Maiden Bride

“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.