by Lynn Kurland
Then Gillian felt a tug at her sleeve. She opened her eyes and looked at the great black beast. He had the hem of her sleeve in his mouth and was pulling her toward the bottom of the stairs. Gillian was surprised enough to let him do it. Once the hound had led her down the steps, he loped back up them and disappeared into the darkness.
Gillian didn’t wait to see if Christopher would come out and converse with his familiar about who their next victim should be. She fled down the passageway as fast as her shaking legs would carry her, tried several doors before she found hers, then bolted herself inside her chamber. She dove under the bedclothes, cloak and all, and jerked the blankets up over her head.
It was worse than she had thought. She might have discounted the rumors, if she’d had but a shred of proof they were untrue. But she had seen the flickering candlelight and the shadows that twisted and spun madly along the wall. She had heard the mutterings of a warlock spinning his dark magic. She had heard the ring of steel signaling the sacrificial knife doing its foul work. Aye, she knew the truth for herself.
Christopher of Blackmour was evil incarnate.
And in four days she would be his.
five
CHRISTOPHER WALKED INTO HIS BEDCHAMBER FROM YET another long evening spent trying to distract himself from his troublesome thoughts. His mood was worse than it had been four days ago and he knew exactly at whose delicate feet to lay that blame.
“Shall I see to your gear, my lord?” Jason asked.
Christopher shoved his sword at his squire, then stripped off his sweat-soaked tunic and mopped his face with it. He sat down on the stool before the hearth and heaved a sigh of pure relief. At least now he would be too weary to think of aught besides a cold cup of ale and a soft bed beneath his back.
“I wasn’t able to lure the lady Gillian from her chamber again today, my lord.”
Christopher scowled. Jason had been dropping little daggers such as that off and on for days, as if he were bent on bludgeoning Christopher with tidings.
“She’d never seen the sea before, you know.”
Christopher let loose a snort of irritation Jason couldn’t have helped but notice. So Gillian had never seen the sea. Why would she, when Warewick was nowhere near the shore? Christopher grasped the cup of wine Jason gave him and ignored his squire with renewed vigor.
“I thought she had enjoyed seeing the keep that first day, but perhaps it overwhelmed her. Warewick is rather small. And from what I understand, her father never let her past the inner bailey. I wonder why not.”
Christopher took another long draught of wine, determined to let the pounding in his ears drown out Jason’s babbling.
“She smiled, though, that first day. ’Twas a most pleasing sight indeed—”
“Jason!” Christopher exclaimed.
“Aye, my lord?”
Christopher could almost see the innocent look on Jason’s face, as it had been one the lad had mastered by the age of eight.
“Your father was too lenient in your youth. He should have taught you how to hold your tongue.”
“Forgive me, my lord.”
Ah, blessed silence. Christopher enjoyed it thoroughly for perhaps a quarter of an hour before he stopped enjoying it and started to find it annoying. No doubt Jason had a great deal more to tell, and, despite his own desire to know as little as possible about his future wife’s habits, Christopher knew he would be wise to listen to it. Forewarned was forearmed, as Jason’s father always said.
“Jason,” he barked.
“Aye, my lord?”
“Come sit you here and cease with your incessant straightening. Pour me another cup of wine and have one yourself. Your days spent tending the wench have likely driven you daft.”
Christopher waited until Jason was seated on the floor, waited until both cups were filled, then waited some more as Jason had a drink and a hearty belch. Then he suppressed the urge to strangle his squire.
“Well?” he demanded. “Did she make you daft, or not? By St. George’s throat, lad, you’re closemouthed tonight!”
“But, my lord, you said you wished to know nothing more about her.”
Christopher mentally reminded himself of all the reasons that throttling his squire would be unwise. The only decent one he could come up with was if he did so, Jason wouldn’t be able to provide him with the tidings he wanted.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Christopher muttered. “Speak freely while you may.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Jason gulped more wine. “I found her to be a charming maid, though a most timid one. She seemed quite undone by the fineness of the hall and especially the view from the battlements. After I showed her the sea, she wished to retreat to her chamber and she’s been there ever since. When I told her today that her sire had arrived, she refused to unbolt her door. She pled illness.”
“Why didn’t you fetch the leech?”
“Because she was perfectly sound. I daresay she was afeared to meet her father. She bears a mark on her cheek, the mark of a cane or perhaps a small whip—”
“St. George’s bones!”
“Newly made it looked to me when she first arrived,” Jason continued quickly. “Sir Colin told me that her father had given the mark to her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Christopher bellowed. He hurled his empty cup at the wall to his left; it slammed against the stone with a hearty ring.
“My lord, you seemed to want as little to do with the girl as possible—”
“Not when she’s been beaten,” Christopher growled.
“Put a guard in front of her door and see that no one enters her chamber without my express permission.”
“I’ll see to it immediately.”
Christopher gritted his teeth and wished desperately for someone to strike, preferably Gillian’s sire. The man was beneath contempt. There had been times over the years that Christopher had been provoked mightily by a piece of Jason’s mischief, but he had never laid a hand on the boy. He’d shouted at him as loudly and fiercely as the deed merited, but to strike him? Not even when he’d been tempted had he done it. The memory of beatings at his own father’s hand had kept him from it.
And to beat a woman? A child who couldn’t possibly defend herself against a man superior to her in size and strength? Christopher remembered very well just how large Bernard of Warewick was and how formidable his temper.
He could well imagine the hell Gillian had suffered, for he remembered vividly having seen her after just such a beating.
He had been a serious youth of a score-and-four with spurs on his heels and hard-won gold in his purse. He and William had just returned from the continent where Christopher had gone to try to regain the fortune his father had heedlessly squandered. Only pure weariness had convinced him to spend a night or two at William’s home, as he certainly hadn’t had the time or the heart for play.
Gillian had been waiting on the front steps, obviously overjoyed to see her brother. Christopher had watched as William dismounted and scooped Gillian up in his arms.
She had cried out and he had set her down instantly. It hadn’t taken any effort to note that her back was tender. When she’d turned to lead them into the hall, Christopher had seen the remains of blood on the back of her gown.
He had blanched. William had turned to him and given him a look that had needed no words, though Christopher heard them as clearly as if William had said them aloud.
If I cannot aid her, you must. Now you see why.
It had taken William almost a se’nnight to coax Gillian out from behind her defenses completely. Even so, Christopher honestly could not remember having met Gillian’s eyes even a single time. She had been a skittish, terrified child who trusted no one but her brother.
And now he could blame himself for adding to her terror by having left her at Warewick’s mercy for half a year longer than he should have. He ground his teeth at the guilt that washed over him. Saints, how he hated having any part of this affair!
Jason’s lithe step sounded and Christopher whirled toward the sound.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Sir Colin himself will stand guard, my lord, along with Captain Ranulf. I assured the lady Gillian that she was perfectly safe, but I don’t think she believed me.”
Christopher forced his breath out through clenched teeth. “Take your rest, Jason,” he said. “I’ll wish to rise before dawn and see that Warewick stirs up no mischief before the ceremony.”
“You mean to wed her, my lord? In truth?”
Marriage. The very idea made the noose tighten about Christopher’s neck. He’d felt the first touch of the rope when he’d finally sent off his offer to Warewick. As the weeks passed, the constriction had increased until he wondered if he would ever again succeed in taking a normal breath.
Now it was all he could do to keep his hands down by his side, not clawing at his throat in an effort to loosen the pressure, however imaginary it might have been.
If he could have, he would have bolted. Anywhere. Away from his responsibility, away from a marriage that could only bring him grief, away from having to care for anyone but himself. Saints, he wanted none of it!
He found his fingers at the neck of his tunic, tugging. This time, he didn’t bother to fight the impulse.
“My lord?”
“Aye,” Christopher rasped, “I’ll wed her. I gave my word.”
And what a heavy word it was.
• • •
GILLIAN SHIVERED AT THE TOUCH OF COLD HANDS against the back of her neck.
“Forgive me, milady,” the serving maid whispered. “Shall I stir up the fire?”
Gillian nodded, relieved to have the girl’s icy hands out of her hair. She stepped closer to the fire and held her hands to the blaze. The day was doomed, if the state of her locks was any indication. Why couldn’t she have had smooth hair, hair that was tucked easily under a veil?
“You look beautiful, milady,” the servant said, touching the sleeve of Gillian’s dress.
Gillian looked down at herself. Though she had no such illusions about her person, the gown of heavy emerald silk was indeed lovely. It was only one of the many gowns that had been provided for her soon after her arrival, and it had been the one to appeal to her the most.
When she had asked her maid about who had seen the gowns fashioned, the girl had confessed to knowing nothing about them. Indeed, the girl knew nothing at all, if her responses told aught. When Gillian ventured questions about Lord Blackmour, the girl would only shiver and refuse to answer. She had looked near tears more than once.
As if she had heard Gillian’s thoughts, the maid clutched Gillian’s cold hands in her own and started to weep.
“I’m so sorry, milady. So desperately sorry.”
“But . . .”
“Oh, for you,” the girl wept. “I’m so sorry for you.”
With that, she dropped Gillian’s hands and fled from the chamber. Gillian stared at the heavy wooden door and felt her trembles begin again in earnest. She had managed to reduce them to small shivers over the past three days, but that had likely been because she had been training. Concentrating on her swordplay had left her with little room for thoughts of her black-hearted betrothed.
But now she had no choice but to think of him. What, by the names of all the holy saints above, was she doing binding herself to the Devil’s spawn? She had heard him in his tower chamber. She had seen his wolf-hound. The only things she hadn’t seen were his horns and his red eyes, but she would no doubt have a fine view of those too, just as soon as he had bolted her into his tower chamber, where he could torture her in peace.
Was there any hope of escape? She looked around frantically but saw no exit but the door. She started toward it, hesitated, then gathered her courage and strode forward. She would flee while the others were busy with preparations for the ceremony.
Her fingers were but a hand’s breadth away from the door when the wood came flying toward her face. She jerked back, the brush of air against her cheek telling her how close she’d come to being the portal’s unwitting victim.
Her father stood in the doorway, his eyes glinting, his lips drawn into a disdainful frown.
“Even on your wedding day, you’re no beauty. Saints, child, couldn’t you do something with those locks?”
Gillian shrank back. Her apprehension about wedding the Dragon of Blackmour was quickly forgotten in her fear over being alone with her sire. She could but imagine what Christopher might do to her; with her father, she already knew.
Warewick folded his arms over his chest and smiled coldly. “Well, aren’t you going to beg me not to leave you with him? Plead with me to take you away from this accursed place?”
“How much worse can it be here than it was there?” she blurted out, panicked at the thought of returning to Warewick.
“Hold your tongue!” he bellowed, his fist raised. He stepped toward her. “I’ll do Blackmour a favor by beating you one last time to silence you. It will save him the effort.”
Gillian backed up. Not in her new gown. Oh, not in her wedding gown!
“My lord Ware wick, I would respectfully suggest that you lower your hand.”
Jason stood behind her father. Gillian let out a half-sob of relief.
“You insolent pup! How dare you speak to me in such tones?”
Two burly knights stepped into the chamber behind Jason. They were men easily as large as her father and wore looks that equaled her father’s fiercest frowns.
“Lady Gillian belongs to my lord,” Jason continued, “and he doesn’t take kindly to the beating of women, especially when that woman is his. Now, if you’ll make your way to the chapel, I’ll see your daughter escorted down with the utmost care.”
“She isn’t his yet,” Warewick growled.
The hiss of swords coming from scabbards made Warewick’s expression darken even more. Gillian had the insane desire to laugh. During the whole of her life, she had always dreamed of a rescuer who was enormously skilled, yet gentle and kind. Here she was being rescued by men even more fierce than her father!
Her father uttered a black oath and strode from the room, shoving Jason out of his way. Gillian looked at the boy as he straightened his clothes, rearranged his hair and came to her, making her a low bow.
“I have come to see you to the chapel, my lady. Now, if I might offer you my arm?”
Her relief at the rescue disappeared abruptly at the reminder of what her immediate future held in store for her. She tried to swallow past the fear that leaped to her throat, but failed. Merciful saints above, time was running out!
“Ah, I think I need a moment to see to my hair,” she said, forcing a smile to her stiff lips.
“Why?” Jason asked. “It looks well enough to me.” He smiled. “Come, lady, before my lord wears a trench in the chapel with his pacing.”
“But . . .”
Jason took her gently by the elbow and tugged. “Trust me,” he said, “all will be well. You’ll see.”
What she would see was Hellfire burning brightly in her husband’s eyes; aye, she was sure enough of that.
“You’re chilled,” Jason announced. “I can well understand the feeling. You know, I first came to Blackmour when I was a wee lad of six summers and I vow my lips were blue until I was eight. You will accustom yourself to it in time, my lady, but until then you’ll have to take care that you are always wearing a cloak. Already ’tis almost spring. We’ll likely have warmer weather in a month or two. There is nothing quite like an afternoon of sunshine after the fog has melted away. I daresay you’ll enjoy passing those afternoon hours in the garden. My lord doesn’t care for it exactly, but I think it would do him good to be outside more often, spending his time in pleasure.”
By the time Gillian had digested most of that, she found she was wearing a heavy fur cloak and she had descended to the great hall. Before she could dig in her heels, Jason had whisked her out the door.
It w
as dark outside, dark as twilight, though Gillian knew it was but midday. It looked as though even the elements were celebrating their dark prince’s nuptials.
A drizzle began the moment her-foot touched the dirt of the courtyard and she took that as a sign. Either those black, thunderous clouds were preparing to welcome her pitiful soul later that night, or the weather disapproved of Christopher’s choice. Either way, Gillian knew she was doomed.
She looked around desperately for an avenue of escape but saw nothing but two rows of seasoned warriors flanking the path to the chapel. She looked back quickly over her shoulder to see the ranks closing in behind her. Her only choice was to move forward.
Jason pulled her up the steps to the chapel, then steered her off into the priest’s private chamber. The priest himself was there, as were her father, Colin and another man or two she didn’t recognize. But she did recognize the tall man standing before the priest with his broad back to her.
Gillian felt Jason urge her forward and she went, only because he was pushing her. She stopped alongside Christopher and looked up at the man who would become her husband in a matter of moments.
He was dark. Not only was his hair dark, his very soul seemed dark and brooding. She had to admit that he was handsome, as handsome as only the Devil incarnate could be. His jaw was stem and his nose finely chiseled enough, but that was where devilish handsomeness ended and harshness began.
His lips were compressed in a tight line, as if he were mightily displeased or on the verge of letting fly a fit of rage. His jaw was clenched, his brows drawn together, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed. Even his long hair was tousled, as if he had sought to rip it out by the roots. No doubt he’d done it in his anguish at setting foot inside a holy place, a place obviously at odds with his black soul.
He turned his head toward her and she lost her breath with a gasp of terror. Stem and rugged he was, and completely wrong for her husband. Despite all his other devilish flaws, he was cruel and unyielding. She could see that easily in the depths of his dark blue eyes. Saints above, she would never have a kind word from this man. What she needed was patience, compassion, mercy.