Maiden Bride

by Deborah Simmons

  Nicholas was not even aware of his own movement, but suddenly he was standing in the room, dragging the miscreant off his feet by the neck of his tunic. With a vicious oath, he slammed the bastard’s head against the wall.

  “You…will…not…speak…of…her!” The walls closed around him, crimson with his own rage, until he felt Edith’s hand, surprisingly strong, upon his arm, restraining him. His eyesight cleared then, and he blew out a breath, realizing that if not for her, he would have killed the man who quailed before him. He did not care. “Your name?” he snarled.

  “‘Tis Eudo, my lord, a freeman’s son from the village, called in to help us,” Edith answered.

  “We need not his kind of help,” Nicholas spat. He turned back to the youth he still held against the wall. “Get you gone! You are banished from Belvry, from the castle, from my land, from any grain of soil that belongs to me. Do you understand?”

  Nicholas gripped the fellow so tightly by the neck that he could barely speak, but Eudo finally nodded and squeaked his assent. With a growl, Nicholas tossed him toward the door, and the youth went sprawling among the rushes before struggling to his feet. Shooting Nicholas a last sullen look, he ran from the room.

  Silence hung in the air, and Nicholas turned his head toward the bed, uneasy until he heard her ragged breathing. He should not have created a disturbance, when she was so ill. She needed peace and quiet, and when had he ever given her those? Something hurt inside his chest again, and Nicholas looked away. Dear God, would he lose his composure in front of that old harridan Edith?

  “Leave us,” he muttered.

  “But, my lord, you must rest yourself, else you, too, will grow ill,” she protested.

  Nicholas gave her a warning glare that told her what he thought of her words. If he sickened and died, what did it matter? He had nothing, really, for which to live.

  For a moment, she hesitated, as if she would say something, but then she released a heavy sigh and was gone, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  Nicholas was alone with his wife. He gazed down at her, but the niece of his old enemy did not even notice his presence. She had rarely been lucid over the past couple of days, either slipping into a deep sleep that frightened him or mumbling in delirium. How far she had come from the brave woman he had married—yet Nicholas took no joy in her fall.

  Indeed, despite all his plans to torment her, he had never taken pleasure in her travails. His revenge had come to mean less to him as the woman herself came to mean more. His delight was culled from other things: from her unpredictable behavior, from the way her eyes flashed when she faced him, from the look in them, all dreamy and erotic, when he sank into her body, her strength, her beauty, her passion…

  At last, Nicholas admitted that he no longer wanted vengeance, only a resurgence of her. He had heard her laugh, although she had never done so with him, and he wanted to make her laugh, to see her smile again, to argue with her, to lose himself inside her…A harsh sound Nicholas did not recognize erupted from his chest as he stood over his wife’s prone body. And silently he vowed to forget his vengeance, if only she would recover.

  Nicholas took no oath lightly, and especially not this one, for revenge had driven him for years. Yet he did not fear the emptiness that had once plagued him in its absence, because Gillian had given him things to take its place.

  Aye, his wife had filled him with feelings that he had never known before, and the strongest of them right now was pain.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nicholas did not know what he expected, certainly not for the heavens to open, but something, anything… And yet his vow changed nothing. His wife still lay there, feverish and restless, as sick as before, totally oblivious of his momentous decision. He laughed—it was a harsh, bitter sound—at the enormity of his arrogance, and Gillian turned her head toward the noise. Taking her hand, Nicholas murmured an apology that at first was for disturbing her rest and continued on through every black deed he had ever done her, until finally he rested his forehead against the pillow, silent once more.

  Weary as he was, he nearly drifted off, but when Gillian moved, he was alert again. Hope burgeoned and died as he looked up to find her thrashing and babbling in delirium. She had called out names before, presumably those of her companions at the convent, and once she had even mentioned Edith, but she had never spoken to him…until now.

  “Nicholas.” He stiffened at her side, wondering if he had dreamed the word, and rubbed a palm roughly against his eyes. His other hand still clutched Gillian’s, and he squeezed it lightly.

  “I am here, Gillian,” he answered.

  She mumbled something unintelligible, and Nicholas leaned close to catch her whisper. “Must not tell…”

  “Tell who? What?” Nicholas asked, even though he knew she was likely out of her head. To see his wife, who had been so bright and clever, reduced to this raving made his throat tighten.

  “Must not tell Nicholas,” she muttered, growing agitated.

  Nicholas froze where he was, leaning half over her, his face only inches from hers, uncertain what to think. Would he now discover some perfidy that he had not expected? Or would his worst suspicions about his wife and the Syrian be confirmed? His stomach clenched and burned. God, but the emptiness would be welcome now, for he liked not being so full of feelings!

  Gillian tossed her head back and forth against the pillow, and Nicholas put a hand to her damp curls to gentle her. Despite his sudden misgivings, her discomfort upset him. Would that she were well, and all could be as it was between them!

  “He despises me,” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  “Nicholas,” she said, breaking into a sob, and Nicholas’s fingers curled into her locks.

  “Nay. Nay, Gillian. He does not hate you.”

  “You always say that, Edith, but you have not seen the way he looks at me.” She shuddered. “His eyes glitter with his hatred!”

  “Nay,” Nicholas said, his own voice wavering. “‘Tis not Edith, but I, Nicholas, and I swear to you, Gillian, I do not hate you.”

  Although she did not seem to understand, she turned her unseeing eyes toward his. So green they were, and yet they had so lost their brightness that it hurt him to look at them. “You must promise not to tell him, Edith!” she whispered fiercely, grabbing at his arm.

  “‘Tis your husband, Gillian. ‘Tis I, Nicholas!”

  “Promise me!”

  Her ravaged face took on an expression of such urgency that Nicholas pressed her hand to his chest. “I promise,” he whispered.

  She relaxed at the words and turned her head away, her thick lashes drifting shut in such an imitation of death that Nicholas’s blood roared a protest. Desperate to keep her talking, even if she spoke nothing but ravings, he gripped her hand tightly. “What is the secret that we guard so closely?”

  For a long moment, she did not respond. Then he heard her voice, in the barest of soft replies. “You must not tell Nicholas.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “Do not tell him—” she moved again, her lashes fluttering to reveal tears pooling in the corners of her once vivid eyes “—I love him.”

  Nicholas was stunned to silence by her admission, and when she slipped back into dreams, he did not rouse her again. He stayed where he was, bent over her, holding a hand that was suddenly wet with tears. And the tears were not his wife’s.

  Nicholas lost all track of time. Once, he heard Edith at the door, but he would not open it. He felt delirious himself, as if his insides were burning up, and ready to explode whenever he looked at his wife’s still form.

  She was dying. It was time he faced the fact. Nicholas thought of the moment when he had first learned of her, how her very name had dragged him out of his empty hell and how, over the weeks that followed, she had filled him with her vitality, her boundless passion. He pictured life without her, and he wanted to tear down the castle walls around him with his bare hands.

  The irony of
it all did not escape him, and a wild, strangled laugh erupted from his throat. He had set out to defeat her, and instead she was destroying him. And not with superior strength or cunning or even with the considerable wiles of her body that she wielded so unknowingly. Nay, his wife laid waste to her husband by wasting away.

  Nicholas could not bear it. With an angry bellow, he turned on her, and he saw not the frail creature in the bed, but the untamed spirit that resided within. “Do not think you can free yourself of me, wife!” he shouted. “You will not die! I told you so before, and I meant it well! Do you hear me?”

  He raised his fist into the air. “You are mine, vixen. You belong to me, and I will not let you leave me! By God and all the saints, you will do as I say for once, Gillian Hexham de Laci! You will not die!”

  Nicholas raged, no longer worried about disturbing her rest, but determined to rouse her. He paced the room, ranting like a madman, ignoring the sound of knocking at the chamber door. He was determined, by the very force of his will, to make her do his bidding at last.

  And he bade her to live.

  Was he dreaming? Nicholas blinked, but the vision persisted. Emerald eyes, weary yet clear, studied him, and the soft sound of his name fluttered along the edges of his awareness. Rolling onto his back, he rubbed his eyes. He was lying on the bed beside his wife, yet he was fully clothed, while she was beneath the covers. He was puzzled until he glanced at her and saw her as if for the first time, weary and wan and covered with spots. Gillian!

  He sat up abruptly. “Gillian!”

  “Hmm?” She looked at him, and he felt as though he might burst from the force of his emotions. Her expression was wary but alert, and he wanted to shout in triumph. She was awake! She knew him!

  “Gillian! Gillian!” he said, even as his throat tightened, threatening to halt his speech. Leaning over her, he took her hand and brought her fingers to his cheek. They were cool and smooth and more precious to him than life. “Gillian. Gillian…” he murmured as he pressed his lips into her palm.

  “Nicholas? What is it?” she whispered, her eyes growing big in her pale face. “Do you… weep?”

  “Nay.” He choked out the word and gently replaced her hand on the cover before swiping at his eyes with the back of his own. “Nay. ‘Tis the smoke from the hearth. They must be burning green wood again,” he muttered. “How do you feel?”

  “Terrible. Could you… Water…” Before she had even finished speaking, Nicholas was out of the bed, pouring her a cup and lifting her head so that she could drink. Her feeble efforts were more exquisite than the most elegant of gestures. She was alive! And she was his, never to leave him.

  A sense of peace such as Nicholas had never known settled over him, as if all were right with the world for the first time since his arrival in it. Nothing drove him anymore, nor was he hollow and aching inside. He was whole, for she was well.

  After her brief burst of energy, Gillian leaned back and closed her eyes once more, but Nicholas was too excited to be discouraged. “You will need food—some broth, mayhap. I will summon Edith.”

  In just a few strides, he was at the door, calling the old servant, and when she did not appear soon enough to suit him, he went searching for her, yelling her name. He took the stairs two at a time down to the great hall. After his long absence, shut away in his chamber, everything seemed changed. His father’s hall appeared bigger, better, more familiar and welcoming, than ever before. And the faces that eyed him from the edges of the room no longer looked wary, but seemed relieved to see him.

  “Edith! Attend your lady!” he ordered when he spied the servant. Even her plain countenance had taken on a pleasing aspect, and Nicholas nearly smiled at the old witch before he caught himself. He sent her on her way with a gruff nod, and ran a hand over his face. He needed a shave and a bath, or perhaps another swim in the river, to revive himself.

  Nicholas was halfway across the tiles when he saw Darius moving toward him, and he hurried to greet his companion. Stifling an urge to embrace the man who was his friend, Nicholas reached up and grasped the Syrian’s arm instead. If Darius was surprised at the abrupt contact from someone who had never touched him before, he did not show it.

  “You are back,” Nicholas said.

  “Yes,” Darius replied, his lips curving into a smile. “Walk with me, and I will tell you of my journey.”

  Outside, the sky was overcast and threatening rain, but the world had never looked so fresh to Nicholas. The autumn air felt brisk and clean, and he sucked great drafts into lungs that seemed starved for it. He was aware of the presence of the Syrian beside him, and although they had walked together countless times in foreign lands and finally here in Britain, Nicholas knew a heightened appreciation of the ease with which they fell into step.

  “‘Tis a strange tale,” Darius said seriously. “I did as you bade and went to the abbey, and by all accounts, a young man had been there before me, seeking information about your wife.”

  Nicholas tensed, alert to the nuances no one else would have detected in the Syrian’s manner. Although others might not have seen it, he could tell Darius was puzzled, and he liked it not. “Go on,” he urged.

  “The man was of medium build, lean and black-haired, and all at the convent claim never to have seen him before.”

  “What kind of questions did he ask?”

  “How many years Gillian spent at the nunnery, where she lived before, her background, her family. He sought details, and he was persistent enough to worry the abbess.”

  “What did she think?” Nicholas asked, for the holy woman had seemed wiser than most.

  “She did not hazard a guess. Indeed, no one could suggest why he would be asking after Gillian, unless he was a former acquaintance.”

  Nicholas caught Darius’s assessing glance and saw the dark eyes waiting to judge his reaction to such news. He remained composed, however, the fires of his violent jealousy banked for now, and his restraint earned a nearly imperceptible nod of respect from his companion.

  “Working under the assumption that he was someone your wife knew, I looked farther into her past for traces of this fellow,” the Syrian said. “I spoke with the abbess about where she lived before the convent.”

  Nicholas jerked his head around to look at Darius, but the foreigner’s features revealed nothing. “I learned that she served in the household of a burgher named Abel Freemantle. And after some coaxing, I was able to get the man to speak to me.”

  Nicholas’s mouth curved upward as he pictured the type of persuasion involved.

  “According to the burgher, a man with black hair also came to his home and asked about his former servant. Again, the fellow was very interested in your wife’s family.”

  Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. More than common curiosity was involved, when a man went to so much trouble to ask questions. He felt the unease of a threat, yet unseen, at his back.

  “Although hesitant, the burgher related to me another strange incident involving Gillian Hexham. It seems that a knight of obvious wealth and power barged into his home not long ago and berated him for his treatment of her. Although he claimed not to know the identity of this fierce warrior, he is terrified of the knight’s return and would not speak willingly of the matter.”

  Nicholas’s lips curved as he remembered the burgher’s fright. Apparently the filthy creature was keeping his word, as well he should, if he cared to continue his existence. “And?” Nicholas prodded, refusing to rise to Darius’s bait.

  The dark man appeared bemused, but continued. “I followed the trail back to your wife’s birthplace, where I spoke to neighbors. Again, the black-haired one had been there before me, though none knew him. And there the track ended.”

  Nicholas stopped and stared out over his lands, the fertile ground that provided a good harvest for his people, and beyond, past the boundaries of his demesne and toward a foe he could not name. “What do you make of it?” he asked softly.

  Darius was silent for a long
time. “I do not know, lord of Belvry, but I would advise you to watch your back.”

  Nicholas nodded grimly. “As I have well learned.”

  “And what of you?” Darius asked. “I returned two days ago, but have seen you not. The castle has been rife with all manner of rumors that you had fallen ill. Or that you had locked yourself in your chamber with your wife’s dead body.”

  Nicholas flinched at that. “She still lives, and I did not lock myself in with her. I merely oversaw her treatment. She is, after all, my wife.”

  “Aye,” Darius said, and a slow grin broke over his normally expressionless face. “She is that.”

  Nicholas took one glance at his wife’s stubborn expression and nearly turned on his heel and left the great chamber. She was becoming more difficult daily, and he was weary of arguing with her. And if he was weary, he could not imagine the toll these outbursts were taking on her. His eyes narrowed.

  “You wished to speak with me,” he snapped.

  “I wish to get up!” she said, managing to appear both exasperated and extremely beautiful. She was sitting up in bed, her hair tumbling about her shoulders in lovely disarray, and her color had returned at last, cream and rose…and freckles. He hardened himself against her appeal, but before he could answer, she was at him again.

  “Nicholas, I am well! Look,” she said, stretching out an arm toward him, “even the spots are gone!” He looked, and he saw that she was wearing only her shift. He looked away. “You cannot mean to confine me here forever,” she protested. Her voice lowered ominously. “Unless this is some new course of your revenge.”

  Nicholas whirled toward her, outraged at the train of her thoughts. His plans for vengeance were over. Could she not see that? He was concerned for her, and he did not trust her to mend herself!