Maiden Bride

by Deborah Simmons

  And yet his son and heir had shouted the place down, searching for his wife. Piecing together each bit of information on her movements, Nicholas had learned that she had left Aisley’s chamber for the kitchens, where she had concocted a treatment for some servant boy’s cough, then apparently strolled off to the herb garden without any attendant whatsoever.

  When Nicholas finally found her, the impact of her presence had hit him like a blow to the chest, stunning him to silence, and it had taken him a good minute to recover himself. He was relieved, pleased even, that the object of his revenge was still well within his grasp, yet mixed in with that relief were other things: anger, a strange, tingling delight, and mounting frustration.

  It had annoyed him to see her kneeling in the dirt like one of his villeins. He had not given her leave to wander about, mingling with the sick and ruining her hands. Then she had japed at him, and the temper he had not known himself to possess had snapped beneath the strain. Before Nicholas knew he had moved, she had been flat on her back before him, her gown hiked up to show her shapely calves, spread wide.

  He had wanted to touch them, to fall upon her and lick the smudges from her face.

  The memory sickened him. He felt light-headed, unbalanced, out of control. And she was the cause of it all. Though he had welcomed the existence of Hexham’s niece, Gillian was not at all the weak-willed, cowardly convent-bred creature he had expected. She was neither old or ugly. And she was certainly not malleable, he thought, as she met his glare unflinchingly. With a boldness that made his blood run faster, she lifted her cup in a mock toast and drank it down.

  Nicholas’s gaze flicked to the empty vessel, and he wondered how much wine she had consumed tonight. Her green gaze held a recklessness that went beyond her usual defiance. The thought of the little nun giddy from drink made his pulse quicken, though he could not have said why.

  He kept a wary eye upon her, although he did not expect her to do anything unseemly in front of the crowd. In truth, she acted as though she had been born to be chatelaine, for she faced his people fearlessly, undaunted by their expectations. All who greeted her were treated with kindness and courtesy, and yet she remained untouchable, as if she were above their reach.

  Only her gown was less than worthy, for it looked pieced together, and still bore smudges attesting to her work in the garden. Nicholas frowned. What kind of woman dug in the garden without regard to her clothing? A nun—or a novice—who need not fuss over her plain black garb, he thought, feeling irrationally annoyed.

  He liked not the memory. Instead, Nicholas pictured her in eastern silks of brightly hued blues and greens. Aye, greens that shimmered and shone like her eyes. And emeralds. The jewels were rare, but how well she would look in a girdle fashioned from them, or with them sprinkled amid the golden netting that covered her fiery hair.

  Nicholas had told Edith not to put a wimple upon her head, so they had coiled it beneath a sparkling caul. In the East, the sight of a woman’s hair was reserved for her husband alone, and Nicholas now found himself appreciative of the custom. Suddenly he was impatient to view Gillian’s unbound, loose and flowing… Surprised by his own longing, he glanced away from her, uncertain, unbalanced.

  For years, he had concentrated everything on one goal, but now that it was finally within reach, his plans were becoming muddled by the very instrument of his revenge. Distractions. Nicholas thought he had mastered them long ago, but his discipline was faltering, worn away by Hexham’s heir and the gnawing ache in his belly. Although plagued for a long time by stomach pain, he felt it now more keenly, as if it sought to lay him low.

  But it would not, Nicholas vowed, his mouth grim. Nor would his wife. Glancing toward her, he found her gaze upon him in silent question, and for a moment he wondered whether she knew his thoughts. As he stared, caught up by her beauty, the people around him seemed to fade, their noisy celebrations receding into the distance. The air itself seemed to still, and smoky vapors part, to reveal only Gillian, at the center of the calm, at the heart of the world.

  Emerald eyes met his, warily at first, then softly, and he noticed the deeper green of the edges, the amazing color of her lashes, the delicate curve of her brows. He was focused so intently upon her that it seemed as if she waited at the end of a tunnel, and he had but to take one step toward her…

  “What say you, my lord?” The sound of his steward’s voice brought Nicholas out of his trance, and he shook his head slightly to clear it. When he did, his surroundings returned, crowded with people and trestle tables and noisy with laughter and speech. Gillian was not perched like a prize at journey’s end, but sat within reach, a dazed query in the eyes that held his own.

  “Well?” his steward asked with a grin, and Nicholas cursed his lack of attention. Obviously, the crowd was clamoring for something. More entertainment? Although he had no interest in carolers, Nicholas rarely interfered with his steward’s effective running of the household, especially since he was so infrequently in residence. Apparently the singing was finished, for they were calling for a game. Hoodman Blind, was it?

  Gillian looked puzzled, and Nicholas realized that she would have known little of such things in the nunnery. How astonishing that her bright eyes should turn to him in question, after all that had gone on between them! He leaned close, and her scent wafted up to him, nearly making him flinch away. “‘Tis but a game. The player is hooded, and must try to find his fellows.”

  “But they speak of a boon, a kiss,” Gillian said.

  “Do not worry, little nun,” he whispered. “None shall touch you but me.” Her eyes went wide at his promise, and his lips curved in satisfaction.

  Lifting a hand to approve the revelry, Nicholas was startled when it was clasped by an old knight, who pulled him to his feet. “Shall our lord find his bride?” the man shouted, and the crowd cheered.

  Too late, Nicholas knew the price of his own inattention. He would never have approved the sport, if he had known that he was to be the participant. Now, he must play the jape or look the tyrant for calling a halt to such foolishness. Already some women were urging Gillian from her seat and a hood was being thrust into his hands.

  Still Nicholas might have refused, if he had not caught sight of Darius’s dark brow, lifted in a taunting challenge. Scowling at the Syrian, Nicholas let the old knight lead him to the center of the hall, where a space had been cleared for the sport. He dropped the cloth over his eyes and even allowed himself to be turned round and round by the revelers.

  To one whose wits were addled by wine, the circle might be dizzying, but Nicholas was not so easily disoriented. He righted himself quickly enough, much to the crowd’s disappointment, and began his quest. Ignoring the giggling females they thrust toward him, he moved slowly among unwashed bodies heavy with onerous perfume, in search of a fresher scent.

  Bathing was a habit Nicholas had brought back with him from the East, and he would see that his wife embraced the custom, too, for he liked not the odor of his own people. And that was how he found her, of course. The gentle waft of her essence reached him, making him think of wildflowers and freckles and fiery hair, and although another was pushed in front of him in her stead, Nicholas followed it until at last he caught her in his arms.

  The crowd erupted into cheers of approval, and he yanked the hood from his head, impatient for the sight of her. It fell to the floor, revealing his choice: a tall, elegant maiden with creamy skin and soft curves. Her green eyes were dazed, whether with wine or from the game he could not tell, and they stared up at him, wide with surprise.

  “The boon! A kiss, my lord!”

  Nicholas had half a mind to ignore the shouts, for he liked not being told his business, and yet, standing there looking down at her, it suddenly seemed the most natural thing to do as they bade. Gillian’s cheeks were flushed, and her lips parted, as if to receive his own. He lowered his head.

  He brushed his mouth against her waiting one, never meaning more, but the contact was so heady, so
intoxicating, that he lingered, increasing the pressure. Then she opened beneath him, and his tongue delved inside as he tasted her dewy sweetness.

  Hot. Powerful. Nicholas pulled her against him roughly, and she made no protest, but slid her arms up around his neck. Fingers caught in his hair and firm breasts moved against his chest as Gillian touched her tongue to his. He plunged deeper, thrusting mindlessly, while his palms slid down her back, eager, impatient, wanting…And all the while, his blood sang in his ears, louder and louder—until he started at the sound.

  The dull roar echoing in his brain was the cumulative noise of his people, cheering wildly. Nicholas lifted his head. “Long live Lord and Lady de Laci!” the crowd chanted. “May their line forever prosper!”

  Their line? Nicholas stepped back, dropping his hands away from Gillian’s body as if it burned him. And, indeed, he felt like one who had walked through fire. Shaky and off balance, he sought his composure, while the voices shouted their approval.

  He had let things go too far, but then, he was unaccustomed to such displays. Never before had the people rallied around him so strongly or so passionately. Why would he have expected them to embrace his bride so fiercely? His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the hall.

  He must repudiate her, before it was too late! Now was the time to tell them that Hexham’s blood flowed through her. Now was his chance to publicly vilify her, and take pleasure in her shame. He could spurn her, humiliate her, and make sure that no one ever spoke to her again.

  But as Nicholas looked out at all those happy faces, proud and expectant, full of joy and hope, something gave way inside him. For the first time in his life, he considered someone before himself. For the first time since taking his father’s place as lord of Belvry, he put his people first. And so he said nothing.

  Instead, he grabbed Gillian’s wrist and dragged her across the long hall to the stairs, amid the whoops and cheers of their audience. At first, they trailed after him, as if it were his wedding night, but he stopped on the steps and bade them hold. Then taunts and bold encouragement were all that followed him as he led his bride to the great chamber.

  Not until they were safely inside, the door bolted behind them, did Nicholas release his hold upon her. When he did, she raised both hands to her cheeks and backed away from him with a horrified look. “I have had too much wine,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” Nicholas snapped, eager to blame her for all that had occurred below. “A drunken nun—”

  “I am not drunk!” she cried, indignant. “And I am not a nun.”

  “Novice, then,” Nicholas said, advancing on her angrily. “Still, what a credit you are to the convent, with your besotted debauchery.”

  “Besotted? Debauchery? How dare you? ‘Twas you who kissed me! I would not touch you if my life depended upon it!” she shouted, green eyes flashing.

  “You gave a fair imitation below!”

  “‘Twas but for the benefit of the people!” she protested, but her cheeks were flushed, and she ducked her head.

  “So you say,” Nicholas snapped. Then, realizing that he sounded like a small boy arguing with his nurse, he turned away, grateful that his father could not see him now. “Get to your pallet, wench, before I make you sorry for your wiles.”

  So intent was he upon his bride that Nicholas did not hear the soft scratching at the door that normally would have alerted him to another’s presence. But neither would he have suspected that anyone would dare defy his prohibition to follow.

  Two of his people had done just that, however, and they stood outside the great chamber, feeling no qualms about disobeying their lord. One leaned close, pressing his ear to the wood, while the other tugged at his tunic impatiently.

  “Well? Well?” Edith demanded.

  Willie straightened and scratched his grizzled head, perplexed by the behavior of Belvry’s lord and lady. “They are fighting again, like cats and dogs.”

  “No!” Edith protested. “Surely not after that kiss!”

  “Hear for yourself,” Willie said, moving aside, so that his wife could take his place. She wiggled her round body into position, and Willie was sorely tempted not to take one generous curve in his palm. He restrained himself, however, contenting himself with admiring her delightful form, until he heard her soft gasp.

  “By all the saints, I never thought to hear Nicholas de Laci raise his voice,” she whispered. “Quiet as a fish and twice as cold, I always said, but lately…”

  Edith stood up and stepped away from the door, her brow wrinkled in thought. “Perhaps all this shouting is a good sign, after all.”

  Willie snorted in disbelief. “And how can that be?”

  Deep in concentration, Edith did not answer at once, but, slowly, a smile broke out upon her face. “I think that our lord protests too much, Willie, my boy. If he did not care for her, he would treat her with the same cool distance he does everyone else. Instead, he has been in an uproar ever since bringing her home.”

  Willie shook his head, unable to understand such reasoning. “Seems to me that the lad needs a little help with his husbandly skills.”

  “Aye,” Edith agreed with a wink. “Perhaps you could talk to him, Willie,” she suggested as she took his arm familiarly. “Give him a few pointers.”

  “Ha! And get tossed in the dungeon for my pains,” he complained.

  Edith sighed. “Well, something needs to be done, or we shall never see her increasing. And since I cannot have Aisley’s babe nearby to bounce upon my knee, I would have one of theirs.”

  Willie shook his head once more. “You’ll never get them to stop arguing long enough to do the deed, I’ll wager.”

  “Will you, Willie, my love?” Edith asked, smiling suddenly. “Then ‘tis a bet.”

  They had taken only a few steps along the passageway when the door to the great chamber was flung open and then slammed shut with a violence that made them both start. Willie pulled his wife into the protection of his arms, but the dark figure that emerged did not even notice them.

  Nicholas de Laci stormed toward the stairs, and before Willie could catch her, Edith followed. Hurrying after her, Willie crept down the steps to see the lord of Belvry stalk across the great hall and out the tall doors into the pouring rain.

  “I’ll be damned,” he whispered, leaning back on his heels. He had thought he had seen everything at Dunmurrow, but this brother of Lady Aisley’s behaved like no one he had ever known. “What kind of man leaves a beautiful woman to go out in a storm?” he asked.

  Oddly enough, Edith grinned. “A sorely uncomfortable man, Willie.” She glanced up at him with a gleam in her eye. “Perhaps our lord craves a dousing with cold water right now, to cool his ardor!”

  Nicholas stood outside the castle walls and let the rain wash over him. His stomach burned, but he refused to acknowledge it. Instead of bending double, he lifted his face to the sky, drinking in the water as it cleansed his mind and body. Cool, wet, invigorating, it seemed to clear his addled wits and chase away his fevered distress.

  A few days ago, riding toward the nunnery, Nicholas had thought everything was within his grasp, but now, due to his own carelessness, his life was spinning wildly out of control. He had to regain possession of it—and himself. Control, or the lack of it, had laid him low once, and he had sworn that it never would again.

  In the Holy Land, Hexham had cast him to the mercy of the elements, the kindness of strangers and his own weak body. By the faith, how he had despised those endless days of recuperation! Nicholas clenched his hands into fists at the memory. He had worked long and hard to recover his strength, his independence, his wealth and his lands. He was not about to relinquish anything to any bright-haired woman, even if his people adored her.

  Time. For years Nicholas had fought his own impatience, and now he told himself, yet again, to wait. Right now Gillian was new to the residents of Belvry, the promise of a future shared, but when they came to know her and she did not produce the hoped-for heir, they would
lose interest in her soon enough.

  Nicholas still ruled her fate—and his own. And although he could do naught for the pain in his belly, he could do something about the gnawing ache lower down. Nicholas frowned in annoyance. He had been without a woman too long, and that was the only reason he had kissed her.

  It would not happen again, he vowed. He kept no leman at Belvry, for he allowed no claims upon himself, but there was a woman a day’s ride away. She knew him only as a knight who paid good coin for her services and held him to no promises.

  Nicholas’s body grew tight at the thought of pumping between her legs. Her hair was brown, not red, and she had not Gillian’s curves, but she would do well enough to sate his lust. Perhaps he would stay the night, doing all the things with her that a man might do with his wife. At the thought, Nicholas drew in a ragged breath, but he did not look back toward the castle.

  He would leave at once, and stay until the wench had drained him dry! That would take care of one of his problems, and perhaps, after spending his seed, he could regain his faltering wits, besides. His decision made, Nicholas chose several of the men of mixed blood he had brought back with him from the East, worth twice their number in Franks in a fight, to accompany him. And, barking orders, he strode toward the stables.

  He found Darius there, tending the horses, as though expecting Nicholas’s sudden arrival. The Syrian’s behavior no longer surprised him. “I will be gone several days,” Nicholas said as he mounted his destrier.

  “And what drives you from your beautiful home on a night such as this?” Darius asked.

  Nicholas paused. That dark, inscrutable gaze seemed to judge him, and he liked it not. “I fear neither the night nor the rain, as you well know,” he snapped, offering no further explanation for his precipitate journey. “I leave my demesne in your hands.”

  Although the Syrian’s face was unreadable, Nicholas sensed his disapproval. “And what of your wife?” Darius asked. “In whose hands shall you leave her?”