He noticed then that she stared at him, most likely observing and enjoying every moment of his discomfort over her origins. The corners of that lovely, tempting mouth of hers threatened to break into a smile, but she lowered her gaze and fought to control it. He had no doubt that she had kept such information to herself intentionally, waiting for a good moment to use it.
As she just had.
‘Ernaut!’ he yelled loudly, loud enough to startle Gillian, who jumped at the sound of it. She’d just regained her composure when his squire came running.
‘My lord,’ the boy said, nodding his head in his own version of a bow. None of them had adjusted to Brice’s new station or the respect due him now, not even he himself.
‘Take the lady to my tent and see to getting things packed and ready to move,’ he said, motioning for her to follow the boy. As Ernaut began to lead Gillian away, Brice grabbed his arm and pulled him close. ‘Did you get rid of those…?’ He did not finish.
Ernaut blushed and then nodded his answer and walked away. Gillian followed him, but continued to glance back until she disappeared around the curve of the path that led to his tent. Calling out to his closest friends, he went in search of Father Henry…and some answers.
Hours later, armoured and mounted and on the road to Thaxted, Brice knew he was no more certain of the way this would play out than he was when the lady revealed her true origins to him. Though the priest assured him that his claim was stronger than anyone else’s, Brice understood more of Oremund of Thaxted’s refusal to yield up the lands or keep. Oh, with the backing of the king any prior or future claims could be sustained or disregarded, but the cost of such fights would be high. Whether in men lost or in gold paid to those who now surrounded King William, insulating him from petitioners and benefiting from their positions.
Glancing back, he watched the lady riding between her new protectors. Though they kept their voices low, he could see them talking as they rode. She did not smile at him in that way. She did not initiate words between them. She… He let out a breath and shook his head. Turning back to face the road, he tried to focus on the coming battle.
It did not take long to reach the rest of his forces, camped not far from the walls surrounding Thaxted Keep. Between his own men and these he now led from his friend Giles and from the king, there should be no problem taking Thaxted.
He could not help but notice the expression of fear and concern on Gillian’s face when he approached to help her from her horse and into a secure area out of sight from the walls. Those softer feelings he could understand—his newly wedded wife would stand by and watch her husband destroy her home and the last of her family. At least he would have understood those kinds of fears before she told him of the animosity between her and her half-brother.
Now, though, recognising the flicker of guilt that glimmered in her eyes, he worried over what other secrets she held and when they would be revealed.
Chapter Seven
Gillian almost felt sorry for the man.
His discomfort as his men saw the blood from his injury and mistook it for hers.
His confusion and anger over the way his men took her side and offered their support to her.
His complete shock at discovering that his wife was a bastard and had little claim on the lands and keep that he was trying to wrest away from her brother.
Pity welled up inside of her for those who would die in what would no doubt be a fruitless attempt to oust Oremund from the well-built, well-defended keep and manor.
Walking through Lord Brice’s camp this morn, listening to and questioning his men and making her own estimates of his strength, all pointed to disaster when the battle against her half-brother and his allies began in earnest. Then, telling him of the futility of his claim, even with her as wife, worsened the situation and he’d not spoken a word to her since.
It had taken them only hours to retrace the steps of her journey from Thaxted, but when they reached the crest of the last hill and began to travel down, Gillian nearly lost her breath.
An army lay between them and Thaxted.
Easily twice the size of the group she now travelled with, they spread out around the manor like a second wall, preventing anyone from entering or leaving it. Searching the area near the northern part of the wall, she realised she would never have escaped if she’d waited another day.
The sounds of the men around her as they approached their comrades reminded her of her failure to escape. Then Brice strode towards her, his grim expression visible in spite of the helmet he wore, and apparent in every step he took. In more ways than one and in some he had no idea of, she’d become a liability to him and his plans to take Thaxted.
He reached up to assist her off the horse she’d been given to ride and his hands slid along her ribs until they rested below her breasts. Though he’d removed the metal gauntlets, he wore leather gloves underneath, which would most likely prevent him from feeling her, but that did not stop her skin from reacting. The tips of her breasts pebbled much as they did when he’d caressed them last evening.
With her hands on his shoulders, she met his gaze and watched as his brown eyes darkened to almost black. And in those eyes she saw the spark that told her that he’d recognised the way her body responded to such a touch. He allowed her to slide down him then, much more slowly than was needed to accomplish the task.
‘We will do that when I am not wearing mail and armour, lady,’ he promised in a husky whisper.
Apparently he was more pleased with their joining this morn than she’d been. Were men contented then with only a few moments of pleasure? From his passionate promise, it would seem that he intended to repeat the act again with her. Regardless of what she thought of their encounter, her body had other ideas and she felt a flash of heat pass through her when he stroked the undersides of her breasts as he waited for her to gain her balance.
Such heat tore through her that she nearly grabbed him to pull him close, before realising the meaning of such an action. Luck was with her, for the young Ernaut interrupted the moment and called to him.
‘My lord?’ he said quietly from just behind him. When Brice did not reply and did not move his heated gaze from hers, he called out more loudly then. ‘My Lord Brice!’
He released her and stepped back so quickly that she nearly lost her balance once more. Before he turned to face his squire, he whispered a warning to her—one that surprised her for its wrongness and for his fervour.
‘Think not to dally with my men. You are my wife and none of them will stand for you except by my orders.’
The only thing that kept her from breaking her hand was his quick reaction to the impulsive slap she tried to deliver in response to the insult to her honour. He grabbed it just as she began to raise it, saving her from further injury, but not from the pain of his accusation. When she tried to tug it free of his hold, he tightened his grip, a move that hurt and infuriated her.
‘In the last day, I have been chased, taken prisoner, tied and bound, married against my will, had my virtue taken regardless of my own thoughts on the matter and now you insult me, my lord?’ Using her other hand, she pried loose his fingers from around hers and stepped back, fearful she might be forced to try again to strike him. Gillian rubbed the one he’d held as she continued.
‘I have managed to keep my virtue intact in spite of my brother’s efforts to find someone to buy it or take it. I have fought off bigger and stronger men than yours to keep myself pure as I’d promised my father I would. Do you think that I would dishonour myself or my father’s memory because you found a way to take it? Bastard or not, Saxon or not, I am no whore who will spread my legs for another!’
Gillian took a deep breath then, for her words had poured out so quickly and with such force she had not breathed while she spoke. She adjusted her veil and cloak in place and prepared to be led off and punished when she raised her head to find the reason for the spreading silence. She had not thought she’d raised her voice
to the warrior, but apparently she’d been loud enough for those around them to hear.
His face took on a familiar appearance then, reminding her of Oremund when she’d pushed against his control or plans. Fury flashed in his eyes, followed by more rage and something else she couldn’t identify. When he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, she wondered if she now faced her death for such an outburst.
Beads of sweat gathered on her neck and back and began to trickle down under her gown. Breathing became difficult and Gillian sought for a way out of this humiliating and dangerous situation. Should she beg his forgiveness now? She wiped her damp palms against her gown. Should she submit to him in front of his men? Gillian shivered then, expecting orders for beatings or whippings at any moment. The silence drew out, making her shake with worry and anticipation.
Lord Brice broke the stalemate by looking away from her at those of his men closest to him. Lifting his hand from his sword, he removed his helmet and handed it to Ernaut, who stood in shocked silence at his side.
‘I begin to understand why Oremund of Thaxted does not want her back.’
Deciding in that moment that this was not the time nor the way in which she wanted to die, she accepted his rebuke for what she knew it to be—a way to ease the terrible tension between them and to keep his dignity before his men. And as she’d learned early in life, men struck out when challenged or shown to be inferior. This time it had been with words and not blows. Gillian swallowed deeply and cleared her throat. Sinking into a low curtsy, one which nearly brought her to the ground, she submitted.
‘Just so, my lord,’ she began, trying to form an apology that would neither stick in her throat nor insult him further.
But her words were interrupted by his departure, for, as she remained low before him, he turned and walked away as though she mattered not. His men followed until there remained only her and Ansel.
‘If you will come with me, my lady, I can take you to your tent.’ He held out his hand to help her rise.
Gillian accepted it and rose from the curtsy, shaking and wobbling on her exhausted legs, brought on by riding all day after not riding for months, and spending that day trying to control and guide a lively horse who had more spirit than she had strength to rein it in. Ansel led her through the camp that now spread out even more with the addition of the men whom Lord Brice had brought with him.
They walked up away from Thaxted until they reached the edge of forest where the land inclined steeply, at so much of an angle that it prevented anyone from approaching the back of the tent raised there or from getting away in that direction.
Had he planned it that way because of her?
She might never know, for she was certain he was not done with her—with either her punishment or with his physical plans for her. And the fury she’d seen in his eyes matched or even surpassed that which she’d seen in Oremund’s gaze after her last escape.
It had taken her a sennight to rise from her bed after that beating.
Ansel opened the flap of the tent and allowed her to enter first. Gillian looked around and saw that it was just as sparsely furnished as the other had been. Regardless of his new standing, Lord Brice saw himself as he always had—a penniless warrior fighting for his duke.
She sank down on the pallet, leaning against one of the supports for the tent and knew he would not return until much later to confront her. The only thing she knew for certain was that if he killed her he would never learn of the dowry her father had provided and hidden away before his death.
Penniless indeed, for what was hers now belonged to him as her lawful husband. If she could find it.
Lackwit.
A bloody lackwit.
A stupid, bloody lackwit.
Brice called himself every possible name he could think of that described the way he had completely lost control of himself, his anger, his thoughts, even his strategies and plans, since meeting the Lady Gillian of Thaxted a day ago.
Had it only been a day?
If this had only been a day, and he’d been tempted to tup, strangle or exile her a dozen times since meeting her, how would either of them survive a sennight…or a lifetime together? And since finding her traipsing along the road, running away from him, his body had suffered, his reputation had suffered and now even his mind had suffered.
Not to mention his pride.
Brice knew she’d not been satisfied during their joining. He’d decided to simply get the deed done and had failed to see to her pleasure. So because he sought expediency over her needs, her first experience with her husband, a man who had plenty of experience with the fairer sex, had been a disaster.
In spite of the way she’d challenged him before his men, he’d spent the entire day vacillating between lust and anger and pride and fear and just about every other reaction a man could have to the events he’d faced. But through it all, part of him just wanted to remove the guilt and fear from her eyes and to soothe the deep hurt she’d exposed unknowingly to him.
It was always easier, Sir Gautier had told them, to recognize your faults in someone else. And easier to place blame on others for your own shortcomings that you could not admit existed. Simon’s father, who had fostered three bastards along with his own lawful son, had been a wise man and had shared that wisdom with the boys he raised.
As he walked from one end of the camp to the other, meeting the knights, foot soldiers and bowmen who would fight for him and his rights in the coming battle, he’d thought only of her. Twice he had to stop himself from going to their tent to check on her. And thrice more times he found himself standing and staring at her, as she’d convinced Ansel to allow her to remain outside the tent. At first, he thought to order her inside, for safety’s sake, but then he noticed that she seemed to be enjoying the sun’s warmth and the gentle breeze of the day. It was nightfall before he completed his plans and arrangements for the morning’s attack and allowed himself to approach his tent.
Another guard stood in Ansel’s place and nodded to him as he walked closer. Brice released a deep breath as he prepared to enter. The guard’s whispered warning stopped him.
‘The lady asked to speak to Father Henry, my lord. Ansel saw no reason to deny her request,’ he explained. ‘He only just finished shriving the men and arrived a few minutes ago.’ The guard nodded at the tent, indicating that the priest was inside.
After handing his weapons and helm to the guard, Brice stood silently, unabashedly trying to hear some snatch of the conversation that was going on between his wife and the priest. He did not believe for a moment that a solemn confession of sins was the reason she’d summoned the old priest. And the words he could hear exchanged inside did not involve her sins or shortcomings, but his. He lifted the flap and entered, effectively ending their conversation in but a moment.
‘My lord,’ Father Henry said as he rose from the stool on which he sat. ‘Come and join us.’ The old man stepped aside and let Brice walk past to reach the lady. ‘We were just speaking of you.’
Brice noticed the blush that crept up Gillian’s cheeks and the guilty expression in her turquoise eyes that gave away the truth of the priest’s words. With her veil drawn low over her forehead and the sides of her face, whether out of respect for the priest’s presence he knew not, it was difficult to see much of her. ‘Speaking about me, Father? And what have you told my wife of me?’
Before the priest could answer, the lady rose from her stool and spoke.
‘My lord, I asked to speak to the good father because I remembered almost nothing from our wedding and I wished to confirm some details of our contract.’
Brice noticed she only met his gaze for a moment before staring past him or at her hands, but never at him. ‘And was he able to answer the questions you had?’
‘Aye, my lord,’ she said, her voice so soft it was nearly a whisper.
‘My lord,’ Father Henry began. ‘Brice.’ He changed his address to a less formal one. ‘Lady Gillian meant no disrespect to y
ou by asking me.’
Brice frowned. Clearly both of them thought their discussion would anger him and feared his reaction. The lady, considering their encounter earlier, he could understand, but he’d done nothing to the priest or to anyone in his presence to warrant the kind of hesitation or concern shown now.
‘And I took none from her requests to speak to you. Though I’d hope that she was seeking an opportunity to confess her sins and repent of them,’ he said. He felt the smile curve the corner of his mouth and fought the urge to laugh aloud. She tilted her head back ever so slightly, but it was enough to see the now-familiar spark of anger in her eyes.
‘My practice was daily confession, my lord. Until our priest left and I had none to hear mine.’ The voice and tone were mild, but her eyes showed how she really felt.
He realised in that moment that he would rather have this angry and challenging wife than a solemn, frightened one. The fiery one who’d knocked him unconscious rather than the one who scraped the ground in obeisance at his feet earlier, not this one who felt the need to have a priest in the room to offer an explanation to him.
‘Have you eaten yet, Father?’ he asked. ‘Would you stay to join us in our meal?’ Ernaut entered, carrying a platter of sliced meats, cheeses and some bread.
The old priest looked from him to his wife and back again before saying a word. Brice could feel the powerful desire for her simmering in his blood, just beneath his skin, as it had since the moment he’d met her. Was it obvious to this man of faith? Could Father Henry tell Brice wanted nothing more than to peel off the lady’s garments and have her beneath him for the rest of the night?
Father Henry cleared his throat and shook his head. ‘Young Selwyn is seeing to my supper, my lord. But I thank you for your offer of hospitality.’ He stood and walked to the entrance of the tent. ‘Brice, if you would like, I can stay with Lady Gillian during…’ the priest gave a worried glance at Gillian before continuing ‘…tomorrow.’
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