Deborah Simmons - Maiden Bride

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.