The Mercenary's Bride

‘Here now, drink this.’ He lifted her head and helped her sip until she drank the small amount of wine. After she’d finished, he filled the cup once more and drank it down quickly.

Kneeling at her side, he began to straighten her gown. But when his hand touched her ankle, he could not stop himself from enjoying just a small touch. He slid his hand up to her knee before grasping the hem of the gown. His body urged him to push it higher, to slide up her thigh and between her legs to that place that he could make weep at his caress. Brice fought the desire to explore her body and only her soft words brought him to his senses.

‘I pray thee, my lord. Please do not …’ she whispered.

She did not move at all, and it was a good thing, for the battle of doing the right thing or following his body’s urgings was a near one just then. After a moment that lingered too long, he tugged the length of the gown down to cover her legs and backed away.

The awkwardness between them was broken when Ansel called to him from outside. Brice turned and stepped out, coming back in with a wooden plate for the lady. He placed it on the table and took his dagger once more, sliding it carefully into the knot around her wrists. She gasped as he twisted it, most likely more surprised than anything else, for he took great care not to nick her skin in doing so. It was only when he held out his hand to her that he realised he was still in his hauberk of chainmail and wore his thick leather gloves.

Regardless of the soft look in his gaze at this moment, Gillian did not trust him. Oh, his men had not hurt her yet, but being tied up and gagged and then left for hours on end had tested her patience and courage. Though a virgin, she’d recognised the lust in this man’s gaze when he touched her leg and looked at the way her gown had shifted to expose places better left covered. How long she would remain untouched or unused she did not know and dared not ask.

Still, if she was untied, there was a better chance of escape than if she remained trussed like a goose. Gillian accepted his hand and let him pull her up to sit. When she reached for the ropes that bound her legs together and to the other spike, he stopped her.

‘Leave them,’ he said gruffly, the deep voice and accented words affecting her more than she wished they would. She pulled the edges of her gown as far over her feet as she could and tugged the laces at her neckline tighter, too.

He reached over and dipped a linen square in a bucket by the tent’s entrance and then handed it to her to use. Wiping it over her face and neck, she removed the dirt from her struggles and the tears that she’d shed against all of her attempts not to cry. Then, she cleaned her hands and held the cloth out to him. ‘Merci,’ she whispered, using one of the few words in his tongue she knew.

He started as she said it, and she realised her error. A poor English maid would not know his French. A poor English woman would know only her English words … or Saxon or Danish ones, but not French. When he replied in his own language, she blinked and shook her head as though she knew none of it. Truly, she could follow most of it when he spoke slowly, but she did not want him or his men to know that. Better to gain what information she could while here and share it with her brother when she got back to Thaxted Keep.

If she returned to her brother.

Gillian shivered then as she realised she might not survive the coming night. After all, these men did not believe her story and thought her a prostitute. If made to … service them … against her will, she might not even be alive in the morn to try to escape once more. Her body shuddered then, from her head down to her now shoeless feet.

The knight reacted quickly but in an unexpected way, for he called out to the other one, Stephen, and demanded something. Robe? Cloak? Soon, her missing cloak and shoes were handed into the tent. He shook out her cloak and draped it over her shoulders. She grabbed it and pulled it tight around her, taking what protection it could offer her. Soon, after hours spent on the cold ground with little protection from it, her body began to warm under the thick layer of wool. Then, his gentle touch in placing her shoes back on her feet surprised her again. His men had taken them the last time she’d got past them, knowing that she could not go far on the cold ground without them.

When he held the plate in front of her, her stomach growled loudly, giving her no chance to refuse his offer. She took the food—some cooked fowl, a chunk of cheese and another of bread—and ate it. No matter what challenges faced her, she needed to be at her strongest and she continued to tear apart the roasted hen and break apart the cheese and bread until every bit of it was gone. Gillian looked up to find him watching her every move. When he filled a cup for her, she drank it down.

Knowing that this was simply a respite before whatever else he’d planned for her, she knew she should have slowed down and taken her time, but an empty stomach and all the exertions of the day proved her match.

She had barely finished the food and drink when she heard movement outside the tent and the sound of many voices growing closer. Had her brother discovered her missing and followed? Did he now attack to recover her? When the soldier took the plate from her, she gave up all pretence and began to work the ropes around her ankles. Either he ignored her or did not think she could do it, for he left the tent then and she increased her efforts.

If only she had a dagger or her small knife, or something sharp to loosen the knot or cut the ropes! Gillian continued until she heard the words spoken by Stephen to her captor.

‘The men are ready.’

Her mind emptied of all thought then and the only thing she could do was struggle against the ropes. Pulling on one, then another, she shook as the thought of what lay ahead pierced her. They would take their pleasure of her now. All of them? Saints in heaven, protect her!

Fighting off the panic that assailed her, Gillian knew she must be in control and seek out a moment when she could escape. To do that, she must be alive. Taking several deep breaths and trying to let out the terror that threatened to control her, she knew what she must do. When the leader entered the tent and approached her, she knew the only way to live through this was through him.

He’d removed his chainmail hauberk and wore only a thick, quilted tunic in its place. His leather gloves were gone, as well. Instead of easing her fears, for she knew that men could tup women in armour or out of it, it increased them for he looked no less the dangerous warrior than before in his battle dress. He crouched near her once more and used his deadly dagger on the ropes until they gave way. Helping her to her feet, he wrapped an arm around her waist when she began to stumble.

‘My lord,’ she whispered, turning to face him. He did not release her; nay, if truth be told he held her more closely than before. ‘I would … see to your needs willingly if you promised not to share me with the others.’

Shocked that she could speak such damning words aloud, she knew she must seem honest in her intentions or all was lost. Gillian reached up and clutched the neckline of his tunic as she promised anything to keep herself alive. ‘I wish to warm your bed only, my lord.’

The warrior released her so quickly she nearly fell to the ground. She’d angered him in some way, not pacified him with her promise of pleasure. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to the entrance of the tent.

‘Nay, my lord,’ she cried out, both in pain from his tight grasp and in fear of being given to the others. ‘I beg you not to share me with your men!’

In but a few moments, she stood outside the tent, in front of what seemed to be hundreds of men. Though night-time, the full moon’s light alone would have made it possible to see their numbers, but the burning torches spread around the camp made it seem like day. He held her wrist in his iron grasp and pulled her to face him.

‘Oui, my Lady Gillian, you will warm my bed this night,’ he growled through clenched teeth. He knew! He knew who she was! Before she could explain, he tugged her closer until only she could hear his words. ‘And I will share my wife with no other man.’

Chapter Three

Gillian searched his face for answers she did not find. He was angry, aye, for it poured off him in waves. She understood now that he’d known her identity the whole while, even as she dissembled and lied. How?

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

Her brother had told her of the usurper’s nobleman on his way to claim their lands as well as herself, but this man who stood before her swore he was not noble. She’d heard his common cursing and seen the way the others called him by name—Brice—and not with the respect due a lord of the realm, even that of the Norman pigs who now infested their lands.

‘Brice Fitzwilliam, newly named Lord of Thaxted and baron to his Highness Duke William of Normandy and King of England,’ he said loud enough for all his men to hear. ‘And your husband,’ he said as he offered a slight bow to her.

Their answering cheers shook the night and terrified her. This was the man who would tear her world apart, kill her brother, take her lands and people and conquer her as surely as his bastard duke had ravaged the south of England already.

Fitzwilliam? He was a bastard himself. Now she understood his anger, for her earlier words about noblemen were an insult to his new honour.

‘You are not my husband,’ she said, refusing to believe that such a thing could be accomplished without her participation or consent.

He laughed then, surprising her and showing a different side to him from what she’d witnessed thus far. His eyes gleamed in merriment and the way his mouth curved into a smile made her body fill with heat. When he turned that smile in her direction, she lost her breath.

‘But that can be managed so easily, my lady,’ he said, motioning to someone across the clearing. ‘At your command.’

An old man, a priest, came forwards from the crowd, followed by a younger man not in priestly garb, but who carried a number of parchments. They stopped in front of her and bowed.

‘Lady Gillian,’ the older man said respectfully. ‘I am Father Henry, late of Taerford.’ Turning to the Norman warrior, he spoke softly. ‘My lord, Selwyn will read out the marriage contract and disposition of properties and titles.’

So shocked was she by this turn of events, she had not noticed when his tight grasp had loosened or when his hand had clasped hers or when their fingers had entwined. She’d gone from prisoner to betrothed wife in moments and could not comprehend the change. As the young man Selwyn read out the honours and lands bestowed on this Lord Brice Fitzwilliam, who was from Brittany, not Normandy, she tried to think of a way out. A way back to Thaxted Keep; to her brother’s protection; to her life as she knew it just months ago.

Instead, she stood with a complete stranger, a foreign knight raised high by his king, a man who would—if she consented—control her lands, her people, her person and body as his own. Gillian knew she must do something, but as she began to pull from his grasp, he whispered the words to her that would chill her blood and ensure her co-operation.

‘Honoured wife or exiled peasant. Which do you wish to be this night, Gillian?’

His gaze showed neither gloating nor persuasion when she met it and she knew he would make certain that her choice became the reality of her life. Selwyn finished reading out the contract approved by his king and all eyes watched as she hesitated.

Something deep inside urged her to be brave and denounce this enemy, fight off his attempts to take her against her will and defy her brother’s intentions. Surely the priest would not stand by while she was forced into this marriage or while his men ravaged her.

Another part of her wanted to stand up and do whatever she could, put up with what she must in order to protect the people who lived on their lands against this conqueror. The noble blood in her veins, though tainted by the circumstances of her birth, ran back countless generations through her father and it strengthened her resolve not to stand by while her people were made to suffer more. If marriage to this warrior would bring peace to their land, then she would endure it.

‘Do you consent to this marriage?’ the Breton asked once more, this time in that voice so tempting that Eve herself would have fallen again from Paradise to say yes to him.

Though she wished that just once she could be considered only for her own worth and not as some valued commodity, Gillian understood the truth of her situation and the responsibility she bore. Mayhap at another time, she could do something just because she wanted to or could refuse something she objected to, but this was not that time and she had not the luxury of such a choice.

And so, wearing the dirt of the road from her travels and from her attempts to escape, covered in a servant’s cloak and standing before hundreds of men she knew not, Gillian surrendered her will and consented to the sham of a marriage. Worse, as she heard that sultry voice of his, pledging himself to her and promising to protect her and honour her, heat poured through every part of her body and sinful images of lying with him filled her thoughts.

When the words were finished and he leaned towards her to seal their agreement with a kiss, she knew exactly how Eve had felt that day when confronted by the devil.

He caught her surprised gasp when he touched his mouth to hers. She stood lost in her thoughts as they said their vows, but he wanted her to understand what she had agreed to. The ease with which she’d bartered herself to him in the tent had filled him with anger, but he tasted her innocence and fear as his lips slid across hers now. Stepping closer, he slipped his arm around her shoulders, both pulling her closer and keeping her from falling.