“Get to your pallet, wife, and await me at my leisure,” he ordered, but Gillian could not move. Too busy trying to fill her lungs to heed his command, she could only gasp, and she kept on gasping until the scowl left his face and he eyed her with alarm.
“What the devil?” Stepping toward her, he took her by the shoulders and shook her slightly. His attentions only agitated her further, and Gillian could do naught but stare at him wide-eyed. His face swam before her, hard and beautiful, before dizziness engulfed her. He must have felt her sway, for the next thing she knew she was scooped up in strong arms and laid upon a soft fur on the great bed.
“By all the saints, ‘tis no wonder you cannot breathe in this gown,” he snapped, and, turning her, he began to loosen the ties. Gillian felt his hand, warm even through her shift as he rubbed his palm across her back, and despite all his warnings and her own wariness, it was not unpleasant.
Although his was not the gentlest of touches, neither was it threatening, and Gillian felt her terror ease at the rhythmic pressure. Indeed, to her surprise, she found the sound of his breathing, low and quick, and the sensation of his heavy hand against her, oddly soothing—until his callused fingers slid onto the bare skin above her shift.
Abruptly her comfort fled, for his fingertips seemed to sear her flesh with their heat and incite in her an unwelcome excitement. Starting, she gasped again, and he moved away, muttering imprecations.
When he returned, he pressed a cup of ale upon her, apparently from a flask he kept in the chamber. “Here, sit up and drink,” he said. Although gruff, his voice seemed different to her ears, as if stripped of its usual cool distance. Though conscious of her gown gaping behind her, Gillian let him help her up against the pillows and took a sip.
“Are you all right?” he asked. Gillian nodded, acutely aware of how close he sat beside her, warm and solid and no longer fearsome. “Are you prone to these fits?” he asked, his tone harsher.
“No,” Gillian answered softly. “Only when I am… Only rarely,” she said, catching herself just in time. She would not let him know how well he had terrorized her—or did he gloat in triumph already? Gillian stiffened and glanced up at him, but he avoided her gaze, surging to his feet, with his back toward her.
“Good! Then I shall expect never to see you possessed by such demons again,” he snapped. As Gillian watched, he leaned forward and pressed a hand against his stomach before straightening swiftly to his full, impressive height. The movement was so subtle that she would not have noticed, had she not been eying him so closely. Did her invincible husband suffer some ailment?
Gillian’s concern fled when he whirled back toward her, his handsome face once more composed and cruel. “Rest yourself,” he advised coldly, “for I will not have you die on me, as your traitorous uncle did. I will have my revenge!”
He stalked to the door and slammed it behind him, the loud bang of the wood echoing into silence, and Gillian was aware of a sharp pain in her chest that had nothing to do with her loss of breath.
Slowly she set the cup down upon a coffer and climbed from the bed. Easing the rest of the way from her outer garment, she folded it neatly and set it aside. Then she settled onto her pallet, still clad in her shift, and pulled a fur over herself. Accustomed to sleeping with a roomful of other women, Gillian found the quiet of the empty chamber strange.
The fire glittered nearby, making Gillian realize that this nest was far softer and warmer than her cot at the convent had ever been. And she would not have to rise again at midnight to kneel upon cold stone for lengthy prayers.
But Belvry held dangers that the nunnery did not. Perhaps this evening her husband would leave her alone and she might snatch some badly needed sleep, yet she could not count upon this respite. There were many long nights ahead, and Gilhan knew the mysterious Syrian would no longer whisper to her of safety.
Suddenly, Gillian recalled the brush of warm fingers across her back, rhythmic and comforting and something more. An odd sensation that she had never known before had taken hold of her…
With a huff, Gillian turned over and cursed her weakness. Surely she was not succumbing to the charms of her husband’s touch any more than she would to his handsome face? Better that she remember the demon that dwelled inside him! Nicholas de Laci might have treated her kindly for the briefest of moments, but Gillian knew the passion that drove him; she had seen it in his eyes and heard it on his lips.
Nicholas de Laci’s only concern was for his vengeance.
Dawn was stealing in through the shutters when Nicholas rose from his bed and stood over his wife. She was curled up on the pallet, one fist tightly grasping her pillow, like a child, and, indeed, she seemed very young in sleep. Her face, so often tight with fury or pride, was serene in repose, her skin almost luminescent, while the light dusting of freckles made her seem real—and reachable.
Nicholas stepped back, as if she had burned him, but he did not turn away. Rarely had he the chance to study her unobserved, and, suddenly, it seemed very important that he do so. She was fine, like some rare wine perfected from costly grapes and seasoned with special herbs. The women of the East had been mysterious and exotic under their veils, and the Frankish women mundane in comparison, but Gillian… She sparkled like a ruby among lesser gems, more intoxicating than the sultriest resident of the harem and more alive than any of her pale sisters in Britain.
Years spent in detached observation compelled Nicholas to admit such things, even as he told himself that they did not matter. More important to discover were his enemy’s weaknesses, and he would know them all. His eyes slid over her deliberately, lighting upon one pale shoulder that peeped out from under her fur. It was neither bony nor fat, but gently curved, and appeared smooth to the touch, and the dash of freckles he saw there struck Nicholas strangely, warming his blood.
He tore his gaze away, only to find that thick locks of silky-looking hair had escaped from her braid, to curl around her face and her slender throat. His heart pounding at the sight of the bright strands, Nicholas felt like cursing them aloud. The damned fiery stuff seemed to call to him.
He refused to answer. Turning his back on her, Nicholas concentrated on his hatred, long nurtured, and what he might do now that vengeance was within his grasp. Although he had never formulated a plan, taking part of his pleasure in the vague promise of his imaginings, now she was here and she was his, and he could do anything he wanted with her.
Originally Nicholas had thought to imprison her, perhaps in the tower of her uncle’s manor, where Hexham had shut his own wife away from the world until her death. It had seemed a fitting enough fate for Hexham’s heir. But sometime during the trip to the nunnery and back, Nicholas had abandoned that scheme. Gillian was too bold, too clever, to be trusted away from his sight, too prideful to be broken by simple confinement. He must needs find some other course for his revenge.
As if by another’s will, Nicholas’s eyes strayed to the huge bed, still rumpled from his residence. Upon his return last night, he had been surprised to find that she had moved to the floor. He had stood in the middle of the room for a long time, suffering a strange series of sensations, like blows to the body. He, who had been so empty not so long ago, had been inundated by unfamiliar emotions: relief, anger, temptation…
Abruptly Nicholas turned from the scene, unwilling to allow such an invasion. It had been but a trick of the night, a sleight of hand of shadow and light, a spell woven by a woman’s perfume… And he would have none of it!
Whirling away, Nicholas strode from the chamber and did not look back. He had lands to survey, and a sudden, urgent need to put some distance between himself and the flame-haired vixen who was his wife.
Gillian awoke to a gentle rapping. Had she overslept? The nuns would be waiting, and the abbess would be angry if she lay abed, but it was so warm, so soft, here…
“My lady? Are you in there?”
Gillian sat straight up, pushing some stray hairs back from her face as she
surveyed her surroundings. His chamber. To her relief, the huge bed was empty, but she did not like knowing that he had been up and about while she slept, mindlessly vulnerable. Shivering slightly, Gillian called for Edith to enter, and the sight of the cheerful servant chased away her grim mood.
“Here, I have brought you some spiced wine, my lady,” Edith said. She spared a contemptuous glance for Gillian’s pallet and clicked her tongue. “Now, what are you doing on the floor? By faith, I am beginning to wonder about Lord Nicholas. He must be a fair caskethead!”
And so the day began, much later than usual for the former novice, and it continued at an easy pace that made Gillian feel like the most indolent of women. Although Edith had snared a young girl to help, Gillian insisted upon sewing right along with them as they hurriedly pieced together a better-fitting gown from some of Aisley’s old garments.
They were ensconced in another of the castle’s fantastic rooms, this one called the solar. It was full of light from many windows and littered with furniture and bright pillows and tapestries that even draped onto the floor. Gillian was hard-pressed to keep her attention on the task at hand, so lovely were her surroundings.
At last they finished, however, and Gillian slipped into the new creation. The heavy linen fell smoothly to her slippers, and Gillian stroked the fine material in amazement, never having worn such finery. Edith smiled and nodded, as though reading her mind. “And wait until you see the cloth he brought back from the East! You shall be richly garbed, my lady, and that is a fact. There are some advantages to marrying the lord, eh?”
Gillian blushed, but said nothing, for a few beautiful clothes seemed little recompense for suffering his vengeance. She frowned, for she had been so busy this day that she had put all thoughts of him aside. And yet, he would ever be there, like a spider, weaving his traps about her…
Her dark musings were interrupted by the appearance of Osborn, the servant who had been so kind to her the day before. “Ah, my lady!” he said, smiling in such warm greeting that Gillian grew flustered, unsure of her place in this household.
“I would beg but a few moments of your time,” Osborn said, so humbly that Gillian was tempted to laugh. He was begging her? Gillian shook her head in amazement. Although her husband had made it plain that he considered her less than the meanest peasant, his people seemed determined to show her every courtesy. In truth, she knew not how to behave.
“The cook sent me, my lady, to learn if there is anything special you would like prepared for the feast tonight.”
Feast? Gillian wondered if she had forgotten some holy day.
Edith broke in. “My lady has been too busy to think of such pleasures. But she will attend to it now. Shall you go see what dishes they are preparing?” she asked Gillian.
Gillian nodded dazedly, letting Osborn sweep her off before him to the large, airy kitchens off the great hall. There she met Tancred, the cook, a capable fellow who oversaw the enormous number of activities in his dominion. Gillian, who had never seen such a huge operation in her life, was awestruck.
Planned for the meal was an amazing assortment of food: venison and hare and lamprey, pork and pigeons and peas, breads and wafers and desserts thick with fruit.
“And for my lord, I have a special frumenty pudding. He does not like his food to be too highly seasoned,” Tancred explained. Gillian thought it odd for a man newly returned from the East to have such tastes, but her musings were interrupted by a burst of coughing. When she turned, she saw a young boy hacking loudly as he fueled one of the large fires.
Gillian stepped toward him, waiting until he could catch his breath before she spoke. How she could sympathize with that difficulty! “Have you been plagued long with this cough?” she asked.
“Nay, my lady, but ‘tis making my chest hurt,” the boy answered her solemnly.
“I would think so,” Gillian said. She turned to Osborn. “Who tends to healing here?”
“Why, no one, really, since Lady Aisley left. Have you training in the arts?” the servant asked, barely able to contain his excitement.
Gillian smiled. “A little,” she answered, for maintenance of the herb garden and medicines had been part of her duties at the convent.
“Oh, this is wonderful news, my lady. We are sorely in need of your skills!” As Osborn marveled, Gillian wondered if there was aught she could do to displease him. With his assistance, she prepared a drink for the boy, but she soon discovered that the supplies needed to be replenished and replaced.
“I think I shall have a look at the herb plot,” she said. Happily Osborn led her to a low doorway and left her there, called back to the hall upon some urgent errand.
Rather relieved to be left alone, Gillian drew in a deep breath and surveyed the kitchen garden. It was in a large walled area separate from the rest of the bailey, and obviously had been well tended in the past. Unfortunately, now it looked as though the plants not used for seasoning had been abandoned, undoubtedly because no one knew their worth.
The afternoon sky was bright overhead, the breeze gentle and warm, and the smell of earth and greenery welcoming. Gillian felt a rare serenity descend as she walked among the shoots and tangles of living things, struggling to grow. Then, with a smile, she pushed up her sleeves and settled in to work.
Enjoying her unaccustomed privacy and firmly centered upon her task, Gillian lost all track of time. Not until the sun dipped low over the surrounding stones was she startled from her reverie by the sound of a frightful shout from inside the castle, behind her.
“Where?” The one word, fierce and demanding, roused Gillian from her thoughts, and she lifted her head, turning slightly toward the small doorway that led to the garden. In an instant, he filled it, tall and angry as some avenging angel. Only more handsome.
Gillian refused to be flustered. Without a word, she continued working, not even acknowledging the arrival of her husband and the red-faced soldier who trailed behind him. “Why did you let her out? Did I not set you to guard her?” Nicholas asked, his voice sharp and deadly as a blade.
“But that was yesterday, my lord!” Gillian heard the poor man protest. “You said naught of last evening or today!”
“Get back to your duties!” Nicholas snarled, obviously refusing to admit to his own mistake. Typical of the arrogant creature, Gillian noted. She yanked out a thick weed with more force than necessary.
“What do you think you are doing?” He was speaking to her now, she could tell, and though his tone was cooler, it was no less threatening.
“I am working. Go away,” Gillian answered.
“What?” The shout rang in her ears, but she did not flinch.
“You heard me. I am working. Begone,” Gillian said.
“What?” His bellow echoed upon the stone walls, and Gillian’s own temper flared. Finally, she rose and turned toward him. His face was flushed, as if he were truly enraged, but Gillian could not imagine any reason for such a reaction, except his own foul humors.
“I am gardening!” she yelled back at him. “Are you blind, as well as deaf?” she asked, waving her arm across the area she had neatly cleared. For a moment, Gillian thought he would surely strike her, but he remained still, his lips curled contemptuously. “Nay, I hear you well enough, but I would have you listen to me, and heed me well! You have no leave to garden, to heal the sick or to foul my kitchens with your presence. Is that plain enough for you, lady wife?”
Gillian opened her mouth to protest, but he lunged at her then, and she was forced to duck just out of his reach. She would have fled past him, too, if not for a troublesome vine that caught her foot and sent her sprawling upon her back amid the ivy.
Neatly trapped, she could only stare up at him, wide-eyed, as he loomed over her, his breathing harsh. Had she once thought him a popinjay? Underneath the cool surface, his blood burned with the force of his hatred—for her.
Gillian steeled herself for a blow or another outburst, but he just raked her with his terrible gaze, wh
ich came to rest on her bare calves. Feeling suddenly awkward, she reached down to tug the hem back into place, and he flinched, as if startled by the movement.
“Get up to your chamber at once,” he snarled, whirling away from her without deigning to help her. Pushing herself up from the ground, Gillian dusted off her hands and marched obediently forward, then right past him. Although her knees shook and her once fine gown was soiled, she managed to keep her back straight and her chin held high.
Inside, she found the cook and his staff gaping like fish, their mouths hanging slack in astonishment. Another man, more richly garbed, nodded at her with some alarm before approaching her husband. Gillian refused to be embarrassed.
“But—but what of the feast tonight, my lord?” he asked.
Although Gillian tried to dart away, Nicholas snared her arm in a swift grip before halting to attend to the fellow. Biting back a pained yelp, she glared at her husband. “Feast? What feast?” he snapped, turning on the poor man like some frightful demon.
“Why, the feast to celebrate your… marriage.”
Chapter Six
Nicholas sat at the head of the high table, poking at some frumenty pudding with one finger and ignoring the gaiety around him. In the end, he had allowed the special meal. Although he cared nothing for the opinions of the members of his household, he saw no reason to punish them for his wife’s transgressions.
After this night, however, he would make it clear that Gillian was not to be revered or coddled by anyone, including that meddlesome Edith. Faith, he had taken his fill of her tart tongue. He would send her packing, her years of service to Belvry be damned, if she tried to come between him and his revenge!
Gillian! When he returned to find her missing, Nicholas had become frenzied, tearing through the castle like someone possessed, while his people stared at him stupidly, as if struck dumb by his fits. Faith, he could almost hear his father’s remonstrance: A de Laci never raises his voice.
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