Deborah Simmons - Maiden Bride

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.

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.