strong, with blunt-tipped fingers that had seen their share of work. Nicholas stared at them, fascinated by their form and feel, and continued stroking until he heard a strangled sound. He glanced up, startled by the stunned look on her face, and released her abruptly.
“Get to your bed, wife,” he snapped. Turning on his heel, Nicholas stalked away, but he felt her gaze following him until he gained the cover of the trees. Then a flurry of noise told him that she ran, stumbling, to her tent.
Stupid wench! Refusing to look at her, Nicholas remained where he was until she had settled down. What the devil had possessed him? His efforts to bully her had turned into something else entirely, although Nicholas was not sure what. She was his enemy! And he had best remember it. He tried, concentrating on the hatred that he had long nurtured, but his stomach rebelled, burning with a fire brighter than that which lit the camp.
Although he wanted to bend over in agony, Nicholas forced himself to remain still. It would be better soon, for he usually gained some ease after eating, and meanwhile he could do naught but wait.
“Why do you not rape her?”
The words, more than Darius’s voice, made Nicholas start, and he swiveled to stare at his companion, his eyes narrowing into slits. The Syrian was seated against a tree, blending in with the shadows as if he were one with them.
“Obviously it is the girl’s worst fear, else why last night’s charade?” Darius asked, his face expressionless.
“You heard her?”
“She made enough noise about it,” Darius answered. “I also saw the abbess when you talked with her this morning. The holy woman knew nothing of it, did she?”
Nicholas shook his head, thoughtfully. “‘Twas the little nun, masquerading as her better.” He sank down to his haunches, trying vainly to soothe the ache in his belly.
“Then why not rape her? You said you would find that which she feared most and make her suffer it. Why do you dally? We are far from any aid. No one will heed her screams. Perhaps you would like the men to watch?”
Nicholas frowned in annoyance, for he was not fooled by Darius’s cool suggestions. The Syrian disliked Nicholas’s plans for his bride, and so would force them down his throat. “I want her not,” Nicholas retorted.
