She hurriedly splashed water on her face, rubbed her teeth with a hazel wood stick trying to make the best of things. She needed to look respectable enough to not be mistaken for a whore or someone with the plague if she expected to find shelter along the way.
Picking her kirtle from her trunk, she inspected it. Three paint smears marred the faded blue bodice and the embroidery hung unraveled around the square-cut neckline. The sleeves had once been long, pointed, and graceful, but she’d cut them off and sewed them so they fit tightly around her arms and would not interfere with painting. The lack of embellishment made the dress look sad and out of fashion. But it would have to do.
Surely she could convince the nuns that she was simply a noblewoman down on her luck. She would explain her family’s lands had been taken by cruel men and offer her talents as an artist to restore the convent’s books and statues. A resident painter would be an asset.
Adele fingered her cane. “Montgomery intends to marry Gwyneth off. He says her beauty will cause discord.”
“I cannot save Gwyneth.” Nor anyone here. With one last glance at the looking glass, Brenna hurried from behind the dressing screen. “Gwyneth should count herself fortunate that Montgomery is only marrying her off and not having her whipped and beheaded. I’ll have no part in provoking him further.” She retrieved a wimple, secured it on her head and snatched her pack. “We must leave post haste. Come with me, Adele.”
Challenging him with the knife had been daftness incarnate. She might rant to God about the unfairness of being born a woman, but ranting did not change the fact that it was so. Her safety lay in running.
Her father had shown an unholy disregard for their lives and the lives of the castlefolk by annoying Montgomery in the attack. She would no longer be a part of his schemes. Hurrying to the exit, she reached for the door.
The door flung open afore she could touch it. The terrier set off a shrill yapping, but Adele shushed him quickly.
Brenna yelped as Montgomery appeared in the doorframe. ’Twas as if speaking of escape had conjured their jailer from the pits of hell. He wore black hose and a black tunic and was larger even than she had remembered. In his hands, he carried a chain.
Yesterday’s memory of being dragged to the courtyard, pushed to her knees, tied and whipped loomed in her mind. Her chest squeezed, choking off the air in her lungs. She looked for any signs of softness that he might have forgiven the ambush and stabbing and saw none. His jaw was set in a sharp line and tension pulled across his wide shoulders.
He had come to finish the beheading.
With a wave of his hand, he dismissed Adele who leaned on her cane and headed to the door. St. Paul scrambled into her arms.
Panthos wagged his tail and licked Montgomery on the hand as he followed her. Adele’s familiar uneven gait faded. The terrier growled at him and Montgomery bent and held out his palm for the dog.
Duncan paused, reached his nose warily forward and sniffed the outstretched hand before following the pack out.
Montgomery straightened. “I have new jewelry for you, wife.” The last word was spat out like a bitter curse, his generous lips lifted into a snarl.
Warily, Brenna stepped back, her gaze darting to the open door and then the window. Obviously his softer side, if indeed he had one, was reserved for animals and not humans.
The metal clanked in Montgomery’s hand and then unfurled. Five loops of iron connected by chains hung on his palms.
Brenna’s eyes widened and sweat beaded on her upper lip.
Fetters of a slave.
Bloody hell. “Chains! You plan to chain me?” Despair rose in her chest as all her plans to shelter in a convent disappeared like smoke in the wind.
He began to stalk toward her, obviously planning more than to merely behead her. Humiliation and torture lay in her future.
“You cannot be serious,” she gasped.
“You are a traitor. The chains should be the least of your worries.”
Her legs turned watery thinking of prisoners sentenced to have their skin stripped from their bodies and their muscle and bones torn and broken by large hammers and hooks. Their screams of agony could last for days. ’Twas the price of treason.
She frantically scanned the chamber, looking for a way out. If she could make it to the window, she could fling herself into the courtyard—die a quick death. Taking her own life would land her a place in hell. But surely the devil had more mercy than The Enforcer.
Brenna edged toward the opening. If she moved too quickly, Montgomery would suspect and thwart her purpose.
The chains clanked as he paced closer, looming like a dark shadow. His eyes were steely and full of purpose, terrifying in their intensity.
Her heart hammered, beating so furiously she thought she could hear the sound thudding throughout the chamber. She stepped toward the window, her thighs tensing to make the final leap.
As if anticipating her move, Montgomery closed in on her.
She lunged; death beckoned her like a generous mistress of light. Her fingers touched the windowsill, her knee on the embrasure seat.
His hand closed around her calf just as she scrambled up on the window bench to make the final leap toward freedom and the safety of hell.
“Nay!” She kicked back at him, frantic for him to release her. “Let me go!”
He pulled her back. Her knees and thighs bumped on the edge of the seat and her chest scraped across the top of it. “Cease fighting, wench! There will be no such swift end for you.”
She screamed, panic flooding her mind, and tried to wiggle away.
Undaunted by her efforts, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. “Shhh. Shhh. Be calm, wife.” This time the word didn’t sound like a curse. It was low and deep and soothing. He held her tightly, squelching her struggles.
She pushed against him, pressing her arms and legs outward to get away. ’Twas like trying to fight an iron cage, but she struggled until her strength was spent.
Tears rolled down her face. ’Twas pointless to combat him. Utterly, completely pointless.
He was a large man. She was a woman. A wedded woman under the hand of her lord and master who could punish her at his whim. Furthermore, he was The Enforcer, a powerful man, legally empowered to torture and execute her as he saw fit.
More tears fell down her cheeks as her helplessness sank in. She furiously wiped them away, angry at her defeat.
Slowly he eased his grip. “Do not try to escape.”
She tried to rally her strength, to give one last nod at getting free even though she knew it was futile. Weakness filled her limbs; her legs felt like lead weights. Her shoulders slumped and she nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
Her own voice startled her. So this is how it would be—a world filled with “yes, my lord” and “of course, my lord” and “as you wish, my lord” until he finally tired of torturing her and finished the beheading.
“Stay here.” He stood and the straw mattress jiggled.
Numbly, Brenna stared at him as he bent to retrieve the loops and chains from the floor. There may as well have been devil horns poking from his dark hair. She curled into a fetal position, hugging a pillow. Her stomach churned.
Straightening, Montgomery held the device up, his face as merciless and cold as a Roman warlord. Five iron manacles linked by a lightweight chain slid across his palms. Two for her wrists, two for her ankles, and one for her neck.
Her breath clogged in her throat. The cold, hard iron would wind around her neck and link to her limbs in a way that every step would be hobbled. She would not be free to run, or stretch or even climb stairs without trouble.
Worse, she would never be able to paint again. Even if she could break into the locked trunk, the chains would slop in the colors and drag across the canvas, inhibiting her from freely moving the brush.
She would be a slave in every sense of the word.
“There is truly no nee—”
“I won’t have you jumping out of
windows or trying to stab me at every turn.” The links of chain slid across his long, blunt fingers. Clink. Clink. Clink.
She shivered.
The mattress ropes creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Come, captive wife”—he patted his lap—“stretch your neck o’er my knees so I may fasten on your new necklace.”
Every bit of pride she possessed crashed to the surface. Lay her head over his knees and allow him to snap a collar around her neck like one of Adele’s pack?
Demeaning!
“Unless you would prefer to stretch it over the axeman’s block again.” The words were spoken as mild and politely as if he were offering her a choice between a slice of bread and a sweetmeat.
“I have no fear of death,” she said shakily. Had she not just thought to kill herself moments before?
“Then perhaps we could stretch you o’er the spokes of the wheel.”
She swallowed, a touch of ice shooting inside her veins. She’d once seen a man executed by that means. The victim had every joint broken in his arms and legs. Then his limbs were braided through the spokes of a large wheel, which was hoisted atop a tall pole. Around and around he spun as ravens plucked bits of bloody flesh from the man’s body.
Her hand went instinctively to her throat as she scrutinized Montgomery’s face for any sign that he was bluffing.
His jaw was hard as flint. No flicker of compassion shone in his eyes, and he gazed back at her as if he knew the battle was already won and merely waited for her to acknowledge it.
His long fingers skimmed over the links of the chain, one by one, as if counting them.
She shuddered. No doubt The Enforcer had sentenced many to death on the wheel and felt no measure of guilt over the pain they would suffer. “Is that how your last wife was murdered?”
His fingers stilled on the chain. “Nay.”
“But you did murder her, didn’t you?”
The mote in his eye reddened. “Some say that. Not the wise ones.”
A deathly silence hung in the room. And she knew the battle was won.
Angrily wiping the tears from her cheeks, she moved to a kneeling position. Her face heated at what she was about to do. “’Tis vile to treat one’s wife such,” she said, unable to contain her tongue.
He glanced down at his chest and she knew that beneath his tunic he would have a long red gash and a small hole above his heart where l’occhio del diavolo had stuck him.
A tremble began in her knees and quivered up her legs to her stomach, so strong that she could scarcely hold herself upright. Of a truth, they were mortal enemies, bonded together by the church in marriage.
Unfit partners.
An unholy match.
If only she had been able to enter a nunnery as she had wanted! That life was sterile and dry, but at least she could have worked her way into a position of power and then used her spare time to paint and enjoy her artwork. Painting crosses and halos would be a form of torture, but even at its worst, it was painting. And, likely she’d have novices to mix the colors.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed her regrets behind her, placed her hands palm down on the bed, her fingertips nearly touching his thighs, and stretched her neck across his lap. The bed rustled with the movement. His thighs were warm and firm and she could feel the vitality pulsing within them. He wore soft spun hose of high quality. From this position, every fiber of his muscles seemed to bulge through them. He smelled of sandalwood and maleness and some other scent she could not discern.
Lifting the wimple slightly in the back, he looped the metal around her throat, his fingers sure and steady as if he’d done this a thousand times before. She grimaced at the cool hardness of the collar on her skin. Her pride stung, and she set her jaw so that no more tears would fall.
Her mind spun, trying to find ways to make the best of her circumstances and to change things to her favor. Surely the blacksmith could forge a key. Or she could write to her brother Nathan and he would know a way out.
There was a small snap and a click as the manacle was locked in place. She gritted her teeth and set her jaw, tamping down the urge to yowl with outrage. His hands loosed and she was allowed to raise her head. She swallowed against the iron. The ring was thin and strong. It wasn’t tight, but the weight felt heavy against her neck.
“Sit up,” he commanded, shifting his position slightly to take hold of one of the smaller metal loops.
She complied, smarting at his tone and her mind still whirring with ideas on how to set him off guard.
“Give me your arm.”
Resisting her pride, she did so, allowing him to snap the manacle around her wrist without incident.
“No pleading?”
Bowing her head slightly, she regarded him through her lashes. “Nay, my lord,” she said, trying to attain the proper conquered demeanor.
“Good.”
Bastard. She burned at the arrogance of his tone.
He took her other wrist and she forced herself to not withdraw it. This was her right hand and once it was bound, she would be unable to hold the brush steady enough to paint. A knot formed in her stomach. What if she was never able to get free? What if the manacles crippled her hands?
She forced herself to stay compliant. Fighting The Enforcer would be a battle of wills, not a battle of strength. If she resisted, no doubt she would be whipped before being locked into the fetters. If she told him how much her painting meant, he might even break her fingers.
The lock clicked into place and she swallowed. She would find a way free. And a way to paint again. She had to. Painting was her escape. Her sanctuary. Her sanity.
“Stand up, and spread your arms.”
Heat rose in her cheeks as she slid off the bed. The loop around her neck fell against her collarbones and the hard metal rubbed her skin with every move she made. The two ankle bands hung lifelessly downward, still unattached to her legs.
Montgomery scrutinized his handiwork, running his fingers around the manacles. The sensation of the pads of his fingers running across her skin was a cross between a tickle and the rough feel of sand.
She shivered. “Surely three bands are aplenty. There is no need for five.”
“Place your foot on the bed.”
“It is unnecessary for—” she started.
“Nay,” he said not allowing her to finish. “Lift your leg.”
Her cheeks prickled even further as she obeyed, feeling like a mare going through her training.
“Prithee,” she said softly, holding out her hands and letting the chain dangle between them. “I already have arm hobbles.”
The red mote was gone, but his eyes were unreadable as his gaze flicked to her face. His smooth, well-shaved jaw neither tightened with annoyance nor slackened with compassion.
She held her breath for a moment, hoping that he debated her request.
He shook his head and patted the bed, indicating where she should place her foot.
She let out her breath. No mercy would be forthcoming.
“Hold my shoulder for balance if you need.”
The smug coxcomb!
Glaring at him, she shifted her weight and bent her knees for balance so she would definitely not have to hang on to him while he bound her. She raised her leg and placed it beside him, focusing on staying upright without help.
His lips twitched, the first sign of emotion he’d given since this ritual had begun.
Was he laughing at her, or had she been mistaken?
The manacle snapped closed, and she wavered. She bent her knee further. Do not fall. Do not fall, she willed her body.
“Other leg.”
With an effort, she lowered her limb, proud that she had not needed to clutch him like a puppet. She shifted her weight onto the manacled leg, feeling the metal circle move about her ankle, and began to raise her unbound foot.
She hated him. Hated him! If she could think of a way to crugal him on the head she would have.
His gaze snapped to he
r face as if he had suddenly read her mind and she wobbled to one side.
Just do not fall. Do not fall.
“Do not make this harder on yourself than it is already. Use my shoulder for support,” he commanded, taking hold of her calf. “Wobbling or falling because your pride does not wish to touch me will only hurt you.”
Forcing her face into a bland mask, she gave him a tight smile that felt more like a grimace and placed her hand on his shoulder. If she stumbled now, she’d never recover even a shred of her pride—better to use his body for support.
She felt steadier on her feet using him as a brace. His shoulder was undoubtedly the thickest, most solid one she’d ever seen or touched—not that she’d had much experience touching men’s shoulders, but she had painted plenty of them. The muscle formed a tight knot under his tunic, unenhanced by the pads that were so popular these days.
Once the manacle was locked, he allowed her to set her foot back on the floor. Her skin tingled, as if burned from his touch. A shudder went through her. He was the devil, and this was hell.
“Can you walk?”
Brenna looked down at the chains, which made a large spider web in front of her body. She stretched out her arms and the links made tiny metallic clinks. There were two sets of chains that radiated out from the wrist manacles. One set slipped through a loop at her collar, and she could stretch either her right or left arm out fully, but not both of them at the same time. The second set connected the wrist manacles to a metal loop near her bellybutton, which was connected by another chain to her collar as well. The leg chains slipped through this loop so that she would not be able to lift her hands unless her feet were fully in the air.
Her chest constricted as the extent of her bonds sank in.
Helpless. Unable to run.
“Walk to the hearth, captive wife,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and turning her toward the fireplace on the opposite side of the chamber.
She smarted at his command and almost shook her head in refusal. She would find a way free.
“If you cannot walk, I will adjust the length of the chains.”
She glowered at him. “You do not care if I walk or not; please do not condescend to me by pretending otherwise.”
The Pleasures of Sin Page 7