Deborah Simmons - Maiden Bride

“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.

She had not cried during her long years without privacy at the convent, but now, unleashed, Gillian’s misery poured forth in wracking sobs. And it might have continued unabated, if she had not heard a noise in between her gulps for air. Lifting her head in cautious curiosity, she was horrified to see an older woman, short and rounded, standing right beside her, cooing to her gently.

“There now,” the woman said, reaching out to pat Gillian’s shoulder consolingly. “Surely ‘tis not as bad as all that. Here, tell Edith all about it, and you will feel better.”

Gillian’s embarrassment faded under the warmth in the stranger’s gentle brown eyes. No one had comforted her, really, since her mother had passed on, and when Gillian found herself buried against the Edith’s ample bosom, she let out her woe in a long wail. “I am a big, gawky, ugly thing, and he hates me!”

“Tsk, tsk… That is not so, my girl,” Edith said. “You are tall, true enough, but you are neither fat nor ungainly. Here, let me take a look at you.”

Sniffing loudly, Gillian stood up and waited while the woman assessed her, turmng her this way and that under a discerning gaze. “Well, you have not the coloring of my Aisley, but that does not mean you are not lovely. Why, just look at your eyes, rare as emeralds, and such thick lashes! And the color of your hair, bright as a flame, and enough to heat any man’s passions, I’ll warrant.”

Gillian blushed, unaccustomed to such plain speaking, or, indeed, flattery of any sort. “Aye, you would please any knight with that figure of yours, and many a lady would kill for your curves.”

Startled, Gillian looked down at her body in wonder. She had never received compliments before, and although she suspected that much of what the woman said was designed to comfort, still, she suddenly saw herself from a different perspective—no longer too big and too boldly colored, but unusual. Maybe even special.

“Now, who is the great fool who would make you feel other than the beautiful woman you are?” Edith asked, clucking in disapproval.

Before Gillian could answer, the chamber door was thrown back on its hinges with a loud bang, and Nicholas filled the doorway.

He was dripping-wet and naked, but for a dampened linen cloth around his waist that did little to hide his magnificent body, and with a low gasp, Gillian took in the whole of him, beautiful and deadly and larger than life.

Strength was there, riding beneath his skin, not in great, lumpy bulges, but in smooth, well-delineated muscle in his arms and across his shoulders. And his chest! Gillian had never seen anything like it. All too well she remembered the feel of it beneath her fingers, smooth and hard and thick with curly dark hair that made something jump and quicken inside her. And below, what she had taken great pains to avoid looking at in his bath now was boldly outlined under the thin material.

Gillian stared. Although in repose, it did not resemble Master Freemantle’s wick in the slightest, but rather more a stallion’s nether parts. Abruptly Gillian glanced away, her face red, her breath coming quickly at the frightening size of him.

The deafening quiet that had descended upon the women at Nicholas’s entrance was broken by Edith, who stepped in front of Gillian, as if to protect the younger, taller woman from the man who stood before them, glaring ferociously. “My lord Nicholas! What are you about, racing around without your clothes?”

Ignoring the older woman, Nicholas pinned Gillian with his glittering, hateful eyes. “Get to your chamber, wife!” he said. His tone, though lbw and even, was laced with threat, but Gillian was too outraged to beware.

“You just bellowed at me to get out!”

“Do not raise your voice to me, vixen?”

“My lord Nicholas, what has gotten into you?” scolded Edith, still poised protectively before Gillian.

“Do not overstep your bounds, Edith,” Nicholas snarled.

“It is all right,” Gillian said, moving out from behind the older woman. “His quarrel is with me, as always.”

“As I live and breathe, I never thought to see such a sight,” Edith continued, as if her lord had not reprimanded her. Indeed, she seemed not to fear his wrath, for she put her hands on her hips and glared right back at him. “You should be the one to hie to your chamber, before you catch your death! And the lady can stay here with me.”

“This is Aisley’s room,” Nicholas snapped.

“And since Aisley has her own home now, I am sure she will not mind the lady’s presence here.”

Although he looked as if he would fain kill them both, Nicholas made no move. “Very well,” he snapped. “But I hold you responsible, Edith. She is your charge—for now.” Flicking a contemptuous gray glance over Gillian, he added, “And for God’s sake, contrive some decent clothes for her!”

When he left the room, still clutching his makeshift covering, Edith snorted and shut the door behind him.

“Are you not afraid of him?” Gillian asked. Nicholas was taller than she, but he fairly towered over the older woman, and his malice was greater even than his size.

“Nicholas?” Edith asked, dismissing the fierce lord with a shake of her head. “Nay, I am not frightened by him. Why, I have known the boy since he was but a mewling babe. And tilere is little that scares me anymore, after Dunmurrow!” She shivered, as if the very name chilled her.

“Dunmurrow?”

“Shh… you just sit down here by the fire, my lady,” she said, coaxing Gillian onto a beautifully carved settle. Though it was a warm day, Edith threw a soft fur over her shoulders and another over her bare feet, until she felt cozy and pampered. It was easy to relax under the older woman’s ministrations, especially after the harsh routine of the convent and the tense days since her marriage. Gillian rested her head against the smooth wood and closed her eyes.