Maiden Bride

by Deborah Simmons

  “She has lived in a convent for many years—since her youth, I believe,” the messenger answered.

  “A convent?” Aisley gasped. “By all the saints, she is a nun?”

  Aisley bit her lip as she paced back and forth across the great chamber, her hands knotted into tight fists at her sides. “You saw him! You saw the look on his face! He will crucify her!” she cried.

  “Nonsense,” Piers said calmly. “Nicholas is a hard man, but not cruel.”

  “You think you know him?” Aisley asked, turning on her husband. “Well, I do not. Even in our youth, he was distant, unfeeling, and when he returned from the Holy Land, so cold and hard, and his eyes so…so…” Aisley shuddered, unable to go on.

  “War changes a man, Aisley,” Piers said gently, but she would take no comfort. Her thoughts were on her brother, who had made hatred his life’s blood, vengeance his only joy, and on the poor innocent who would be forced to suffer for it.

  “What could Edward be thinking? He knows how Nicholas was obsessed with Hexham, chasing him down like a dog and driving him to madness.”

  “I think the king knows what he is doing,” Piers said with a pensive air. “You must admit that this is the first time Nicholas has shown an interest in anything since Hexham’s death.”

  “Yes, Nicholas finally responded to something, but ‘twas horrible to see it.” Aisley shuddered at the recollection of how those gray eyes, so like her own, had sprung to life with the fire of his malice.

  “Edward is no fool,” Piers said. “He would not put the girl in danger, and I seem to recall one marriage he arranged to the good.”

  Aisley stopped pacing to glance at her beloved husband, her thoughts diverted momentarily by their own hard-won happiness. “But that was different,” she protested. “Edward told me to choose one of his knights, and I picked you. ‘Twas my own good judgment that founded our marriage.”

  “I do not think you felt that way from the first,” Piers said in that familiar dry tone of his, and Aisley could not help but smile.

  “Oh, Piers,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “But I was strong and world-wise, while that child is innocent—a nun, by all the saints! My brother would abuse a holy woman!”

  “Nicholas is not going to abuse her, and she cannot have taken her vows yet, or she would not be made to wed,” Piers protested.

  “But she has grown up in a convent, a gentle, delicate thing, most likely, sheltered from the hard ways of the outside, and certainly unused to men and their brutality. Oh, Piers, what shall become of her in Nicholas’s hands?”

  “Have faith, Aisley,” Piers answered.

  “Yes, faith,” Aisley echoed. “I shall pray for her, as she will need it, and may God have mercy on the poor girl.”

  Nicholas rode away from Dunmurrow without a backward glance. Nothing held him there, but something, finally, waited for him ahead. Though he feared no one, Nicholas kept enough men with him at all times to provide good escort, so he was well equipped for a new journey. Pausing only long enough to learn the location of the convent where he would find her, Nicholas had set out to fetch his bride.

  He did not care what she looked like. Whether she was old or young, crone or beauty, she was of Hexham’s blood, and his hatred drove him on toward this new object of revenge. In fact, Nicholas was so eager to reach his destination that he hurried his men needlessly, the patience and discipline that had ruled his life for years loosening its tight hold upon him.

  “Where go we?” A deep voice, low and melodious, sounded beside him, and Nicholas flicked a glance to the man who spoke. He wore a long, flowing robe, as did several others in Nicholas’s company who disdained the traditional knight’s mail coat.

  “Darius.” Deep in thought, Nicholas had not noted his companion’s approach. Although annoyed at his own inattention, he was not surprised to be caught off guard, for Darius had the ability to seemingly appear out of nowhere. Some of the others called him Shadow Man and feared his stealth, but Nicholas was not so foolish. That skill had saved their lives more than once as they roamed strange cities throughout the East.

  Although he was called a Syrian, Nicholas had no idea where Darius came from originally. The population of Syria was diverse, with Greeks, Armenians, Maronites, Jacobites, Nestorians, Copts, Italians, Jews, Muslims and Franks coexisting, along with a few Germans and Scandinavians.

  Darius’s name was Egyptian, and Nicholas could well picture the tall, dark man as a direct descendant of some powerful pharaoh. He had a noble look about him, and a confidence not born of the gutter. His skin was a deep gold, but light enough to suggest a mixed parentage, and Nicholas often wondered if Darius was some sultan’s cast-off son. Or perhaps he was simply the product of a knight who had raped a local woman in a crusading frenzy.

  Nicholas had never asked, and Darius had never offered. Since their precipitous meeting several years ago, they had kept to an unwritten rule between them: no questions about the past. When the time came for Nicholas to return to Britain, Darius had come along, and Nicholas had shared what needed to be known with the man who came closest to being a friend to him. But that was as far as it went. They held each other to no oaths, shared no future beyond the day, and passed no judgment upon each other.

  “We go to a convent,” Nicholas replied. “A holy place for women,” he added when Darius sent him a questioning look.

  The Syrian still appeared puzzled as he struggled with such a foreign concept. “The women live alone together?” he asked.

  “Yes, they have pledged themselves to God.”

  “What do we there? I am surprised they allow men in such places.”

  “We go to find a kinswoman of my enemy. Hexham’s line lives on, Darius, and I would have my vengeance upon it, at last.”

  “This kinswoman is a holy one?” Darius asked.

  “Nay. She but lives there with those who are.”

  Nicholas saw Darius relax slightly. Although, as far as Nicholas knew, the Syrian did not practice any religion, he had a high regard for the places he deemed holy, both Christian and Muslim. “Ah,” he said softly. “And what shall you do with her?”

  Nicholas did not answer immediately, for he was still considering his plans. The future, which had only a few hours ago seemed so bleak and senseless, now held endless possibilities. Nicholas tried to tamp down the clamor in his blood to a dull roar, but the patience that had been his mainstay seemed to elude him now. Thwarted by Hexham’s death, and the long, hollow months that had followed, he craved immediate recompense. Now. At last.

  “I would make her suffer as Hexham did me,” Nicholas finally replied.

  “You mean to leave her to bleed to death in the desert sun?” Darius asked.

  Nicholas ignored the Syrian’s sarcasm, for he did not wish to be reminded of the torment of those burning days and freezing nights, or of the slow year of recovery that had followed.

  “Nay,” he said. “But I would find out that which she cherishes most, and I would take it from her, just as Hexham tried to do to me and mine. I would discover what she most fears and reviles, and I would present it to her. I would torment her and take pleasure in it. I will have my revenge.”

  In the ensuing silence, Nicholas felt Darius’s hard stare upon him. Although the Syrian’s dark eyes held no censure, he knew that Darius had a deep-rooted respect for women. More than likely he did not approve of Nicholas’s plans, but he would not interfere.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Darius dropped his gaze. “You go to kill her, then?” he asked, his exotic features, swathed in cloth, revealing little of his mood.

  “No,” Nicholas answered, as he let a slight smile play upon his lips. “I go to marry her.”

  Chapter Two

  Nicholas was vaguely aware of the rapid rise of his pulse, but he did not seek to slow it with his usual discipline. Not this time. He had pushed himself and his men to reach the nunnery in ten days, and he was going to savor the small surge of sa
tisfaction that filled him as he awaited his bride.

  Victory was nearly his! Victory over the demons that had haunted him for years, that had destroyed the life of an optimistic young knight, changing his path forever. Finally, he would claim his revenge, and then, mayhap, he would be whole again.

  Darius settled in behind him, and Nicholas slanted a glance at the Syrian. As usual, Darius’s face was an enigmatic mask, but Nicholas sensed his disapproval. Darius was far more chivalrous than any knight, and Nicholas knew he did not care for a scheme that involved a woman. Already he had pushed the boundaries of their relationship by asking Nicholas what came after the vengeance. Nicholas had not deigned to answer; he did not let himself think that far ahead. She was to be his wife, and unless she proved herself too frail for that task, he would have many years in which to exact payment from the last of Hexham’s line.

  Gillian, she was called. Nicholas pictured her in his mind—a smaller, female version of his enemy, with Hexham’s blue-black hair and the pasty-white skin of the idle. Convent-bred she was, too, Nicholas thought with contempt. He knew the type: delicate and helpless. He had only to look at the woman who headed the order to confirm his beliefs. Small and bent, the abbess moved with the slowness of age, but had risen to do his bidding immediately. It would be easy enough to shape such a creature to his will, and he looked forward to it.

  “I would wed as soon as she arrives,” Nicholas said, hiding his eagerness behind an impassive expression.

  “But that is impossible, my lord!” the abbess protested, her lined face easily showing her dismay. “Father Goode has gone to visit his ailing sister, so the nearest priest is in Litton, a good day’s ride from here.”

  In deference to the nun, Nicholas bit back his oath. Then he turned to the burly man who flanked him, along with Darius. “Renfred, fetch the priest,” he ordered tersely.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “And have him back here tomorrow.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Renfred said, grinning evilly. He moved quickly, ducking through the arched entranceway just as three more women appeared.

  “Ah, Gillian,” the abbess said, and Nicholas felt a rush of excitement. She was here! But which one was she?

  All three wore the black robes and white wimples of their calling and kept their faces lowered in a deferential manner that made it hard to see their features. The only apparent difference between them was the height of the middle one, who towered over the other two. Studying her closely, Nicholas was startled by her sudden, sharp glance of curiosity as she and her companions filed in and took seats on a worn bench.

  “Gillian, dear, I have good news for you,” the abbess said, and again the tall one lifted her head, her bright eyes shifting quickly toward the speaker. Surely that brazen creature was not his bride, Nicholas thought. Perhaps she simply lacked the manners that the other two exhibited with their discreet silence.

  “The king has sent you a husband,” the old woman continued, her voice trembling with age—or was it trepidation? Nicholas glanced back at the bold one again. Her gaze was fixed firmly on the abbess, and what he could see of her face showed not meek submission, but determined dissent. She certainly did not act like any nun he had ever seen.

  “I do not believe it. Why would Edward have any interest in me?” she said, and Nicholas felt a sharp stab of awareness. This tall, rebellious creature was Gillian Hexham?

  “‘Tis true, my dear,” the old woman said, speaking gently. “The king sent word of your uncle’s death, and that you were to marry Lord de Laci to unite the lands.”

  The girl’s gaze swept over Nicholas in a swift assessment that he found both unseemly and oddly exhilarating. Aye, Gillian, know your master and weep, he thought grimly, and he let her see a glimpse of his triumph.

  She did not flinch, but met his hard look with one of her own, and he saw that she was younger than he had expected. No child, to be sure, but neither was she old. Eighteen years, Nicholas judged, give or take, and she was not ugly, or even plain. Her face was a creamy oval, her skin clear, her nose small and pert, her mouth well formed. And her eyes… They were not Hexham’s black, but a deep green, and they were burning with a cold fire. Abruptly she glanced away, dismissing Nicholas with a contempt that stunned him.

  “You knew of this, but informed me not?” she asked, turning on the abbess. Her voice betrayed strong emotion that Nicholas could only guess was despair, but that, oddly enough, sounded more like repressed fury. This female was convent-bred?

  “Now, Gillian…” the abbess said, and Nicholas’s attention was caught by the movement of the two other women, who exchanged wary glances, just as though they expected some outburst from his bride.

  They were not to be disappointed. “Do not patronize me!” Gillian said, rising to her feet. “You received word, but you failed to tell me. Were you afraid that I would run away and lose you a fat purse from this popinjay?” she cried, pointing a finger at Nicholas.

  Popinjay? The casually flung insult inflamed Nicholas, and he had to gain control of himself, lest he beat her here and now, when she was not yet his wife. Only great strength of will kept him from moving, but he held still, his features impassive, while his blood boiled and his hands itched to reach for her. Later. Later she would suffer for her words, and more…

  The nuns gasped in horror, while the old woman stepped forward with a placating smile. “Gillian, you know that gold holds no sway with me. If you would but take the time to think, you would see that I have your best interests at heart. You have not been happy here, but now you have a chance for a new life. Take it, child, with God’s blessing.”

  “I would be more inclined to view this news as good fortune if you had deigned to share it, instead of keeping it from me. I suspect that you did not let me know the truth for fear I would try to escape.”

  Escape? What kind of woman was she, to babble such nonsense? Did she truly think to defy the king? “Enough!” Nicholas said sharply, astounded that she dared raise her voice in a convent. “It matters not when you were told. We are to be wed, and you have no choice.”

  She whirled toward him, and the other nuns reached out for her, murmuring soothingly, but she shook them off and walked forward until she stood directly in front of Nicholas.

  “There are always choices, my lord,” she snapped, and Nicholas was stunned to silence by the enmity flashing in those green eyes. What cause had she to hate him? He was the one who had been ill-used, first by her uncle and now by her sharp tongue! Then she turned and stalked from the room, without waiting for the dismissal of her lord or her abbess.

  Nicholas was not even aware that he moved, but suddenly he was at the door, Darius holding firm to his arm. “Let her go for now,” the Syrian said, his voice low and pleading for reason.

  Startled by his own loss of control, Nicholas drew back. His blood was pounding so fiercely that it took an effort for him to gain mastery over it. And so it became a small victory simply to hold his position and not give chase to Gillian Hexham like some herder after an errant pig.

  “Forgive her, my lord,” the abbess urged. “Gillian is impetuous, a bit headstrong, even, but she will come around. She simply needs some time to grow accustomed to the idea.”

  Amazed at the depth of his rage, Nicholas breathed slowly, seeking his vaunted discipline before he spoke. “Why did you not let her know that I was coming, so that this display might have been avoided?”

  The abbess did not meet his penetrating stare, but turned her head away, forcing Nicholas to wonder whether Gillian had spoken the truth. Would she flee, rather than wed him? But why? She had no notion of his hatred or of what lay between her uncle and himself. The abbess had told him that Hexham had taken no interest in his niece save to tuck her away in the convent, and that no communication had passed between them in the years since. Gillian could hardly be devoted to a man she had never even met.

  An oddly unsettling notion took root in Nicholas’s fevered brain, and he watched the a
bbess closely for her response. “Has she a lover nearby? Or some tie that would make her refuse to leave here?”

  The nuns gasped at his plain language. “No, no, my lord, I assure you that Gillian has nothing holding her here. ‘Tis only her own strong will, my lord,” the abbess answered. Her reply filled him with a strange relief, which Nicholas put down to a desire not to be cuckolded.

  “She is stubborn, my lord,” one of the nuns whispered.

  “She dislikes anything that is not her idea,” the other one said, her face pinched with disapproval.

  “She has had a hard life, my lord,” the first nun added.

  “In a convent?” Nicholas asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

  “After her father died; she and her mother were forced to live very meagerly, and then her mother, too, passed on. She was cast adrift until her uncle finally sent funds for her to join us here,” the abbess explained.

  Cast adrift? “What do you mean? Where did she live?”

  “She took shelter with a burgher’s family, as little more than a servant.”

  Wonderful. His wife had been as one lowborn. Oddly enough, the thought of her trials did not give Nicholas pleasure, perhaps because they had been brought on by fate, and not by himself. Perverse as it might seem, he wanted to be the sole source of distress to Gillian Hexham.

  “She hardly seems subservient,” he commented dryly.

  “She is a good girl, my lord, but lacks the proper disposition for the holy life. Perhaps she is better suited to be a chatelaine,” the abbess suggested, with a gleam in her eye.

  Nicholas frowned. If the old woman was likening Gillian’s behavior to that of her betters, she was sadly mistaken. The ill-mannered creature little resembled any lady he knew. His sister, Aisley, never raised her voice, and she was the most regal of females.

  Nicholas nearly laughed at the comparison. His tiny, fair-haired sister was nothing like this green-eyed jade. Convent-bred, indeed! Obviously, the old woman could not control her flock, but Nicholas would put the fear of God into Gillian Hexham quickly enough.