King Harold’s forces had little chance to regroup after battling the Norse before heading south to meet the Norman forces near the coast. In one short day in mid-September, England’s hopes were dashed as her king and many of his closest allies were killed.
Worse, in the months since that battle near Hastings, outlaws and rebels traversed the length of the land seeking what they could take to fuel their efforts against the conquering Norman army. Gillian sighed, her stomach more upset by the memories of these last months and now unable to think about eating. Enough time had passed, she thought, so she stood, brushed the damp soil and leaves from her gown and cloak and made her way to the edge of the road.
Peering up at the sun, she realised she’d most likely lost an hour of precious daylight during this encounter. Stepping on to the road, she increased her previous pace and began her journey anew. She had to reach the convent by sunset or she would spend another night alone in the woods—a thought that scared her more now that she knew these Normans were sharing the road with her.
An hour passed, and then another, and Gillian continued to walk, always with an eye ahead and an ear listening for the sounds of danger, travelling in the same direction as the men while trying to stay far enough behind so that she would never catch up to their pace. As the sun dropped lower in the western sky, she realised she would not make it to the convent before the sisters closed their gates for the night. Surely, she hoped as she wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve, sleeping in the shadows of their walls would be nearly as safe as sleeping within them?
She hurried then, deciding to eat the chunk of bread and piece of cheese in her bag and doing so in some haste, slowing only when she reached the rise in the road that signalled she was nearing her destination. Only a few miles separated her from safety. Her breathing grew laboured as she climbed the rising road to its peak and she paused to catch her breath a few times before reaching the summit.
Then she lost the ability to breathe completely as she beheld a terrifying sight—the same troop of warriors, and more now, camped on the side of the road. Gillian glanced ahead and wondered if she could simply continue on her way as though a simple peasant woman on a task. Mayhap they would pay her no mind? Fighting the urge to run, for running now would be nothing less than an invitation to follow her, she decided that a steady pace was her best choice.
Tugging her hood closer over her brow, she lowered her head and put one foot in front of the other, forcing slow, measured steps along the road. Gillian carefully peeked over at the soldiers out of the corner of her eye and hastened her pace past them. Although many approached the road, none stopped her. A quickening of hope beat in her chest as she made her way. She was nearly beyond the camp when a huge man stepped in front of her, blocking her way forwards.
She side-stepped him, or tried to, but he moved as she did. His large size and muscular form spoke of his strength, and Gillian considered her choices. She turned, thinking to go back in the direction from where she’d come, and faced another warrior there. Then a third and fourth man blocked her sides so that she had nowhere to go. Taking and releasing a deep breath, she waited for them to act.
‘Mistress, why are you on these roads alone?’ one asked in heavily accented English. ‘What is your business?’
Although she’d hoped never to need it, Gillian had prepared a story to answer just that question. Without meeting his gaze, she turned to the one who had spoken.
‘My lady sends me to the convent, my lord,’ she said, hoping that referring to these common soldiers as ‘lords’ would flatter them and ease her way. She bowed her head lower as she said it.
‘The night is almost upon us,’ the one at her back said. ‘Come, you will be safer in our camp this night.’
Was a sheep safe when guarded by a wolf? She thought not, almost hearing them salivating over her. Shaking her head, she begged off such an invitation. ‘The good sisters are expecting me, my lord. I must hasten there now. My lady will be angered if I do not arrive there.’
She pushed against the one in front of her, but he barely moved. Gillian tried once more without success. Before she could try again, two of them grabbed her by her arms and pulled her with them as they walked towards the others. No amount of struggling loosened their iron grips and her heart began to pound in her chest, making her blood pulse and her head spin.
Before she realised it, they were in the middle of the camp, far enough that she could not make an easy escape. She did not make it easy for them, but it neither slowed nor impeded their progress. They simply dragged her between them. Her arms ached from it and she knew her skin would show bruises by morning—if she lived until then.
By their fast and furious whispering amongst themselves, she knew something was wrong. She decided to take advantage of it. Stomping her foot down with all her weight, Gillian pounded on the instep of the one behind her and pushed at him with her hips, trying to force him off balance.
It did not work.
Instead, her own foot now ached from it and she was forced to limp along as they continued forwards. Finally, they stopped and she took advantage of that moment to pull free and run. One soldier grabbed her cloak, which gave way when the laces snapped. Gillian had not taken two steps, two painful steps, before a mail-covered arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her up against the hardest surface she’d ever felt. So hard was it that it knocked the very breath from her lungs and nearly rendered her senseless as her head collided with the top of the chest plate.
‘Where are you going now, mistress? Have you decided not to favour us with your presence this night after all?’
When she recognised the voice of the warrior who now held her firmly against him, terror began to tease her senses. With no chance for escape and suspecting that these men were planning all manner of illicit and immoral acts against her, she listened to the laughter of those watching the scene and wished she could faint. Instead, she gasped as the giant behind her wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her into an indecent embrace against his chest. Then he leaned his head closer to hers until she could feel his hot breath against the skin of her neck.
‘Tell me what you seek, sweetling,’ he whispered in English words flavoured with his exotic foreign accent, ‘and I will try to oblige you in any way I can.’
Chapter Two
Though the circumstances and sometimes miserable history of his existence as a bastard among noble-born should have taught him the lesson, Brice Fitzwilliam had never learned the one about patience being a virtue. It had always seemed overrated and a necessary nuisance, and this situation simply confirmed his opinion about it.
After being patient as the king required, and waiting while the winter passed for his letters granting him the lands and titles of Baron and Lord of Thaxted to arrive, he’d made his way here only to find the keep firmly closed against him. Three weeks of waiting for reinforcements from his friend Giles’s forces to arrive found him no closer to conquering the keep or the people inside. Now, after capturing a few escaping peasants, he discovered that his bride, who’d run away on several other occasions, had also just escaped under his watch—and that she sought refuge away from his control in a convent. Luckily Stephen le Chasseur accompanied him and nothing and no one escaped him when he set out to hunt.
Though she squirmed in his arms, Brice knew she had no idea of his identity or that she was his. His anger grew for her blithe ignorance of the dangers on the road. If he had not found her, the thought of what could have befallen her terrified him for many reasons. She needed to be taught a lesson and he would be the one to do it.
At least she was alive for him to make her consider her actions.
‘So, what is your price for the night, mistress?’ he asked, sliding his hand across her body and feeling her shudder beneath his caress. ‘Many of my men have saved up their coins or trinkets and could make it worth your while to stay with us.’
‘I am not a wh-wh…’ she stuttered. �
�I do not sell my favours.’
Brice released her and spun her to face him, nearly losing his wits along with it, for he finally got his first clear look at his bride. She was a beauty and she belonged to him.
Wide, luminous eyes, a colour between blue and green, shimmered from a heart-shaped face. Long, dark brown curls escaped from under her veil and tumbled over her shoulders. Though she was dressed in the loose Saxon style, he could see that her body was wonderfully curved and fell into the feminine shape he desired in his lovers—full soft breasts and hips. From the strength of her resistance, he knew that her legs and arms were strong.
His body reacted before his perusal was complete, that part of him flaring to life and readying him for all the things he’d shamelessly threatened her with. Only when one of his men coughed loudly did he speak.
‘If not a whore, then what?’
‘I told these men that my lady sent me to seek the convent and I am on my way there now.’
‘Alone, mistress? When marauders and outlaws of all types roam the woods and control roads here? Surely your lady would have sent along guards to keep you safe?’ he asked, stepping closer again.
She backed up, but his men did not and she remained trapped between them. He recognised the growing fear in her gaze and knew her brave front was in danger of crumbling. Then, as he watched, she pulled her confidence together, squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin at him.
‘My lady has other things to worry over, sir. She knows that I am self-reliant and could make my own way to the convent.’
Self-reliant? Too much so, for here she was, miles from safety, alone and not for the first time. Foolhardy was more accurate a description, was what he thought right now.
‘Foolish?’ he asked. ‘Seeking trouble?’ He let his gaze follow the curves of her body and did not hide his appreciation then. ‘Surely, any lady who sends her servant out onto these roads during these…dangerous…times understands the message she is sending.’
Brice could almost hear her trying to swallow her fear. Her eyes shimmered with a hint of tears and her lip, the full lower one that tempted him so much, trembled then. Ah, mayhap she was finally realising the foolishness of her plan?
‘A nobleman would honour a lady’s promise to her maid and grant her safe passage to the convent. A true nobleman would not take advantage of a woman with out protection. A true nobleman would—’ She began to list another trait, but he stopped her with a shake of his head.
‘I never claimed to be a nobleman, mistress,’ he whispered as the anger grew from deep within him. ‘If your lady believes that noblemen are to be trusted and would pass up such a temptation as the one you present here, she is more foolish than I first thought.’
His men laughed then, knowing that neither he nor they were of noble or even legitimate birth, and he recognised the confusion in her expression. Most men would have been flattered by her, but not these who had made their way in the world by the work of their labours and the sweat of their bodies.
Lady Gillian looked as though she wanted to argue, but had not the words to do it, so she lowered her head and turned away. His attempts to humiliate her did not give him the satisfaction he’d hoped. Glancing at his men, he knew that nightfall was coming and there were many things that needed to be done now that his bride had walked into his possession.
‘Take her to my tent and make sure she stays there,’ he ordered.
‘You cannot!’ she cried out. He stepped closer, forcing her to look up to see his face. ‘The good sisters—’
‘The good sisters will eat their meal, offer their prayers and seek their beds as they do each night, mistress. Your lady should have thought out her plan before launching it.’
She pushed against him. ‘They are expecting me. My lady sent them a message to expect me.’
‘I can assure you that no message arrived at the convent. We have been camped here for the last several weeks and no one from Thaxted has crossed our path…until you did this day.’
Her confidence did crumble then and he felt the fight go out of her. She glanced around the camp and for the first time seemed to realise their number and the dangers they presented to her. If there had been a messenger, Brice’s men had not seen him. There was every possibility that such a messenger would have fled in the other direction if he’d spied their camp and knew he could not get through. Apparently, that messenger did not report his failure to his lady.
‘Take her,’ he repeated softly and he stepped aside so that Stephen could carry out his order.
The lady looked as though she would offer resistance, but she simply nodded and walked off with his men. At least, praise God, she was safe now and it was one less thing he needed to worry over in this volatile situation. By morning she would be his, as would Thaxted Manor and all the lands entailed to it and to him as Lord of Thaxted.
And with the support of Giles’s men from Taerford and some of the king’s forces, Brice would take over the keep, expel the rebels and those who would not pledge to King William, and begin his life as one of the high and mighty instead of remaining a low-born soldier. Taking in a deep breath and exhaling it, Brice knew he looked forwards to much of what yet faced him in the challenging days ahead.
Facing the lady’s fury at his deception was not one of those things.
Hours passed as he saw to preparations for his final assault against the keep as well as more personal ones involving the Lady Gillian. He sent word to the convent to let them know that she was safe and would be returning to her home in due course. A generous donation accompanied the message, smoothing, he hoped, the way that future dealings with the holy sisters would go. He’d watched as many others made the mistake of not respecting the clergy and he was determined not to fall into that error himself.
Finally, several hours after the sun dropped into the west and when night was full upon them, he decided it was time to take the first step towards taking control of his lands…and his wife. Calling out to those closest to him, he walked to his tent. Four men stood guard there, one at each corner, and none looked happy.
‘Problems, Ansel?’ he asked as he approached. All seemed quiet, but their expressions and the very number of them said otherwise. Though this was Ansel’s first battle campaign, he trusted the young man to carry out whatever task he so ordered.
‘Aye,’ Ansel answered in their dialect. ‘She is…the lady is…determined.’ He shook his head as though he had failed and Brice noticed the beginnings of a bruise on the man’s chin.
Brice took hold of the flap of the tent and paused. ‘So long as no harm came to her, I do not question your actions.’
Ansel nodded, but there was still a problem that Brice could not identify. Then Stephen approached.
‘She nearly escaped three times, Brice,’ he explained. ‘Once she got as far as the south perimeter of the camp without being seen.’ Brice glanced at each of the men guarding the tent, seeing then that several sported new scratches or bruises, and then back at Stephen, who let out a breath and shrugged. ‘Blame this on me if you must, but it was the only way to secure her.’
Brice winced at both the words and tone and wondered how they had done it. He nodded to them. ‘Bring something for the lady to eat and then seek out your meal. We will proceed once she’s eaten.’
The men walked away and Brice lifted the tent flap to one side so he could enter. Bending down to avoid knocking into the top of the tent, he stepped inside and stopped. In spite of only one lantern lighting the darkness, he could see her clearly and his mouth dropped open even as he hardened at the sight before him.
The men had driven big wooden stakes into the ground and tied her to them, wrists and ankles bound together and then to the posts. Her head covering gathered around her neck and a gag sealed her mouth. From her struggles against the bindings, her gown twisted high on her legs, exposing their shapeliness to his gaze. Due to the position of her arms and the shifting of the top of her gown, her breasts thrust again
st the material, their tightened peaks visible through the soft gown.
Brice swallowed, and then again, his mouth suddenly dry. He stepped farther into the tent and dropped the flap behind him. She began to struggle anew as he approached and her efforts caused her gown to shift more, gifting him with a clear view of her thighs and her hips as she turned and tried to pull away. He found himself clenching and releasing his fists as they ached to slide up the expanse of white, soft skin and cup her bottom. Heat pulsed through him then and he thought of all the places he would caress and kiss before the morn.
She mumbled something against the cloth in her mouth and he realised he could not leave her so. Crouching down beside her, he took out his dagger and slit the side of the gag. ‘Easy now, mistress,’ he soothed. With a gentle touch, he smoothed her hair from her face and wiped her cheeks.
Tears. She’d been crying. From what little he’d learned of his betrothed, he knew that this sign of weakness would humiliate her and he had little stomach for that now. He went to the small table and poured some wine from the jug into a metal cup and brought it to her.
‘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.
The Mercenary's Bride Page 2