Nicholas felt as if his horse had made a misstep, launching him into the air. So intent had he been on his own departure that he had given no thought to the possibility of her escape. “She dares not flee,” he muttered. But the vixen was wily, and Nicholas could not afford to take chances. She might use his people’s acceptance to her advantage, and then where would he be, if she left him? Emptiness as vast and lonely as the desert stretched out before him. “Make sure she has a guard at all times.”
Darius bowed his head slightly. “I will render this service gladly.”
Something in Darius’s manner brought Nicholas up short. His eyes narrowed as he searched the Syrian’s face, but, as usual, the dark man’s expression revealed nothing. Perhaps his addled wits were making him see taunts where there were none. With a sharp nod, Nicholas jerked on the reins and sent his destrier into the drizzling rain, toward a woman who could ease his body without disturbing his mind.
Driven by an urgency that he could not have named, Nicholas did not stop until dawn rose over his destination. His eyes were bleary from lack of sleep, but he told himself that he would take his rest soon enough, perhaps in the woman’s bed, after spending himself in her body.
She was a widow, and the small but once fine manor in which she lived had fallen into disrepair, the village itself long ago annexed to Belvry. Leaving his men at the copse that marked her property, Nicholas rode on alone through the wet tangle of weeds, until the sight of a horse tethered outside made him hesitate.
Urging his destrier under a thick yew, Nicholas saw a short, fat man leave the house, jerking up his braies as he went. While Nicholas watched, the fellow tugged down his tunic and mounted the waiting beast. When he spied Nicholas, he nodded and smiled, revealing a mouthful of rotted, crooked teeth.
“Good morn to you, sir! You shall be getting yourself a fine ride on that wench, make no mistake. And at a fair price, too!” he said before heading on down the path.
Nicholas remained where he was, staring after the greasy man in stunned silence. His belly burned, and his head ached from the long, wet night spent on his horse, but one part of his anatomy no longer pained him. Although the body that had been chaste for a month or more craved release, the thought of plowing the same field as that unwashed creature left him decidedly cold.
He could search for another, of course, but whores were not to his liking, and he had not the time nor the energy to woo a more discriminating wench. Damn! He should have paid the woman to serve him only, though he had never been bothered before by sharing a wench.
Indeed, what did it matter to him? Nicholas told himself that even if she serviced a host of others, the widow could still satisfy him. The memory of his greasy predecessor would fade once she spread her thighs, and there would be no others in her bed while he pumped between them. With an determined growl, Nicholas dismounted and strode to the door.
The old servant who answered it recognized him at once, and showed him into the hall quickly enough. A good beginning, Nicholas told himself, his loins tightening in anticipation. Perhaps it was just as well that this woman honed her skills in his absence. She knew tricks that no convent-bred girl would ever master, he thought smugly.
And then he saw her.
She was lounging before the fire, wrapped in a fur robe of some kind and apparently little else. She appeared rumpled, her hair tousled, but, sadly, the look was not appealing. She seemed old, suddenly. Old and tired. Although she smiled in greeting, it was a tight, hard smile. Had he never noticed before how short she was? How fleshy? Her hair was too brown, her eyes too dull.
And she had no freckles.
“Welcome, sir knight,” she said, in a sultry voice that had always entranced him. Now, it merely sounded forced, and Nicholas bent his head before she could see his dismay.
“Hello, Idonea,” he said.
She leaned backward, letting the robe slip to expose her legs to his view, but Nicholas felt nothing. “I was passing through, and I could not ride by without giving you good greeting,” he said.
“Passing through? Surely you can linger awhile?” she whispered. Stretching out upon the pillows, she ran her fingers along the edges of the material, parting it, so that her thighs were bared and the juncture of them lay in shadow, a tempting sight for any man.
Nicholas knew he could be inside her in a moment. “I regret that I cannot stay, but duty presses me on,” he said. Slowly, he stepped nearer, but he did not touch her. Instead, he carefully placed some coins on the coffer where her morning cup rested.
Her delight was plain. “Are you certain you cannot tarry even for a quick… moment?” she purred, reaching her hands toward him, as if to pull him down atop her.
“I cannot,” Nicholas answered as he straightened. Giving her a nod, he made his exit, saving them both the indignity of trying to rouse his now dormant passions.
Chapter Seven
Gillian woke gently to the soft tapping at her door, then sat up with a start. The sunlight streaming through the shutters meant it was well past dawn. Was she alone? Feeling a little ridiculous, she stretched upward to peek over the edge of the great bed. One look told her that it was empty, its coverings undisturbed. Obviously, Nicholas had never returned, and the hours she spent lying in dread of his reappearance had been wasted.
Frowning, Gillian leaned back on her heels, not sure whether she should be annoyed or relieved. Where had he slept? And withwhom? The latter question made her bristle with a primitive emotion so forceful that it took her a moment to realize someone was still knocking.
“Come!” she shouted, knowing full well it could not be him. He would never be so courteous; he did not ask permission to enter. When she saw Edith bustle in, Gillian forced a smile of greeting for the old servant, who glanced at her nest on the floor and clucked in dismay.
“You will never win the lord, if you stay on that pallet.”
Win him? Win him for what—and from whom? Gillian thought, with no little dismay. Did Edith know where he had spent the night, and how? Gillian’s fingers ached, and she looked down, surprised to see that they were clutching the blankets like claws. Releasing her fierce grip on the fabric, she stood.
What difference did it make to her where he laid his head or stuck his wick? Gillian thought, her lips pressed tightly together. She should be celebrating the fact that he had found some other woman to torment! “I have no interest in your lord, Edith, and you know it,” she replied.
Edith made a sound of disagreement. “You seemed more than interested last night, in the hall.”
Last night. Abruptly the memory of the game flooded through her: Nicholas, wearing a hood, searching the crowd for her, unerringly. That had not surprised her, for she sensed that he stalked her like prey and would ever find her. What had stunned her was what followed. She had never been kissed before, had never dreamed that such a simple act could be so stimulating, so overwhelming.
It all came back to her now: the feel of his hard man’s body, all solid strength; the hot pressure of his lips; the wonder of his tongue invading her mouth, stirring her in some strange way, making her lean into him.
He had stolen her breath away, but it was not fright that had taken it from her. Not for one moment had she feared him or his touch. She had twined her fingers in his hair, pressed herself against him, wanted… what? Surely not him?
Impossible! Dazedly, Gillian realized she was still standing in her shift, sucking in drafts of air, her heart pounding furiously, while Edith studied her with a knowing smile. Flushing, she denied it all. “‘Twas but a boon, a show for the people,” she protested, ducking her head.
“It looked real enough to me, my lady, and it just proves what I have been telling you. Lord Nicholas is attracted to you, and you could snare him easily enough, if you just put forth some effort. You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar!”
Gillian let the servant help her into a gown, but scoffed at her advice. “Who would want to catch either flies or Nicholas de Laci?” sh
e asked contemptuously.
Edith ignored the jibe. “‘Twould make your life easier, my lady,” she noted softly.
The simple statement made Gillian choke, as if she wanted to weep, but she furiously fought away the threat of tears. “I will not play the whore!” she cried. “And he has plenty of other women who would welcome him. He wants me solely for his vengeance.” The painful admission stuck in her throat.
Edith straightened Gillian’s skirt and patted her gently. “All will be well, my lady. You shall see. A man does not kiss a woman like that when all he feels for her is hatred.” She waved away Gillian’s automatic protest. “Just think upon it, if you will, while he is gone.”
“He is gone?” Gillian asked, feeling suddenly bereft. “Where?”
Edith shook her head. “No one knows. He left the castle as soon as he left this chamber. Charged out of here as if the devil himself were after him.”
Gillian knew an odd mixture of emotions at the news. At least he had not taken his ease with someone here at Belvry! Gillian told herself she was glad not to have to face that embarrassment. And he was away! She could breathe easier, without him to torment her at every turn. She ought to be overjoyed. Why was she not?
“Yes, our lord ran out into the rain, just as if he needed a cold shower to dampen his ardor!” Edith said, winking broadly.
“What nonsense!” Gillian snapped. Ashamed at the sudden leap her heart had taken at Edith’s foolishness, she turned her mind firmly away from her husband and toward her plans for the day. “Since he is away, ‘twould be a good time to change the rushes in the hall and scrub the tiles.”
The older woman clicked her tongue in disapproval. “That is servant’s work, my lady.”
Gillian smiled. “Then perhaps you would aid me.” Accustomed to toil, she could not lie idle. And since he forbade her the tasks she would have chosen, she must find something else to keep her busy.
Edith snorted as she opened the door. Then, to Gillian’s astonishment, the servant fell back, shrieking loudly and nearly knocking her to the floor.
“What is it?” Gillian asked, stepping forward anxiously. Outside, the passage was empty, but for a tall, dark figure in the shadows. Gillian started before she recognized it. The Syrian.
He was not as tall as Nicholas, but he looked as strong. Although she had seen him wearing a strange cloaklike garment wrapped around his torso, today he was dressed in a simple tunic, black except for a gold edging. The stark garment accentuated his foreign coloring, a deep, rich gold that was strange, but oddly compelling.
Like Nicholas’s, his face had an almost feminine beauty, but, unlike her husband’s, it was not roughened by a harsh demeanor. Darius seemed very comfortable with himself and his own masculine appeal. And, indeed, there was no question of it, from the sultry curve of his wide mouth to the lazy sensuality of his deep-set eyes, black as midnight and just as mysterious.
Gillian shivered. Here was a man who knew women well, and she could not help remembering Edith’s inane chatter about men from the East and their skills. Apparently the servant had forgotten her own adage. “Lord have mercy, ‘tis that foreign devil!” she wailed behind Gillian.
“There is no reason to be frightened,” Gillian said.
“Humph! The infidel pops out of the shadows apurpose to frighten an old woman,” Edith muttered. Without one word to the man, she pushed past him to hurry toward the stair.
Gillian shook her head at the woman’s rude behavior, for no matter that the Syrian was different, he was deserving of the same treatment as any other man. Suddenly shy, she smiled and ducked her head.
“I am called Darius, lady. I am to guard you,” he said, and Gillian remembered the voice, deep and melodious, that had comforted her on the road. She ought to thank him, she realized, but when she lifted her gaze to his dark one, she could not. His eyes seemed to delve deep inside her, to search her very soul.
Swallowing hard, Gillian felt suddenly close, alone with him in front of her bedchamber door. “Have you eaten?” she asked. He shook his head, his lips curving slightly at her concern.
“Come, then,” she said, a bit shakily. “Let us have some bread and ale. If I am allowed to roam free today, that is,” she added, lifting her chin.
This time he did smile. It was a slow, amazing movement of his lips that made Gillian want to stare. “You are free, lady, until his return.”
Free? Gillian bit back a retort, for she would never be free, unless… She glanced sharply at her companion. Again she was reminded of his whispered words while she lay quaking in her tent. She had known him not, and yet he had gone out of his way to ease her fears. Perhaps her exotic guard could be persuaded to help her more tangibly…
Gillian leaned back on her heels and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She blew out a breath as she surveyed her work. The tiles they had finished fairly glowed, but Belvry’s great hall was many times larger than any of the rooms at the nunnery, and the job was taking longer than she thought. They had waited until the rain stopped and fresh rushes could be gathered today, and they must needs finish soon, before the trestle tables would be assembled for supper.
Gillian glanced past Edith to a dark figure standing tall and silent in the shadows of the curving stone. Although she could not see it, Gillian sensed a dark gaze upon her, and she suppressed a shiver. Despite her good intentions, she was unnerved by the foreigner. He was handsome and courteous and attentive, but there was something about him that disturbed her, something in his eyes.
After two days spent under his unsettling scrutiny, Gillian had abandoned her vague notions of enlisting his aid. There was nothing he could do to help her, anyway, unless he was willing to take her away from Belvry, far from her husband’s reach. And even if he was, Gillian was not sure she would want to go. Would she be jumping from the pot into the fire?
Ironically, she felt more comfortable with her fiendish husband than with… this kind stranger. Her husband she knew all too well, while she had the feeling that it would take a lifetime to understand Darius.
And if they fled Belvry, just where would they hide? Somehow Gillian did not think that Nicholas would let her go easily. His revenge consumed him, leaving little room for aught else. He would surely follow them to the ends of the earth, and then… Gillian shuddered. Then she would be worse off by far.
Tearing her attention away from the foreigner, Gillian bent to her task. She had no time to dally, and besides, it was wrong of her to consider using the Syrian so coldly, when he had shown her nothing but courtesy. He was a decent man, and deserved more than that. If it were not for those eyes of his…
Gillian shuddered. Hours of enduring that dark regard made her husband’s glittering gaze seem palatable.
Nicholas was not in a good mood. He had ridden hard through a night of rain to gain himself some ease, but after two days and nights, he had returned even more frustrated than before.
Damn! He had glowered at every female he saw along the road home, wondering if this one or that one might be worth a halt, but they had all been too old, too young, too dirty, too…something. He ground his teeth, refusing to believe that his wife was the only female who appealed to him.
London. There he would surely find what he sought with little trouble. The city teemed with women, many of noble blood, who would be more than willing to spread their thighs for a wealthy knight. And there he might find a woman of eastern descent, with dark eyes and undulating hips and no temper, a woman raised from birth to cater to a man’s needs. By the faith, yes! Nicholas’s blood quickened at the notion.
He would take Darius with him and leave immediately, he thought. Then his lips curled as he remembered Gillian. Before seeking out his pleasure, he must complete his business, and right now, his most pressing concern was his revenge. He must stop this dallying and make up his mind as to the disposition of his wife.
In the meantime, he would practice celibacy. It would be no hardship for a man of his discipline
. He had gone without women before, and one freckle-faced vixen would not break his control! Determined, Nicholas strode into the hall, suddenly eager to face her again. He told himself it was the sweet promise of vengeance that drew him, and not the exhilarating clash of wills.
Nicholas did not even notice the bare tiles beneath his feet as he searched for her. Although his steward hurried forward, Gillian was nowhere to be seen, and his foul temper returned. Was it not a woman’s place to greet her husband? By the faith, he would take her to task for her failure!
Another, more insidious thought followed close on the heels of her absence. Had she fled? Impossible! Not with Darius guarding her, Nicholas reasoned, and yet anxiety, irrational though it might be, trickled up his spine. He did not even answer his steward’s greeting, but let his question erupt. “Where is she?”
“Who, my lord?” Matthew Brown asked, backing away with a fearful expression.
Nicholas did not bother to ease his steward’s discomfort. “My wife!”
Matthew slanted a glance behind him, where some servants were scrubbing the floor, and Nicholas felt a surge of fierce, alien rage. By the faith, why did the man not answer? Did he not know Gillian’s whereabouts? And what had happened to Darius? Alarm slammed through Nicholas, making his stomach burn and sending his better judgment fleeing.
“Where is she?” he snarled.
With a bewildered expression, the steward pointed, his finger shaking visibly. “My lord, your wife is right.. .there.”
Nicholas looked. He saw one of the ubiquitous small boys who inhabited the castle sit back and stare at him, while two women beside the youth remained on their hands and knees, busy at their task. And past them, amid the shadows by the hearth, stood Darius, keeping watch.
Nicholas stepped closer. The older woman he recognized soon enough as that harridan Edith, while the younger one… A lock of flaming hair fell from her heavy caul, and Nicholas’s eyes narrowed.
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