Maiden Bride

by Deborah Simmons

  “Master Freemantle! What have you done to him?”

  “‘Tis none of your business, or have you so forgotten your place in this household?” Nicholas yelled back.

  “I will be no man’s slave!” she shrieked, and to his astonishment, she grabbed a forgotten cup from the table and threw it at his head.

  It missed him by a bare inch. “Halt, vixen, or you will rue your actions, I promise you!” Nicholas warned, descending upon her. He was not quite sure what he intended, for when she riled him like this he could not think. He only knew he had to get his hands on her. Paying no attention to the gasps of the bystanders who turned and fled from the hall, Nicholas stepped forward just as Gillian let fly with another missile.

  Nicholas dodged it and lunged for her, but she leapt onto the table. He watched in amazement as she lifted her skirts, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of her shapely calves as she moved, fleet of foot, toward the other end.

  “Gillian!” he shouted, his patience waning. “Get down, or I will drag you down!” When she ignored him, he gave chase, racing to head her off. And when he caught her, he promised himself, she would regret her very life.

  As Piers helped her down from her palfrey, Aisley gripped his muscular upper arms, gaining strength from him, as she always did. In truth, she had mixed feelings about descending, without warning, upon her brother. At the best of times, Nicholas was not a man to appreciate family ties, and now, so soon after his marriage to Hexham’s niece, would probably qualify as the worst of times.

  Yet Aisley had been unable to stay away. After hearing about the poor girl who was to be torn from her life in the convent and sacrificed to her uncle’s enemy, Aisley had to intervene. Although she doubted that Nicholas would listen to her pleas, she could hardly stand by and let him take revenge upon a helpless nun.

  So she had convinced Piers to bring her, hoping that their presence would have a softening affect on the hard man her brother had become. Glancing around uneasily, Aisley was surprised that he had not come out to greet them, for he kept a wary eye on everything and everyone.

  What if he refused to see them? Aisley worried her lip and told herself that Nicholas could not be that churlish. His lack of welcome could easily be ascribed to thoughtlessness, for he rarely considered anyone but himself. Thus assured, Aisley joined Piers at the entrance to the great hall, only to stop short, startled by shouting in the usually peaceful environs of Belvry.

  “What is that?” she asked, turning to Piers. Alert for danger, he rested a hand on his sword hilt, while Aisley peered into the hall in confusion. But for brief skirmishes with their now deceased neighbor, the residents of Belvry had enjoyed harmony and prosperity for many years.

  Aisley watched her husband cock his head to take advantage of the hearing that had sharpened during his blindness. “It sounds like your brother,” he said, with a puzzled expression.

  “Nicholas? He has never raised his voice in his life,” Aisley said. Whoever was yelling sounded more like Piers in the throes of one of his tempers than her cool and detached brother. So where was Nicholas, and why did he allow such a clamor?

  Determined to find out just what was going on, Aisley stepped into the hall where she had once reigned, only to stare, left dumbfounded by the sight that met her eyes. Uncertain, she walked closer, but there was no mistaking the dark hair and tall form of her brother.

  Nicholas was chasing someone around the table—a female! As far as Aisley could recall, he had shown little but contempt for any woman, yet he was pursuing this one like a man possessed. While Aisley watched in astonishment, her stoic brother, who never raised a hand in anger or affection, picked up the woman and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain!

  She and Piers had nearly reached him when he turned around, and Aisley was stunned to see his surprise—the first emotion besides hatred that had crossed his face in years. Indeed, their presence appeared to leave him speechless, and he stood gaping at them, while the woman hanging over his back tried to kick him and strike him with her fists.

  “Stop that!” Nicholas called over his shoulder. He glanced back at them, and Aisley could have sworn he was embarrassed. Nicholas, who had once seemed to feel nothing? She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.

  “Aisley, Piers,” he said, grunting when the woman’s toe caught him in the gut. “What brings you here?” Upon hearing him speak, the female stopped rebelling and stilled, but Nicholas offered no explanation for her position or her struggle.

  “Have you a recalcitrant servant there?” Piers asked finally, eyeing the comely bottom perched on Nicholas’s chestwith more amusement than Aisley dared.

  “What? Ah, no,” Nicholas said. His eyes darted to the derriere, and then back to his guests. “This is my wife.”

  Aisley stared in amazement as Nicholas slowly let down his burden. The woman slid along his tall body to stand upright upon her own two feet, but he kept a protective arm around her waist, as if he were afraid she might bolt. Would she? Aisley could hardly believe the wild creature who had dared fight against her brother was his novice bride. Although Aisley found all that kicking and squalling rather unseemly, when the girl turned, her face crimson, her eyes downcast, Aisley was disarmed.

  She was pretty. Although very tall, she was not a big woman. Her body was blessed with womanly curves, yet she remained slender and held herself with dignity befitting a de Laci. A lock of red hair slipped from her caul, marking her as temperamental, but it was a lovely color, and under delicately arched brows, her eyes were an arresting emerald green.

  This was Hexham’s niece? She did not resemble that raven-haired bastard in the slightest, nor did her wary gaze reflect his treacherous wiles. Indeed, had she not known, Aisley would never have connected the two. But what of Nicholas? Could he see past his hatred to the lovely young woman at his side?

  Aisley assessed the girl closely, surprised to see that she did not appear to be ill-used. On the contrary, she seemed to be in the bloom of health, and the way Nicholas anchored her to him was very interesting. It was not the embrace of an enemy.

  Glancing back at her brother, Aisley decided that he was still tongue-tied, though she could hardly believe it. More astonishing yet, his usually impassive face seemed to flicker with a variety of emotions. Embarrassment? Pride? Protectiveness? Aisley would have studied him further, but for his lack of common courtesy.

  “Hello. I am Nicholas’s sister, Aisley, and this is my husband, Piers,” she said, smiling in greeting. “You must be Gillian.” Immediately the girl’s face brightened, transforming her features, and Aisley nearly caught her breath. Nicholas’s bride was more than just pretty. She was a vital, beautiful woman.

  A wail from behind her made Aisley turn toward the procession that followed and the nurse who carried the baby. Reaching out, she took the child, who quieted immediately. “And this noisy girl is Sybil,” she said, cooing at the infant.

  When she looked up at Gillian, the wonder and longing in the green eyes stunned her, and she automatically held out Sybil to her. “Say hello to your aunt Gillian,” she urged softly.

  Nicholas’s wife took the baby with an expression of awe and held her gently. Sybil, to her credit, did not fuss, but gave her obviously doting audience a big grin. “She smiles at me!” Gillian exclaimed, making Piers chuckle. “I have never held a baby before.”

  The comment made Aisley glance at her brother, who was watching his wife intently. Nicholas had no love for Sybil, yet he did not seem to look right through her, as he so often had in the past. In fact, he appeared to see the child for the first time as he watched his wife with her.

  Nicholas had changed. Everything Aisley had witnessed so far attested to it, and when he met her gaze, she discovered the most astonishing improvement of all. Her brother’s eyes neither glittered with a hatred that threatened to consume him nor were empty and cold. Something was there, something new and different…

  Aisley caught only a glimpse of it before his fea
tures hardened once more into cool detachment. “Have you not fostered the child out yet?” he asked.

  She would have laughed at the question, had his voice not been so smooth and cruel. She had suffered the hurt of his indifference, but he would not visit it upon her daughter. “No, Nicholas. She is just a baby, too young to be sent away from her mother.”

  “Aisley does not believe in fostering,” Piers said, in his own strong way that brooked no argument. Bless him for agreeing with her that the practice of placing young children in another household, away from their parents, did little to promote a loving family life.

  “My children will stay with me,” Aisley affirmed, and all the power of her conviction rang in her words. Although she had become too valuable to her father to be spared, she had seen her brothers leave home, only to return as strangers, all of them cold and untouchable and so very different from her warm, loving husband.

  Aisley glanced back at Sybil, her heart softening, and was surprised at the bright green glare that Nicholas’s bride flashed his way. This red-haired woman braved much…

  “As you wish.” Nicholas acceded with a curt nod, and Aisley blinked in amazement. Obviously, more than simple revenge was taking place within the confines of her brother’s marriage. Perhaps there was hope for Nicholas yet…

  “You must be tired after your long journey,” he said abruptly. “Osborn! Prepare the Lady Aisley’s old room for her and her husband.” Osborn came scurrying out of the shadows, just as though he had been hiding there, and Aisley took Sybil from Gillian, who relinquished the child with obvious reluctance.

  With a final encouraging smile, she left Nicholas’s wife to follow Osborn toward the stairs.

  Hurrying along, she quickly reached the servant’s side, and soon her former people began to welcome her, streaming out from under the archways as if they had not dared go out into their own hall. Aisley paused to greet them, and although she usually did not encourage gossip, she found herself eager to hear what they thought of their lord’s new wife.

  What Aisley discovered shocked her, and she said as much to her husband as they sat down to supper at the high table. Sliding a quick glance away from her sullen brother at the head of the dais, she leaned close to Piers. “The people of Belvry are afraid!” she whispered heatedly. “They run and hide when Nicholas comes within a stone’s throw of his wife!”

  “Why?” Piers asked, eyeing her with curiosity.

  “Because he acts like a madman around her, screaming and shouting and chasing after her as if his wits had left him!”

  Piers’s lips curved in bemusement as he sliced their trencher in two. “Obviously, I did not stay here long enough for them to get to know me well. Else they would not fear a man’s temper.”

  Aisley smiled in spite of herself, her heart softening as it always did around her husband. “‘Tis not the same thing at all. Everyone knows of your passionate nature, and they no longer fear you.”

  “Really?” he asked, brows lifting in amusement.

  “Well, most of them, anyway. But that is different! These people have known Nicholas since he was a child, and they are frightened by the sudden change in him.”

  Piers shrugged, obviously unconcerned. “Has he hurt anyone?”

  “No, not as far as I know,” Aisley answered. “Though they complain of his excessively foul humor. And they are wagering! The whole household is placing bets upon who shall be the victor in the battle between the lord and his lady!”

  Aisley frowned in disapproval, until she saw the corners of Piers’s mouth twitching. “Well, ‘tis not right,” she asserted. “I talked to Edith for only a moment, but I suspect her fine hand in this! You know how disrespectful she can be! What do you think?”

  “I do not believe the Church looks very highly upon such gaming.”

  “Not about the wagering!” Aisley said. “About Nicholas and his wife!”

  “I think you dragged me from my home for naught,” Piers answered, in his dry way, “for that lady is no more abused than you are.”

  Beneath lowered lashes, Aisley studied the regal beauty who sat quietly beside Nicholas. “She does look good, much better than I expected, but do not underestimate my brother. He can cut to the quick with just a glance, and ‘twould leave no marks.”

  “Surely the red-haired nun is a match for him,” Piers said with an appreciative grin.

  “I wonder…” Aisley mused. Nicholas’s wife did not look abused, nor fearful, but she was stiff and silent, and had situated herself as far from her husband as possible, while Nicholas… Nicholas picked at his food and eyed everyone with the same hard expression.

  Aisley bit her lip anxiously. Perhaps she had only imagined the changes in him this afternoon, for now he appeared as cold and unfeeling as ever. He kept his distance from his wife, and if there was any warmth between them, Aisley could not see it.

  Gillian covertly watched Nicholas’s sister and her husband, and for the first time in her life, she committed the sin of envy. The two seemed so happy together! Aisley was dainty and beautiful and confident, and Piers, for all his intimidating size, seemed kind and gentle. He treated his wife with a respect and affection that was apparent, and it made jealousy burn in Gillian’s breast.

  She would not deny them their happiness—far from it! But she coveted a small portion for herself: a husband who did not rage and insult her at every turn, who did not despise the very blood in her veins and charge off to kill as if he enjoyed it. And along with such a man, Gillian would wish for a child.

  A baby of her own.

  It was like a revelation, this sudden, fierce need, and it had appeared out of nowhere, for Gillian had long ago given up dreams of a family, her years at the nunnery leeching out any lingering hopes. In truth, she could not even remember the last time she had thought of children, but seeing Sybil had changed everything.

  The moment she held the infant in her arms, Gillian had been rocked with a longing stronger than she had ever known. Never before in her life had she wanted anything beyond the rudimentary needs that had once been taken from her: food, shelter, and warmth. But now she wanted something else. She wanted a baby.

  Gillian had thought of nothing else since the encounter, and she would be sitting with the infant right now, if she thought Nicholas would allow it. With a pensive frown, Gillian slid a glance at her husband, who was picking at his food again and glowering at his guests. She drew in a deep breath as she realized that if she would just gather her courage together, she could obtain what she so desired.

  Shuddering, Gillian stifled an embarrassing gasp before she regained control of herself. Whatever went before would be worth the prize, she thought with a firm resolve. And just how bad could it be, this bedding?

  Abruptly the memory of Nicholas pressing her against the wall, his knee thrust between her legs, his mouth hot and powerful on her own, came to her, vivid and startling in its intensity. Gillian glanced over at his hand, strong and lean and long-fingered, and she was overcome by the recollection of it cupping her breast. Her heart pounded, making her feel giddy and reckless. She could do it! She would! But then her gaze slid to his face, cold and unyielding and filled with hate, and she knew the answer to her own question.

  It could be bad, really bad.

  But what of Edith’s promise that she could enslave her husband, if she but expended some effort? The old servant had tendered advice more than once, hinting at practices that made Gillian’s cheeks burn crimson. Could she really do such things with Nicholas? Reaching for her cup, Gillian noticed that her hand was trembling, and she sloshed ale upon the table in a nervous grab for the vessel.

  The mishap made Nicholas swivel to pin her with the full force of his chilly gray gaze, and Gillian faltered. Coward! she thought to herself, knowing she could never seduce this man, no matter what Edith said. Lifting her chin and taking a deep drink, she was reminded of Edith’s folly with the spring tonic. Obviously, the old servant meant well, but was not always right.r />
  And Edith had a high opinion of Nicholas de Laci that Gillian did not share. Perhaps the fiend had not murdered anyone that Edith knew, but Gillian had watched him rush off to kill Abel Freemantle like a madman. Gillian realized that she could do nothing with that painful knowledge still fresh in her mind.

  An emptiness seemed to grow inside her at the thought, and Gillian turned her attention to her meal. The food was a comfort, as always, and she finished her own quickly. Then, without even thinking, she began picking untouched pieces from her husband’s portion, as well. Listening absently to Aisley’s soft voice, Gillian lifted her head when addressed, answering questions about her life at the convent as best she could.

  Still hungry, Gillian was in the process of spearing a chunk of meat on her husband’s trencher when Aisley made the blithe comment “But you were never made to be a nun. You were so good with Sybil that you must have children of your own.”

  Startled, Gillian dropped the morsel directly upon Nicholas’s outstretched arm, and he roared to life like a slumbering beast. “Enough idle chatter! ‘Tis late, and our guests must be tired,” he said, glaring at his sister and her husband as if he would like to toss them outside. “Come, wife,” he commanded her, and taking her arm in a grip that brooked no resistance, he practically dragged her up to their chamber.

  He did not release her until the door was closed behind them, but this time Gillian was not frightened. She was too furious. She turned upon him like a cat, clawing at his face, until he held her away, stunned at her fierceness.

  “How dare you treat me thusly in front of your kin?” Gillian shouted. “You murdering bastard!”

  With a low oath, he tossed her away from him, and Gillian landed against the bed, suddenly eager to finish the fight between them. She raised up on her elbows, but he held up a hand, stopping her protest.

  “Lest you mark me with your claws, vixen, I would have you know that I did not kill your burgher. I let the bastard live, with the promise that he would keep his filthy paws to himself.”