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“Why? She has not the beauty of the women of my lands, but-”
Nicholas cut him off, his head filled with the memory of blazing green eyes and slender hands alive beneath his own. “She is comely enough,” he muttered.
“Why, then? Does not every Frank sire himself an heir at all costs?”
“I want no child, especially not one with Hexham’s tainted blood!” Nicholas snapped. “Nor will I surrender to the vixen any part of me—not even my seed!”
Refusing to elaborate, Nicholas glared his companion into silence. Darius’s experience with women was expansive; he loved them freely and then moved on without a qualm. None ever really touched him, so he was not wary of their wiles, but Nicholas had seen other men, seemingly intelligent and reasonable beings, succumb to the pleasures to be had in a woman’s bed. A man’s body too easily ruled over his head, and Nicholas would never let that happen to him.
Unwilling to share his reasoning with one who would not understand, Nicholas remained sullen and quiet. Beside him, the Syrian was still, his dark expression unchanging, but those eyes, blacker than the night, seemed to probe into Nicholas’s soul, seeking out his secrets.
Swearing, Nicholas looked away, unwilling to let the other man see too closely. “‘Tis more of a torment to make her wait and wonder and suffer her fear,” he said, telling himself, as well, that he took grim satisfaction in her terror.
Married but one day, and he had already found a way to bring his arrogant bride to her knees! Nicholas sought the heady rush of victory that he had so coveted, but all he felt was a twisting ache in his gut that would not go away.
Gillian tried to breathe slowly, concentrating on the air that moved into her body and out again, lest she become a gasping wreck, unable to feed her own lungs. Coward, that she should lie here immobilized by fright! And all over something that other women did easily enough.
She knew what was going to happen, of course. Her master, Abel Freemantle, had told her more than once, describing it in graphic detail as he groped her. Gillian shuddered, gasping at the memory of the fat, dirty burgher loosening his braies to show off his wick, a horrid little red thing that Gillian could hardly believe capable of all that he claimed.
Yet, if what Freemantle had said was true, then she could expect her husband to bare his part, too, and do more than talk about it. Gillian tried to imagine Nicholas de Laci pulling down his braies for her, and she shivered, suddenly hot inside and cold without. Shutting her eyes tight, she hoped to block out the image of him, so terrible and yet so beautiful.
Oh, she was not oblivious of his appeal! No woman could be, for though Nicholas de Laci acted like a heartless fiend, there was nothing harsh about his features. His thick sweep of hair, so dark as to be nearly black, was always smooth, falling perfectly to his shoulders, in sad contrast to her own wild mane.
His brows were finely arched over eyes the color of silver, his cheeks smooth above the shadow of new beard and his lips curved nicely under a deep indentation that made her heart trip, whether she willed it or no. His nose, not aquiline, was nonetheless well formed and kept his face from looking feminine, though none would ever confuse him with a woman.
Nicholas de Laci was distinctly, deliberately male, from the way he moved to the hard lines of his strong, tall body, from the deep timbre of his smooth voice to the flicker of his dark lashes. In fact, he seemed to possess more masculine appeal than Gillian had ever imagined possible. She suspected that any number of women had gladly lain awaiting the lord in his bed, for he was not only handsome, but clean, and he smelled not of horses and sweat, but of some exotic essence all his own.
Although he did not fit the descriptions of the flattering, courtly heroes of the ballads, he could be…less severe than she had come to expect. When he grasped her wrists, Gillian had thought for one terrifying moment that he was going to tie her up, but instead he had taken her hands in his, running his thumbs over her palms until she felt a strange quickening. Just the memory of his dark head bent over her and the slow caress of his fingers drew a moan from her such as the one that had erupted from her throat at the time, dispelling the odd mood that had settled over him.
Gillian hugged herself. His gentleness had disappeared as swiftly as it came, leaving her with naught but his usual cold fury. Nicholas de Laci would save his tenderness for other women, while serving her only the icy splinters of his hatred.
And that, Gillian suspected, would be the worst of what awaited her. Not only would he violate her body this night, but he would try to despoil her soul, too, with the force of the malevolence that lurked inside his beautiful frame.
Yet Gillian had no choice but to lie and wait, her fright feeding upon itself, deep into the night. Her exhausted, aching flesh begged for respite from her day of riding, but her eyes remained wide open, her breathing swift and ragged, until finally she heard something above the roaring of her own blood in her ears.
“Rest, my lady, for your husband sleeps. He will not come to you.”
Gillian jerked her head up in response, for there had been no footfall, no sound of approach. Was she imagining things, or had someone spoken? It must be the foreigner, she decided, for who else would bring her tidings of peace? He was a strange one, but so were all males, she thought as she finally relaxed.
None, however, were quite as terrible or as beautiful as her husband.
He was watching her. Gillian could feel those silver eyes boring into her, and her cheeks burned with frustration. It was bad enough that she was forced to ride until her muscles screamed for relief, but on top of that misery, she had to suffer his predatory gaze. All day she had felt it pricking her, disrupting her thoughts.
Although aching and weary, she had tried to assess her situation and make some sort of decision about the future, without much success. Gillian was not one for planning; she knew that the best of schemes were all too easily overturned. Life threw things at you, and the most you could hope to do was endure.
And she had. Gillian was a survivor. She told herself firmly that she had already abided worse things than this unwanted marriage. She even knew that some women would be thrilled to find themselves wed to a young, handsome, wealthy knight, despite his evil disposition. Some were even drawn to cold, cruel men, but not Gillian. She recognized the evil fiend lurking beneath that beautiful exterior.
What, then, could she do? Her first instinct to flee returned, but now was not the time to do it, when surrounded by his men on the road, her location unknown. No doubt she would have a better chance of escaping when they reached their destination.
Still, the idea did not sit well with her. Somehow, she felt as if Nicholas de Laci had thrown down his gauntlet in challenge, and she would be a coward to run from it. She had always faced her troubles; it was not her way to hide from them.
All her life, Gillian had tried to make the best of every situation. She was not fatally optimistic or unrealistic, but she was determined not to fall into despair, as her mother had done, wasting away to nothing because of the follies of others.
With a sigh, Gillian realized that she was just going to have to reserve judgment until they arrived at wherever they were going. A lot depended upon him. Just how much did he hate her? How badly would he treat her? Perhaps his glares were brought on by her close proximity, and once among his people he would forget her. She shot a glance at him as they sat by the fire, hoping he would do just that.
During the day, he was not so frightening. He was just another mean master, albeit a handsome one, who drove them all on too far, too quickly, and wore his animosity toward her like a shield. All through the long ride, she had known naught but anger toward him, for she had done nothing to earn his enmity.
During the day, she had returned his dark glares with her own, had even possessed the temerity to answer his orders with tart replies. But now that twilight was settling around them, Gillian was not so sure of herself. She felt her nerves grow taut once again and her breath quicken.
During the day, Nicholas de Laci was simply a man, but when night fell, he became her husband and, as such, a creature to be feared for what he might do to her in the darkness. His evil looks took on a more sinister aspect, his face an unholy beauty that both repelled and attracted her.
Shuddering, Gillian nearly dropped the piece of meat she had plucked from the fire. Then, in her haste to retrieve it, she thrust it into her mouth too quickly and flinched as it burned her. Hurriedly she grabbed her cup and drank enough water to soothe her steaming throat.
“By faith, you make a pig of yourself,” her husband commented from a few feet away from her. Although she suspected that she did appear unmannerly, Gillian tried to give him a ferocious look, but it was difficult to do while her eyes were watering.
He made a sound of disgust, then suddenly stilled. “You eat enough for two,” he whispered, as if to himself. His face grew even more cold and frightful, and his eyes narrowed as they raked her from head to toe. “Are you with child?”
Gillian nearly choked at the question. Truly, he was a madman! “Aye, ‘tis the way of things in a convent,” she replied.
He stiffened at her snide answer, and she braced herself for his wrath, but he did not strike her. “It has been my experience that some of the so-called holy women wander the halls at night, seeking out male visitors. Indeed, did I not see you involved in such a game?” he asked, fairly purring with superiority.
Gillian’s mouth popped open at the realization that he knew of her masquerade as the abbess. Obviously, he was more clever than she suspected, damn the fiend to hell!
“Do not try to lie to me or fool me, little nun,” he snapped. “For you shall fail—and suffer for your efforts.”
His voice, so deep and smooth in the darkness, sent shivers up Gillian’s spine, but it was not his threats that startled her. Little? No one had called her little since she was a child. Yet this lord was a tall one, and she would have to lean back her head to look at him, if she ever desired to get that close…
“Why do you hate me?” Gillian asked, to remind herself just what lay between them. As she eyed him intently, she could tell by the flick of his lashes that her question surprised him, but he quickly recovered his disdain.
“Your blood, vixen. ‘Tis tainted.”
His forthright response annoyed her, though the answer was what she had expected. “And what manner of man was my uncle, that you worry his heir after his death?”
“He was a base coward, a thief, and a treacherous, murderous villain.” The words were spoken with such cool conviction that they nearly took Gillian’s breath away, and she watched, horrified, as his silver eyes came to life with the force of an enmity greater than she had ever imagined. Her heart sank under the weight of it.
Entreaty was hopeless, and yet she made the effort anyway. “But I am blameless,” she reasoned. “I knew him not. I have never even set eyes upon him.”
“He sent money for you to join the convent.”
“Yes,” Gillian said, bitterness creeping into her voice. “To be rid of me… because he did not want me, as no one ever wanted me.” Too late, she realized how much of herself she had revealed, and she would have taken back her words. This man seated so close to her might be possessed of an angel’s face and form, but he was a devil who despised her. Better not to give him any part of herself, else she find it used to destroy her at the first opportunity.
In an effort to distract him from her slip of the tongue, Gillian threw a stick on the fire and watched it flare, the flames reaching up to light his flawless features. She realized that he could have taken anyone to wife, but now was stuck with her, a stranger who would serve as a constant reminder of some past grievance. No wonder he was angry.
“What of your father, Hexham’s brother?” he asked.
“What of him?”
“Did you love him?” His eyes narrowed, as if the thought displeased him, and Gillian did not know whether to give him lie or truth, for she suspected this man was much more adept at twisting words and thoughts to his own ends than herself.
“No,” she finally answered, honestly. “He was a wastrel and a spendthrift, losing any coin that he might gain, with no care for his wife or family. So you see, there is nothing between him or his brother and myself. Why punish me for their sins?”
For a moment, he looked uncomfortable, as if something pained his strong warrior’s body, but then his eyes glittered with unmistakable malice. “You are his heir. You are all that is left.”
The words, spoken so matter-of-factly, made Gillian catch her breath, and the look on his face as he uttered them frightened her far more than any threat. She realized that Nicholas de Laci lived for naught but revenge, and the knowledge filled her with despair.
“What will you do with me?” Gillian asked. Her heart pounded with trepidation, for she knew full well that he could do whatever he pleased—send her away, lock her in a dungeon, starve her, beat her—and no one would say a thing to him. As his wife, she was his chattel.
The convent, with its boredom and toil, was looking better by the minute, and her handsome husband more terrible than she had ever dreamed.
“Do not be in a hurry to discover your future, little nun, for we have many long years ahead of us,” he said, smiling grimly at the taunt.
His words, coupled with the promise in his tone, made Gillian’s blood run cold, and she put aside her trencher, her hunger forgotten. How could she ever have thought to make the best of this marriage? It was impossible!
“I am tired,” she said, suddenly eager to get away from his stifling presence. “You will excuse me?” She expected refusal, for he was nothing if not recalcitrant, yet he nodded curtly. Gillian understood why when she saw the glow of triumph in his eyes. With a gasp of fury, she rose and stomped off, the sound of his laughter following her to the tent.
Gillian’s pride smarted at his successful intimidation, and she would have marched right back to face him, were she not so fearful that he would join her soon enough. Each breath became a struggle as she contemplated the ill-usage that she was certain would come this night. Now that she knew the depths of her husband’s hatred, Gillian expected the worst sort of violence from him. She knew about rape, had seen its effects, yet she could do nothing but lie waiting for it.
Not until she heard the Syrian’s soft assurance did Gillian sleep at last, and then it was only to toss and turn restlessly, caught in dreams of Nicholas de Laci’s face, brightened by the fire’s flames, just like that of the devil himself.
Chapter Four (#ulink_cf7e18dd-224a-5ede-bdaf-8a0254297910)
For once, Nicholas was rather annoyed by the circumspect greeting he received upon his return to Belvry. Although usually unconcerned with his home or his people, for some reason he now found himself wanting the little nun to be dutifully impressed. He told himself that she should do well to recognize his power and wealth, which was evidenced by the prosperous demesne and modern castle.
He did not bother to note that such things had never mattered to him before. Nor had the behavior of the members of his household, who suddenly seemed distant and wary to his eyes. In truth, they had been more taken with Piers, but Aisley’s husband was a showy sort, given to great emotion, Nicholas thought with contempt.
The fools! They had no cause for complaint, for he was a good lord, knowledgeable and just. It was simply not his way to hold speech for the sake of talking or to visit his tenants for no reason or to throw a celebration upon every excuse, as his sister was wont to do since her marriage. Nay, he kept the castle in good repair, protected its residents and had an excellent steward who ran the place well.
And he was certain that was enough. Still, when Nicholas walked into his hall, he was aware of the silence that rippled like a wave through the great room, an odd quiet that had not been evident in Piers’s presence, or even in his father’s time.
Ignoring it, Nicholas stalked across the rush-strewn tiles with Darius at his side. Refusing to look back to see his bride’s reaction, he told himself that he did not care what she thought of his holdings. “I am for a bath,” he said without a glance at the expectant faces that surrounded him.
“I, as well,” said his companion. “Will your new bride do the duty? You have driven us hard and long, and I have a mind to have her wash my weary body.”
Darius’s words stopped Nicholas in his tracks, and he turned swiftly to meet the Syrian’s inscrutable dark gaze. “Is not that the way of your people?” Darius asked. “That the lady of the castle bathe her guests?”
“Not the little nun,” Nicholas snapped. “She is unaccustomed to such tasks.” Suspecting the Syrian of toying with him, Nicholas eyed his companion closely, but Darius’s face gave away nothing. Nicholas pictured his naked body, deep gold and gleaming, with Gillian bending over it. His belly burned.
“She will be busy, attending her lord,” Nicholas added, giving Darius a warning glare for good measure. He glanced back toward his wife, who trailed behind, gawking like a peasant.
“Osborn!” he called, so sharply that the servant stumbled over himself hurrying to Nicholas’s side. “See to my lady wife!” Nicholas fairly spat the last word as he inclined his head toward Gillian. At Osborn’s startled nod, Nicholas said, “Take her to my chamber and provide her with hot water.”
Then he turned to Gillian. “Get yourself a bath, quickly, for I want one, too, and I shall have you attend me.” The shock that passed over her lovely features gave him some measure of satisfaction, but, as usual, she was too much hidden by her ugly nun’s garb for Nicholas’s liking. He had seen his fill of it. “And rid yourself of that black gown. Osborn, find some of Aisley’s old trunks and bring them to the room. I wish my wife to be properly dressed.”
As Osborn hurried her away, Nicholas felt more than a little relief. She would attend no one but himself, by the faith! The knowledge stirred his blood, and he watched her as she left the hall, hips swaying gently beneath her heavy garments. So intent was he upon his wife that he barely acknowledged his steward, who came forward, offering tentative congratulations.
Accustomed to keeping his own counsel, Nicholas saw no need to share the facts of his marriage with anyone, so he accepted their good wishes, but greeted any questions with a silent scowl that discouraged further curiosity. And although he listened absently to their foolish chatter, his eyes kept straying to the stairs that led up to his chamber.
A sudden eagerness flooded him at the thought of the vixen washing his body. Of course, such duties would be onerous to her, and Nicholas told himself that was why the notion appealed to him; yet that could not fully explain his impatience.
When he felt sufficient time had passed, Nicholas dismissed his people with a nod and slowly walked to the curving stair. Once out of their sight, however, he took the steps two at a time until he reached the top. Although the great chamber had never held any particular allure for him before, Nicholas rushed to the door and flung it wide, without pausing to knock.
She turned, startled by the noise, and he could see that she had, indeed, completed her toilet. In fact, while he watched, she finished plaiting her wet locks into a fat braid that fell over one shoulder. Her fingers were slim and nimble, and her hair… Faith, even damp, it was a fiery color, like a bright sunset, and ungodly thick and long, for his eyes followed it down below her breast.
She was wearing one of Aisley’s gowns, a dark green that matched her eyes, but it was not right for her by any other means. Crafted to fit his sister’s dainty, slender frame, it was too short and much too tight for his wife. Gillian was far more generously endowed, a fact that had been hidden under her shapeless clothing. Far more generously endowed, Nicholas realized as he stared at the bodice of the dress, where her breasts were flattened into two great mounds.
She must have hurried, for Nicholas thought he saw a patch of dampness where the linen was stretched taut. It looked as if it could accommodate nothing more without bursting at the seams, and yet Nicholas suddenly saw it ripple as her nipples hardened, creating two tiny points in the fabric.
He whirled away from the sight. “You will make yourself some clothes that fit,” he ordered, hoarsely. His plans to robe his wife in rags were forgotten at the swift and sure knowledge that he not want her appearing below in such provocative garb as this.
Eyeing the still-steaming bath, Nicholas yanked off his boots. “Help me from my mail before the water is stonecold,” he snapped, and soon her hands, surprisingly strong, were lifting the coat from him. He tugged off his hose and his braies and stepped into the tub, but when he looked around, his wife was conspicuously absent.
“Well?” he snapped, irritated to discover that she had turned her back in some sort of misplaced modesty. “Get over here and do your duty!”
Her eyes flashed fire at him, and her braid bounced over her shoulder as she grabbed up a swatch of linen and the lump of soap. Well satisfied with his victory, Nicholas leaned forward, only to feel her begin scrubbing his back fiercely enough to take the skin off. What the devil?
His hand shot out to snare her wrist. “Gentle yourself, vixen, or else,” he warned. Her green eyes clashed with his for a long moment, as if in a battle for supremacy, but finally they dropped away in sullen acquiescence. With an angry tug, she pulled her wrist from his hold and bent once more to her task yet this time, Nicholas felt no discomfort. Indeed, he began to enjoy himself thoroughly.
It had been years since he had been washed, if one did not count his months of helpless recovery in the Holy Land. He had no use for women, and certainly had never availed himself of their giggling presence in his bath. But this was different. Gillian was no flirting female or simpering maiden. Far from it, he thought with a smile, and he leaned back, taking pleasure in a welcome, though unexplained, respite from his stomach pain.
Obviously, the vixen had been a poor servant, for she made no effort to hide her dislike for waiting on him. Nicholas grinned, reveling in the scowl that marred her face. Although he had thought her skin creamy and clear, he could see now that a few freckles were scattered over her turnedup nose. However, they did not detract from her beauty, which struck him now with astonishing force. Was it the change from her black nun’s garb, or had he simply never been near enough to observe it?
Slowly Nicholas let his gaze rove over her features. Her lashes were dark and thick, her cheeks flushed from anger or exertion, and wispy tendrils of bright hair were drying around her face. Amazing that she had turned out to be so lovely… Nicholas’s reverie was interrupted by a vicious pull on his arm as she stretched it out and soaped it. Apparently she was trying to injure him, but her puny efforts were laughable.
She moved around him to take his other arm, and Nicholas caught a whiff of her scent. It was clean and heady, like wildflowers. It lingered in the steamy air, fresh and fragrant, teasing at his senses and robbing him of his brief tranquillity. The atmosphere changed, and as she bent close, he was no longer filled with triumph, but with an unnerving desire to reach out and touch the thick braid that fell down her back.
Tearing his gaze away from it, Nicholas looked down, but that view was worse. She was washing his chest, her strong fingers tangling in his hair as she spread the cloth over him, and he drew in a harsh breath as he watched her move lower, across his stomach, kneading his flesh, more slowly, more gently…
How long had it been since someone had touched him like this? He had never felt comfortable with close contact. Even his experiences with women were swift and sure, and yet he knew none of his usual repulsion now. Indeed, Nicholas felt heat spreading through him, filling him with sensation…
When her wrist brushed his upraised thigh, his calming bath suddenly was transformed into something else altogether by the reaction of his body, both immediate and unexpected. His blood ran hot and fierce, and his tarse stiffened and swelled, as if reaching for her, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to feel those blunt fingers stroking him to release.
“Get out!” he shouted. Unwilling to let her see his response to her touch, Nicholas sat up, sloshing water over the sides in his hurry to hide the evidence from her gaze.
“What?” Gillian lifted her head, and Nicholas looked at her, only to feel himself grow even harder. Her ferocious scowl was gone, replaced by a rather dazed expression. Her skin had gone rosy, her lips were parted, and her green eyes were all soft and dark. Farther down, he could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts in her too-tight bodice, her nipples outlined boldly by the damp fabric. She resembled nothing so much as a voluptuous dairymaid, ripe for a tumble.
“Get out!” Nicholas shouted again, and this time the order seemed to penetrate her dulled senses, for she dropped the soap and fled. The door slammed loudly behind her, and only then did Nicholas release the breath he had been holding. And only after firmly disciplining his thoughts did he gain control over his own body.
But just as he finally mastered himself, Nicholas realized that his wife was running around the castle in that shamelessly small gown and, if he was not mistaken, bare feet. To some randy knight on the prowl, she might have the look of a bold villein eager for a mounting. Although he had no intention of bedding her himself, Nicholas wanted no other man putting hands on his property. The very thought made his blood boil.
Cursing fluently, he climbed from the tub, dripping-wet, wrapped a linen cloth around his waist and flung open the door. His usual alertness was abandoned as he took after her, heedless of the slippery tiles beneath him. Without a thought as to how he might appear, Nicholas raced along the passage as fast as he could manage while still clutching his scant covering.
Suddenly, nothing else mattered but that he find her before someone else saw her as he had, before another man was tempted by her vixen’s face and voluptuous body. As for himself, Nicholas put his own reaction down to exhaustion and the unusual circumstances of the bath.
He refused to consider the mortifying notion that he might be attracted to his wife.
* * *
Gillian ran into the first room that stood open. It was smaller than the great chamber, of course, but like all else here at Nicholas’s home, it was quite luxurious. For once, however, Gillian did not stare in awe at the furniture and tapestries, but went straight to the window, where a lovely seat had been fashioned with brightly colored pillows. Throwing herself on them, Gillian put her head down upon her crossed arms and burst into tears.
