Maiden Bride

by Deborah Simmons

  “Gillian…Gillian…” She heard Nicholas mutter her name, softly at first, and then more urgently. “If you want a baby, this is not the way to get one.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gillian was a woman with a mission. Although she had had her way with her husband, she could see he still had doubts about making a family. And she was determined to remove them. Simple capitulation to her wishes would not be enough, Gillian had decided. Although she knew Nicholas would never want a baby as much as she did, nonetheless, she planned to convince him that a child was just what he needed in his life.

  Her task was not as difficult as it sounded, for her stubborn husband was, for once, indecisive. Although his commands had always been swift and sure, now she noticed the glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes when he looked at her. And Gillian seized upon it, harrying him relentlessly.

  At night, Nicholas pressed her again for some recipe that might prevent conception, until Gillian took matters in her own hands. She knew that once his passions were stirred, he forgot all else, and afterward, she robbed him of his regrets by snuggling close and murmuring of her desire for the child he could give her.

  Nicholas was not unaware of her stratagems. And although at one time her constant harping would have driven him to violence, now he could only admire her relentless drive, equal to his own. And her aggressive behavior in bed fueled his passions. Coupled with his knowledge of her love for him, her actions made their unions even more pleasurable.

  There was something infinitely exciting in the knowledge that his brave and beautiful wife did not merely tolerate his attentions because of her precarious position in his household. She wanted him. And not for his wealth or his name or his title, but for who he was, God help her.

  Unfortunately, his trebled passions carried with them a risk that Nicholas was still loath to take. Even though he had succumbed to his lust for two nights, he could not blithely ignore the fear for her safety that lived within him now. She was his, and he was responsible for her.

  “My own mother died in childbed,” he whispered, pulling Gillian to him, in the bittersweet aftermath of their wild mating. Nicholas watched the firelight dance through her hair, as bright and shiny as it had once been. She was alive and well now, but what of tomorrow? What of nine months from now? His hold upon her tightened.

  “But my mother survived it,” she argued. “Women give birth every day, Nicholas, more often than not without incident. And there are other ills in the world. Why, I might be struck by lightning, too, or did you plan to cage me in my room?”

  “‘Tis not a bad notion,” he muttered, his mouth moving against her red mane. His palm slid possessively down her back, as though to protect her for all that might threaten her, now and forever.

  “And then how would I get my exercise?” she purred. Her fingers tangled through the hair that marked his torso, leaving him in no doubt as to just how she intended to exercise herself, if kept to the chamber with him. When she lifted her head to gaze down at him, however, the teasing light was gone from her eyes. What he saw was so open and honest that he wanted to turn away, rather than face it. “I want a baby, like Aisley’s.”

  Nicholas snorted, grateful for a distraction from the need he saw so clearly in her green depths. “That brat is a noisy nuisance,” he said, but he remembered all too well the poignant picture of his wife holding Sybil. It had stayed with him, and now it taunted him to give her what she wanted, to want what she did.

  Refusing to rise to his bait, Gillian laughed. “Our child might be noisy, but it would not be a nuisance. Would you not like a lad to trail after you, to follow in your footsteps, to hug you and—?”

  “My father never hugged me.”

  “More’s the pity,” Gillian said. As if to make up for his supposed loss, she wound her arms around him and squeezed him tightly. It felt much better than he would ever admit. “But you do not have to be like him. Look at Aisley and Piers!”

  The mention of his sister and her pompous husband offended him. “Faith, vixen, I pray that I would never become like those sentimental fools!”

  “Then be yourself,” Gillian whispered. She lifted a hand to his cheek, her fingers just barely brushing his skin. Her lips followed, in the lightest of touches along his chin, against his mouth, and he felt himself weakening. She loved him, and she had never asked for anything but this. Nicholas wanted to give it to her, and his blood roared agreement, but even as he rolled her beneath him, spreading her legs wide, he knew the bitter taste of doubt.

  If only he could be sure that his seed would not take her from him.

  The night had not convinced Nicholas of anything except his own lack of discipline. He had let lust rule his head more than once, and he was loath to face the consequences. Yet, even as he berated himself, Gillian laughed at his grim expression and teased away his foul mood. In the bright light of day, she was so vivid, so full of life, it was difficult to imagine anything threatening her health, especially such a commonplace act as childbirth.

  He needed time to think. With an impatient sound, Nicholas strode from the chamber, but his wife followed him, her fragrance teasing at his nostrils. “What of a girl? A daughter to look up to you, to bounce upon your knee?” she asked from behind him.

  Without even deigning to answer, Nicholas walked through the great hall and out the huge doors to his men and his lands, where he was the master of his world and his destiny and his flame-haired wife did not rule.

  Once outside, he felt better, although the sky was overcast, presaging rain or even snow. It had taken Nicholas a while to grow accustomed to Britain’s weather upon his return from the East, but now he wore no cloak against the chill autumn air, thick with the smoke of many fires.

  He had gone no more than a few paces when he was heraided by an old man leaning against one of the outbuildings in the bailey. Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the wiry figure. Willie, was it not? The fellow was Edith’s husband and, as such, aroused his suspicions. Although Nicholas had come to an uneasy truce with the servant, he would have no more of her meddling.

  “Psst! My lord!” Willie said, jerking his grizzled head in invitation.

  “What is it?” Nicholas snapped.

  “Well, now, I’ve been hearing some things,” the older man whispered, glancing about as if he wished to keep their conversation private. “They might not be true, but if they are, I’ve a mind to help you.”

  “You are Edith’s husband, Willie, are you not?” Nicholas demanded. When the old man nodded, he asked, “Why would you assist me?”

  Willie chuckled. “Aye, I can understand your wariness, my lord. Indeed, you’re a sharp one, as I’ve always thought. Never would have got back from the East, if you were not.” He paused, his gaze assessing Nicholas in a shrewd manner that both judged and accepted. “Let us just say that we men must stick together sometimes.”

  His frank speech won Nicholas’s attention. “Go on. What is this knowledge you share with me?”

  Willie ducked his head, as if he were now reluctant to continue. “Well, you see, there’s the rub, my lord,” he muttered, his brown, wrinkled face flushing a deeper color. “‘Tis not a subject that I normally would be discussing with you.”

  Impatience made Nicholas’s temper rise. “Speak up, man!”

  “Well, now… you see…” Willie stammered until Nicholas was certain he was dealing with a doddering old fool, rather than a sharp-eyed, intelligent fellow. He had turned on his heel, ready to walk away in exasperation, when Willie’s voice halted him in his steps.

  “Ah, hell,” he muttered. “My lord, you must wash it in vinegar.”

  Slowly Nicholas turned to stare at the old man. “What?”

  “If you wish to kill the seed,” Willie explained, apparently warming to his topic. “Either that or put a cap on it. Now, a little cap will cool the blood, you see, and reduce the strength of the semen.”

  “What?”

  “Or you could pull out, of course.�
� Willie scratched his salt-and-pepper hair in a gesture of puzzlement at his own suggestion. “That is the most common way, and I’ve got great admiration for them that can do it, but for myself…” He shook his head in resignation.

  As Nicholas stared, stunned, the old man continued. “Then, there’s the act itself,” he said, stroking his beardbristled face as if in thought. “Now there’s two schools of thought on that, you know. The one claims that you can prevent conception by doing it without the passion, which is rather a contradiction in terms, don’t you think? If you have no lust for the gal, why do it in the first place?”

  Nicholas was so outraged at the man’s speech, he could not even sputter an answer. Although he wanted this sort of information, and badly, he had never thought to stand here listening to it being spouted by Edith’s husband.

  “And then there’s them that lean toward the other direction, that the more violent the mating, the less chance you have of making a child. That may be true, but—” Willie smiled, shrugging helplessly “—at my age, it’s too late to find out.”

  Nicholas opened his mouth to put an end to the old man’s words, but this last bit of news drew him up short. With few exceptions, he and Gillian were lusty in their zeal for each other, and because of that, perhaps, there would be no child between them.

  Nicholas knew just how often he had taken her before her illness, and no baby had been made then, or as yet. Hope burgeoned into near certainty. Mayhap, if they kept to their vigorous lovemaking, she would be safe! Despite his excitement, Nicholas schooled his features into a cool, impassive expressions. “I will think upon what you have said,” he told Willie in curt dismissal.

  “Very good, my lord,” the older man answered. And because Nicholas turned away quickly, he did not see the grin that split the wrinkled face from ear to ear or suspect Edith’s fine hand in the advice he had just received.

  * * *

  “I put it to you, Darius, does not Nicholas need some children to give him comfort in his old age?”

  Nicholas choked upon his ale, nearly spewing it out upon his dinner, and turned to glare at his wife. She was wearing what he had come to think of as her perpetually innocent expression, though her bright eyes betrayed her guilt. She was as innocent as a fox among the hens.

  “I am not in my dotage yet, vixen,” he muttered, irritated that she had drawn the Syrian into such a personal discussion, and at table, too.

  “But would not a family be wonderful?”

  “And what could you possibly know of a family, living in a convent as you did?” he asked, surveying her coolly. She was going too far with this business. Perhaps it was time to put a stop to it, here and now.

  She refused to rise to the bait, but smiled gently. “When I was small, there was love and warmth between us, before Father drank so much and we had so little money… and death took them all.”

  She looked so wistful that it pained him. He thought of that bastard Hexham living in his luxurious manor, spending money on trinkets and soldiers and his quest for more and more land, but not on his own brother.

  Nicholas tightened the grip upon his cup. Yet had he shown any more familial loyalty? Of his mother, he remembered little but cool beauty and a light, pleasing fragrance. His father had been strict and distant, his brothers good companions… until they left. His own fostering had taken place under the aegis of a cruel man, who had been best avoided, and Nicholas had always been in competition with the other boys there. No love had been lost between any of them.

  Nicholas frowned. Perhaps there was something to Aisley’s idea of keeping children at home. The thought of his sister brought him mixed emotions. For the first time in his life, he wondered how she had felt, all alone after his father’s death, keeping Belvry together by herself, facing marriage to a stranger… He could have returned sooner. Instead of nursing his grievances in the East, he should have come back and taken his rightful place with his sire. The knowledge had been long in coming, and it was bitter in taste.

  “You are not ancient yet,” Gillian said teasingly. “But someday you will need a younger sword at your side.”

  He lifted his head and fixed her with a serious gaze. “And who is to say that any son of mine will do his duty?”

  Gillian looked taken aback by his sharp question, but Darius, whom Nicholas had almost forgotten, filled the silence. “I cannot believe that a child of Lady de Laci would do anything less.”

  Nicholas switched his gaze to the Syrian’s dark one. Although the man showed no expression, his eyebrows lifted slightly, as if he dared Nicholas to dispute his words. Perhaps Darius was right. He could certainly not imagine anyone Gillian loved embracing vengeance or violence, as he once had.

  “Blood is thicker than water,” Gillian said softly. “No matter what is between you and Piers, if you needed him, he would come. I know it. That is family.”

  Nicholas’s pensive mood fled at the mention of the Red Knight. “I will never need that pompous ass!”

  “He would come! I know it!” Gillian repeated, more vehemently.

  “Enough!” Nicholas snapped. “If I hear another word about family or children, I shall lock you up in the dungeon, where you shall find no one to impregnate you!”

  Gillian’s lips parted on a gasp, and her eyes flashed fury. For a moment, Nicholas thought she might toss her food at him. Her fingers twitched, as if reaching for her half of the trencher, but, obviously thinking better of it, she stood and straightened, her chin lifting.

  “And you, Nicholas de Laci, may sleep with the other beasts tonight, where no one will press you for services rendered!” She stalked away just as Darius burst out laughing, and, for once, Nicholas joined in. Then he pushed aside his meal and strode after her, intent upon finishing this battle in bed.

  Despite her twitching lips, Gillian tried to take a stern tone with the laughing Edith. “Really, that was too bad of Willie,” she scolded.

  “‘Tis nothing more than the truth, my lady,” Edith said. “Why, my Willie did not make up a word of it. Everything that he told Lord Nicholas is accepted practice.”

  Gillian shook her head as she fought back a chuckle. “Well, some men might take the trouble to wash their wicks in vinegar, but I cannot imagine Nicholas doing it!”

  “Just so, my lady. Just so,” Edith said, wiping her streaming eyes. “I’ll wager that my Willie has put him off that nonsense for good.”

  Gillian smiled. Although she appreciated Edith’s efforts, she did not think the meddling was wise. If truth be told, her campaign was coming along nicely, and she did not want any interference, no matter how well-intentioned. Unfortunately, Edith seemed to excel at making things worse.

  The servant collapsed into a chair, overtaken by her own amusement, and Gillian said nothing to dampen her spirits. When silence descended, however, Gillian looked up, surprised to see that Edith had moved to the window.

  “Visitors!” she said, turning an excited grin toward Gillian.

  “Really?” Gillian hurried to join the older woman. Because of the upheaval a few years ago, and Nicholas’s resulting reign as baron, visitors to Belvry were unusual, especially this late in the season. From her vantage point, Gillian could see that the approaching group did not bear the colors of the king’s messengers; nor, unfortunately, was it large enough to signal the return of Aisley and Piers, for which Gillian still hoped.

  “Pilgrims, perhaps,” Edith said.

  “Still, it will be nice to hear some news!” Gillian answered. The two women quickly put away their sewing and headed down to the great hall to await the coming of the troop. Below, they met several residents and servants as anxious as they for a look at the new arrivals, and Gillian suppressed a smile as the once deserted room filled.

  Stepping into the kitchens to call for bread and ale, Gillian nearly bumped into her husband, newly come from outside. Handsome as ever, with his cheeks bright with cold, Nicholas stomped his feet and threw his cloak to a young boy.

  “
Who comes?” Gillian asked.

  “I know not,” Nicholas answered. “‘Tis a raw day to be on the roads.” He rubbed his hands together, then pressed them to her cheeks.

  “Ah!” Gillian sucked in a breath, startled by the chill feel of his fingers against her skin. She was even more stunned to see the slow curving of his lips at her discomfort. He had changed, and truly for the better, thought Gillian, as was evidenced by this bit of play. Grinning happily, she followed him into the great hall.

  They did not have long to wait before a single man, obviously the head of the procession, was ushered before them. Smiling in a friendly fashion, he doffed his cloak as Nicholas urged him forward. He was of average height, rather slender, with black hair and dark eyes that Gillian could not quite discern.

  “Greetings to you, my lord,” he said, bowing slightly in deference. “And to you, lady,” he said to Gillian. He flashed a white grin at her, singling her out in a way that she knew would make Nicholas jealous, and her own smile faltered.

  “Who are you, and what is your business here?” Nicholas asked. Instead of answering, the man turned toward her. “Gillian, do not you know me?”

  Startled, Gillian sent Nicholas a wary look. “Nay. I know you not,” she said.

  “I am hurt,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “I know that it has been many years, but I was hoping…”

  “Who are you?” Nicholas’s angry tone rang out over the hall, making his own people shudder, but the visitor showed no fear. In fact, he seemed to taunt Nicholas by turning, yet again, toward his wife.

  “Gillian, surely you recognize me,” he said, spreading out his arms in exaggerated supplication. “‘Tis Hawis, your brother.”