Maiden Bride

“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.