Maiden Bride

“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.