Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Copyright

Praise for
Deborah Simmons
other works

Taming the Wolf

“…funny, challenging and exciting…5s”

—Affaire de Coeur

“…thrilling,…a breathless love story…41/2”

—Romantic times

The Vicar’s Daughter

“…absolutely wonderful!…You won’t be able to put it down!”—Affaire de Coeur

“this one has found a place on my shelf for keepers.”

—Rendezvous

The Devil’s Lady

“Deborah Simmons guarantees the reader a page-turner…”

—Romantic Times

the Squire’s Daughter

“…a priceless gem…warms the heart and cheers the spirit…”

—Affaire de Coeur

“If he has done more than hold
your hand, I will kill you both,”

he promised, his voice a guttural bark.

His gaze never left her, bright and probing and denying her innocence. “Perhaps you did not realize that ‘tis not wise to be alone with a man!” He spat the words out as if they tasted foul upon his tongue.

“We were talking, nothing more!” Gillian protested, alarmed by the look in his glittering depths. “Trust you not your own guard?”

“Nay! I trust no one when it comes to you!” Nicholas growled, taking a step toward her.

Comprehension dawned slowly, laced with so much disbelief that Gillian shook her head, as if dazed. Regarding him with wide-eyed wonder, she whispered the truth. “You are jealous.”

He flinched, but did not deny it. “You are mine, body and soul, and you had best remember it!”

Dear Reader,

Whether writing atmospheric Medievals or sexy Regencies, Deborah Simmons continues to delight readers with her romantic stories, be they dark and brooding or light and full of fun. In this month’s Maiden Bride, the sequel to The Devil’s Lady, Nicholas de Laci transfers his blood lust to his enemy’s niece, Gillian, his future wife by royal decree. Don’t miss this wonderful tale.

Fans of Romantic Times Career Achievement Award winner Veronica Sattler will be thrilled to see this month’s reissue of her Worldwide Library release, Jesse’s Lady. We hope you’ll enjoy this exciting story of a young heiress and her handsome guardian who must survive the evil machinations of her bastard brother and a jealous temptress before they can find happiness.

Beloved Outcast by Pat Tracy is a dramatic Western about an Eastern spinster who is hired by a man with a notorious reputation to tutor his adopted daughter. And our fourth book this month is The Wager by Sally Cheney, the story of a young Englishwoman who reluctantly falls in love with a man who won her in a game of cards.

We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold. Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Maiden Bride
Deborah Simmons

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEBORAH SIMMONS

Deborah Simmons began her writing career as a newspaper reporter. She turned to fiction after the birth of her first child when a longtime love of historical romance prompted her to pen her own work, published in 1989. She lives with her husband, two children and two cats in rural Ohio, where she divides her time between her family, reading and writing. She enjoys hearing from readers at the below address. For a reply, an SASE is appreciated.

Deborah Simmons

P.O. Box 274

Ontario, Ohio 44862-0274

Special thanks to Linda Hoffman, Laurie Miller and

Jennifer Weithman for their insistence upon and

assistance with Nicholas’s story

Chapter One

Nicholas de Laci leaned against the wall of the great hall, brooding over a cup of ale. He was not drunk; he never drank too much. It dulled the wits, and he had honed his to a razor sharpness. As if to prove his skills, he lifted his head at a sound from the arched entranceway, his eyes alert for any sign of danger, but it was only his sister, Aisley, and her infant son.

Hexham would not pass this way again.

The thought slipped into his mind like a dark phantom, despite his iron-hard discipline, and for just a moment Nicholas let himself dwell upon it. His enemy was dead. The neighbor who had waylaid him in the Holy Land, abandoned him there and returned to try to steal his lands had been cut down in this very hall by Aisley’s husband, Piers, who had deprived him of his revenge in one fell swoop.

Nicholas glanced toward two heavy chairs near the front of the hall. That was where they said it happened, by Aisley’s seat, but the tiles had long been scrubbed clean, and Hexham’s blood was gone. Forever. Nicholas would never see it spilled, never know the satisfaction of vengeance in the depths of his hungry soul.

He had tried other killing in the year since, hiring himself out as a soldier, but the deaths of strangers meant as little to him as the coins he received in payment. Nicholas already had great wealth and a prosperous demesne to call his own. Built by his father, Belvry was a modern castle and the envy of his peers, and yet it gave him no pleasure, either. And so he had returned here, to the scene of his bitter disappointment, vainly searching for a respite from the gnawing emptiness that had become his life.

Nicholas’s fingers tightened around the cup that held his ale. In truth, he found contentment nowhere, for nothing held meaning for him anymore. His sister was so much changed over the five years he had been in the Holy Land that he knew her not, and he resented her husband for taking what he had most wanted: Hexham’s life.

“Nicholas! I did not see you there against the wall. What are you about this afternoon?” Aisley asked, with that half welcoming, half wary smile that he had grown accustomed to seeing directed toward him. His lovely fair-haired sister was not sure what to make of him, but that hardly surprised him. Nicholas was no longer sure what to make of himself.

“Nothing,” he answered, brushing her query aside with a flick of his eyes. He nodded toward a long bench, and Aisley sat down, baby in her arms. “Look, Sybil, ‘tis your uncle Nicholas,” she cooed. “Uncle. Uncle Nicholas,” she babbled, crooning in a way Nicholas would never have thought possible.

The Aisley he had known had been an aloof childwoman, a skilled chatelaine, but certainly not the sort to lavish affection upon anyone. Now, instead of handing the infant over to a nurse, she dragged it around with her most of the time, carrying on over it in a way he found hard to fathom.

A sound from the entranceway drew his swift attention, and Nicholas saw Piers stride into the hall. A huge man, Aisley’s husband was capable of intimidating others, but rarely did so. Instead, he seemed to take infinite delight in the world around him, from which he had been briefly cut off during a bout with blindness.

“Piers!” Aisley’s voice rose in excited pleasure. “Look, Sybil, ‘tis your father!” she said, waving the baby’s tiny fist toward the great knight. Perhaps something about the birthing process had damaged her wits, Nicholas wondered, not for the first time during his visit. “Here, go to your uncle while I greet your father,” Aisley cooed.

To his utter horror, Nicholas found the infant thrust into his arms. It was small and fat and bald, and it smelled, with an odd sort of milky, soapy odor. He had known it to reek more foully. The thought made him rise to his feet and glance down suspiciously. If it soiled his tunic, he might have to strangle it. Cup in one fist, babe in the crook of his arm, he glanced helplessly toward his sister, but she was already beyond his reach.

With a happy smile, Aisley threw herself at her husband’s tall form, while Nicholas watched in amazement. He would never get used to that behavior. The two of them kissed passionately, just as though they were in their own chamber and not standing amid the rushes of the open hall. Nicholas found the display positively sickening.

He would have thought that Piers only indulged his daft wife at such moments, but for the fact that the knight sought her out with the same enthusiasm. Perhaps Piers’s sightlessness had left him sadly addled, too.

“Waaah!” The babe in Nicholas’s arms seemed suddenly to realize where she was and started screaming shrilly in protest. Nicholas’s gut churned in response to the hideous noise, and he wondered if he ought to depart Dunmurrow soon. He felt apart and alien among this strangely happy threesome who made his own life seem even more barren and aimless.

“Here!” he said, standing abruptly and holding out the child to its mother.

“There, there, Sybil, ‘tis time for your nap, perhaps?” Aisley whispered, and Nicholas stared, astounded at the way she talked to the thing, just as if it might understand her. His sister was beyond him now, as was everyone, everything, everyplace…His stomach twisted, reminding him that he ought to eat something, but food held no interest. Instead, he focused on the giant blond man who would call him brother.

“Nicholas!” Piers greeted him with the warmth that continued to annoy him. How dare the Red Knight eye him with that knowing look, as if seeing right through Nicholas’s skin to his hollow insides? How dare he tender advice, when his keep was shabby compared to Belvry?

Dunmurrow was old, and its residents were far from wealthy, and yet they seemed to possess some treasure that Nicholas lacked, which only frustrated him further. The ache in his belly clawed at his vitals until he nearly winced, but he did not waver under Piers’s steady regard.

“I came to find you, brother,” the older knight said. “A messenger from the king has arrived, seeking you.” Nicholas glanced quickly behind his sister’s husband, to where a man sporting Edward’s device stood not far away. How had Nicholas missed him? His attention had been diverted by babes and amorous displays, that was how! Deflecting his anger inward, Nicholas calmly placed his cup upon the great table and stepped forward to greet the stranger.

Finally. It had been a year since Hexham had made war upon neighboring Belvry, and all this time the fate of the bastard’s lands had remained unresolved. Piers claimed that Edward would decide in Nicholas’s favor and award the property to Belvry’s heir in reparation, but Nicholas had a deep-seated mistrust of kings and princes, gained in a folly called a holy war. It would not surprise him if Edward confiscated Hexham’s demesne for the crown.

Nor did it matter to him. Hexham had no issue, so either way, the land would leave the man’s line forever. That was small satisfaction for Nicholas, but he took it. It was all the revenge left to him.

“You are Nicholas de Laci, baron of Belvry?” the king’s man asked.

“I am,” Nicholas said.

“I have a message for you from your sovereign.”

Nodding, Nicholas gestured for the man to take a seat on the long bench beside the great table. As the messenger found a place, Nicholas caught a glimpse of Aisley’s anxious face and realized that his sister and her husband wanted to hear the news, too. Their interest startled him. Was it curiosity? He supposed they had little enough excitement in their dreary keep.

“Shall I fetch some refreshment for you?” Aisley asked hopefully, and Nicholas was again amazed by the transparency of her thoughts. The Aisley he had known would never have shown emotion—or felt it, either. ‘Twas the birthing, no doubt, he thought again. It had changed her, and not for the better.

“That would be most welcome, my lady,” the man said. “But my message is brief. Care you to hear it first?” he asked Nicholas. His gaze traveled from Nicholas to the lord and lady of Dunmurrow, and Nicholas felt a smart of annoyance at those who sought to know his business. He had kept his own counsel for years, and had learned to rely solely upon himself, because it was necessary. It was the only way to survive.

To hasten his audience’s departure, Nicholas gave Piers an inquiring look, but he received a flash of warning from the Red Knight’s blue eyes in response. Piers coddled his wife, and he seemed to feel that Nicholas owed Aisley something for her wardship of Belvry. Nicholas did not care for the debt, nor for the reminder of it, and he stiffened slightly. He had the feeling that someday, for all Piers’s attempt at friendship, the two of them would come to blows.

This time, however, Nicholas gave way. What was the harm in them hearing, after all? It was a matter of little enough importance to him. “This is my sister, and you have met her husband, Baron Montmorency,” Nicholas said with cool disdain. “You may speak freely before them.”

The man glanced again toward Aisley, as if seeking the resemblance between the delicate lady with the silver-blond hair and Nicholas’s tall, dark form, but he said nothing. Presumably he was too eager for his supper to care.

“I have come about the dispensation of the lands adjacent to Belvry, property of Baron Hexham, now deceased,” the man said, and both Piers and Aisley nodded, worry apparent in their eyes. Did they hide nothing from the world? Nicholas thought with contempt. And what did it matter to them what happened to Hexham’s land? Had they not had the pleasure of watching the villain die?

Nicholas felt the familiar clenching of his stomach at his lost vengeance, and pushed the thought aside, concentrating on the messenger instead. He was reading from a royal decree, couched in fancy wording, about Edward’s desire to bind people to their lord with strong ties and to cement loyalties through marriage whenever possible. Yes, yes, Nicholas thought, impatiently. Getonwithit!

“As Baron Hexham has been found to have a living female relation, a niece, it is our wish that you take this woman, Gillian Hexham, to wife, thereby joining the two properties and taking lordship over all.”

Although the man continued reading, Nicholas heard him not, his interest focused solely on one piece of information: Hexham had a living relative. Nicholas’s blood, long dormant, surged through him at the knowledge, and the hatred he had nursed so bitterly sprang to life once more, filling the emptiness in his soul with renewed purpose.

“A niece? Hexham has a niece?” Aisley’s voice, oddly strained, pierced the haze of blood lust that gripped him. “I knew of no niece.”

“Apparently she is the daughter of his younger brother, long dead,” the messenger said. His words fell into a silence so heavy with tension that the very air seemed to vibrate with it, and he shifted uncomfortably, glancing anxiously at the stunned faces that surrounded him.

Nicholas paid him no heed, for he was consumed once more with thoughts of the revenge he had been forced to abandon. It was Aisley who broke the quiet, a soft sound of agitation escaping from her slender throat. “Nicholas…” she whispered. “Oh, Nicholas, please…”

He glanced over at her in surprise. She was still standing, her daughter in her arms and her husband beside her, and she wore a stricken expression at odds with her cool beauty. “I know what you are thinking, but do not even consider it,” she begged.

“You know what I am thinking?” Nicholas echoed, his tone heavy with contempt for her audacity, his eyes daring her to go on. But he had forgotten how strong she was, and she reminded him by meeting his cold glare and holding it until he turned away, revolted by her entreaty. Even that outright dismissal did not stop her, however.

“This poor woman is not to blame for her blood,” she said. “Indeed, she has probably already been punished for it, by Hexham himself. Think of how he would destroy all those he touched. Think of his own wife, locked away in her tower!”

His sister was babbling now, and even through the primitive heat raging through him, Nicholas noticed it. So unlike Aisley, he thought dispassionately, and vowed that he would never display himself so openly.

“Why, this innocent girl has probably been locked away, too, else why would I never have met her?” she asked. Growing desperate now, she whirled toward the king’s man, and the baby in her arms began fussing. “She cannot have stayed with him, for we would have heard something of her. Where has she been all this time?”

“She has lived in a convent for many years—since her youth, I believe,” the messenger answered.

“A convent?” Aisley gasped. “By all the saints, she is a nun?”

Aisley bit her lip as she paced back and forth across the great chamber, her hands knotted into tight fists at her sides. “You saw him! You saw the look on his face! He will crucify her!” she cried.

“Nonsense,” Piers said calmly. “Nicholas is a hard man, but not cruel.”

“You think you know him?” Aisley asked, turning on her husband. “Well, I do not. Even in our youth, he was distant, unfeeling, and when he returned from the Holy Land, so cold and hard, and his eyes so…so…” Aisley shuddered, unable to go on.

“War changes a man, Aisley,” Piers said gently, but she would take no comfort. Her thoughts were on her brother, who had made hatred his life’s blood, vengeance his only joy, and on the poor innocent who would be forced to suffer for it.

“What could Edward be thinking? He knows how Nicholas was obsessed with Hexham, chasing him down like a dog and driving him to madness.”

“I think the king knows what he is doing,” Piers said with a pensive air. “You must admit that this is the first time Nicholas has shown an interest in anything since Hexham’s death.”

“Yes, Nicholas finally responded to something, but ‘twas horrible to see it.” Aisley shuddered at the recollection of how those gray eyes, so like her own, had sprung to life with the fire of his malice.

“Edward is no fool,” Piers said. “He would not put the girl in danger, and I seem to recall one marriage he arranged to the good.”

Aisley stopped pacing to glance at her beloved husband, her thoughts diverted momentarily by their own hard-won happiness. “But that was different,” she protested. “Edward told me to choose one of his knights, and I picked you. ‘Twas my own good judgment that founded our marriage.”

“I do not think you felt that way from the first,” Piers said in that familiar dry tone of his, and Aisley could not help but smile.

“Oh, Piers,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “But I was strong and world-wise, while that child is innocent—a nun, by all the saints! My brother would abuse a holy woman!”

“Nicholas is not going to abuse her, and she cannot have taken her vows yet, or she would not be made to wed,” Piers protested.

“But she has grown up in a convent, a gentle, delicate thing, most likely, sheltered from the hard ways of the outside, and certainly unused to men and their brutality. Oh, Piers, what shall become of her in Nicholas’s hands?”

“Have faith, Aisley,” Piers answered.

“Yes, faith,” Aisley echoed. “I shall pray for her, as she will need it, and may God have mercy on the poor girl.”

Nicholas rode away from Dunmurrow without a backward glance. Nothing held him there, but something, finally, waited for him ahead. Though he feared no one, Nicholas kept enough men with him at all times to provide good escort, so he was well equipped for a new journey. Pausing only long enough to learn the location of the convent where he would find her, Nicholas had set out to fetch his bride.

He did not care what she looked like. Whether she was old or young, crone or beauty, she was of Hexham’s blood, and his hatred drove him on toward this new object of revenge. In fact, Nicholas was so eager to reach his destination that he hurried his men needlessly, the patience and discipline that had ruled his life for years loosening its tight hold upon him.

“Where go we?” A deep voice, low and melodious, sounded beside him, and Nicholas flicked a glance to the man who spoke. He wore a long, flowing robe, as did several others in Nicholas’s company who disdained the traditional knight’s mail coat.

“Darius.” Deep in thought, Nicholas had not noted his companion’s approach. Although annoyed at his own inattention, he was not surprised to be caught off guard, for Darius had the ability to seemingly appear out of nowhere. Some of the others called him Shadow Man and feared his stealth, but Nicholas was not so foolish. That skill had saved their lives more than once as they roamed strange cities throughout the East.

Although he was called a Syrian, Nicholas had no idea where Darius came from originally. The population of Syria was diverse, with Greeks, Armenians, Maronites, Jacobites, Nestorians, Copts, Italians, Jews, Muslims and Franks coexisting, along with a few Germans and Scandinavians.

Darius’s name was Egyptian, and Nicholas could well picture the tall, dark man as a direct descendant of some powerful pharaoh. He had a noble look about him, and a confidence not born of the gutter. His skin was a deep gold, but light enough to suggest a mixed parentage, and Nicholas often wondered if Darius was some sultan’s cast-off son. Or perhaps he was simply the product of a knight who had raped a local woman in a crusading frenzy.

Nicholas had never asked, and Darius had never offered. Since their precipitous meeting several years ago, they had kept to an unwritten rule between them: no questions about the past. When the time came for Nicholas to return to Britain, Darius had come along, and Nicholas had shared what needed to be known with the man who came closest to being a friend to him. But that was as far as it went. They held each other to no oaths, shared no future beyond the day, and passed no judgment upon each other.

“We go to a convent,” Nicholas replied. “A holy place for women,” he added when Darius sent him a questioning look.

The Syrian still appeared puzzled as he struggled with such a foreign concept. “The women live alone together?” he asked.

“Yes, they have pledged themselves to God.”

“What do we there? I am surprised they allow men in such places.”

“We go to find a kinswoman of my enemy. Hexham’s line lives on, Darius, and I would have my vengeance upon it, at last.”

“This kinswoman is a holy one?” Darius asked.

“Nay. She but lives there with those who are.”

Nicholas saw Darius relax slightly. Although, as far as Nicholas knew, the Syrian did not practice any religion, he had a high regard for the places he deemed holy, both Christian and Muslim. “Ah,” he said softly. “And what shall you do with her?”

Nicholas did not answer immediately, for he was still considering his plans. The future, which had only a few hours ago seemed so bleak and senseless, now held endless possibilities. Nicholas tried to tamp down the clamor in his blood to a dull roar, but the patience that had been his mainstay seemed to elude him now. Thwarted by Hexham’s death, and the long, hollow months that had followed, he craved immediate recompense. Now. At last.

“I would make her suffer as Hexham did me,” Nicholas finally replied.

“You mean to leave her to bleed to death in the desert sun?” Darius asked.

Nicholas ignored the Syrian’s sarcasm, for he did not wish to be reminded of the torment of those burning days and freezing nights, or of the slow year of recovery that had followed.

“Nay,” he said. “But I would find out that which she cherishes most, and I would take it from her, just as Hexham tried to do to me and mine. I would discover what she most fears and reviles, and I would present it to her. I would torment her and take pleasure in it. I will have my revenge.”

In the ensuing silence, Nicholas felt Darius’s hard stare upon him. Although the Syrian’s dark eyes held no censure, he knew that Darius had a deep-rooted respect for women. More than likely he did not approve of Nicholas’s plans, but he would not interfere.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Darius dropped his gaze. “You go to kill her, then?” he asked, his exotic features, swathed in cloth, revealing little of his mood.

“No,” Nicholas answered, as he let a slight smile play upon his lips. “I go to marry her.”

Chapter Two

Nicholas was vaguely aware of the rapid rise of his pulse, but he did not seek to slow it with his usual discipline. Not this time. He had pushed himself and his men to reach the nunnery in ten days, and he was going to savor the small surge of satisfaction that filled him as he awaited his bride.

Victory was nearly his! Victory over the demons that had haunted him for years, that had destroyed the life of an optimistic young knight, changing his path forever. Finally, he would claim his revenge, and then, mayhap, he would be whole again.

Darius settled in behind him, and Nicholas slanted a glance at the Syrian. As usual, Darius’s face was an enigmatic mask, but Nicholas sensed his disapproval. Darius was far more chivalrous than any knight, and Nicholas knew he did not care for a scheme that involved a woman. Already he had pushed the boundaries of their relationship by asking Nicholas what came after the vengeance. Nicholas had not deigned to answer; he did not let himself think that far ahead. She was to be his wife, and unless she proved herself too frail for that task, he would have many years in which to exact payment from the last of Hexham’s line.

Gillian, she was called. Nicholas pictured her in his mind—a smaller, female version of his enemy, with Hexham’s blue-black hair and the pasty-white skin of the idle. Convent-bred she was, too, Nicholas thought with contempt. He knew the type: delicate and helpless. He had only to look at the woman who headed the order to confirm his beliefs. Small and bent, the abbess moved with the slowness of age, but had risen to do his bidding immediately. It would be easy enough to shape such a creature to his will, and he looked forward to it.

“I would wed as soon as she arrives,” Nicholas said, hiding his eagerness behind an impassive expression.

“But that is impossible, my lord!” the abbess protested, her lined face easily showing her dismay. “Father Goode has gone to visit his ailing sister, so the nearest priest is in Litton, a good day’s ride from here.”

In deference to the nun, Nicholas bit back his oath. Then he turned to the burly man who flanked him, along with Darius. “Renfred, fetch the priest,” he ordered tersely.

“Aye, my lord.”

“And have him back here tomorrow.”

“Aye, my lord,” Renfred said, grinning evilly. He moved quickly, ducking through the arched entranceway just as three more women appeared.

“Ah, Gillian,” the abbess said, and Nicholas felt a rush of excitement. She was here! But which one was she?

All three wore the black robes and white wimples of their calling and kept their faces lowered in a deferential manner that made it hard to see their features. The only apparent difference between them was the height of the middle one, who towered over the other two. Studying her closely, Nicholas was startled by her sudden, sharp glance of curiosity as she and her companions filed in and took seats on a worn bench.

“Gillian, dear, I have good news for you,” the abbess said, and again the tall one lifted her head, her bright eyes shifting quickly toward the speaker. Surely that brazen creature was not his bride, Nicholas thought. Perhaps she simply lacked the manners that the other two exhibited with their discreet silence.

“The king has sent you a husband,” the old woman continued, her voice trembling with age—or was it trepidation? Nicholas glanced back at the bold one again. Her gaze was fixed firmly on the abbess, and what he could see of her face showed not meek submission, but determined dissent. She certainly did not act like any nun he had ever seen.

“I do not believe it. Why would Edward have any interest in me?” she said, and Nicholas felt a sharp stab of awareness. This tall, rebellious creature was Gillian Hexham?

“‘Tis true, my dear,” the old woman said, speaking gently. “The king sent word of your uncle’s death, and that you were to marry Lord de Laci to unite the lands.”

The girl’s gaze swept over Nicholas in a swift assessment that he found both unseemly and oddly exhilarating. Aye, Gillian, know your master and weep, he thought grimly, and he let her see a glimpse of his triumph.

She did not flinch, but met his hard look with one of her own, and he saw that she was younger than he had expected. No child, to be sure, but neither was she old. Eighteen years, Nicholas judged, give or take, and she was not ugly, or even plain. Her face was a creamy oval, her skin clear, her nose small and pert, her mouth well formed. And her eyes… They were not Hexham’s black, but a deep green, and they were burning with a cold fire. Abruptly she glanced away, dismissing Nicholas with a contempt that stunned him.

“You knew of this, but informed me not?” she asked, turning on the abbess. Her voice betrayed strong emotion that Nicholas could only guess was despair, but that, oddly enough, sounded more like repressed fury. This female was convent-bred?

“Now, Gillian…” the abbess said, and Nicholas’s attention was caught by the movement of the two other women, who exchanged wary glances, just as though they expected some outburst from his bride.

They were not to be disappointed. “Do not patronize me!” Gillian said, rising to her feet. “You received word, but you failed to tell me. Were you afraid that I would run away and lose you a fat purse from this popinjay?” she cried, pointing a finger at Nicholas.

Popinjay? The casually flung insult inflamed Nicholas, and he had to gain control of himself, lest he beat her here and now, when she was not yet his wife. Only great strength of will kept him from moving, but he held still, his features impassive, while his blood boiled and his hands itched to reach for her. Later. Later she would suffer for her words, and more…

The nuns gasped in horror, while the old woman stepped forward with a placating smile. “Gillian, you know that gold holds no sway with me. If you would but take the time to think, you would see that I have your best interests at heart. You have not been happy here, but now you have a chance for a new life. Take it, child, with God’s blessing.”

“I would be more inclined to view this news as good fortune if you had deigned to share it, instead of keeping it from me. I suspect that you did not let me know the truth for fear I would try to escape.”

Escape? What kind of woman was she, to babble such nonsense? Did she truly think to defy the king? “Enough!” Nicholas said sharply, astounded that she dared raise her voice in a convent. “It matters not when you were told. We are to be wed, and you have no choice.”

She whirled toward him, and the other nuns reached out for her, murmuring soothingly, but she shook them off and walked forward until she stood directly in front of Nicholas.

“There are always choices, my lord,” she snapped, and Nicholas was stunned to silence by the enmity flashing in those green eyes. What cause had she to hate him? He was the one who had been ill-used, first by her uncle and now by her sharp tongue! Then she turned and stalked from the room, without waiting for the dismissal of her lord or her abbess.

Nicholas was not even aware that he moved, but suddenly he was at the door, Darius holding firm to his arm. “Let her go for now,” the Syrian said, his voice low and pleading for reason.

Startled by his own loss of control, Nicholas drew back. His blood was pounding so fiercely that it took an effort for him to gain mastery over it. And so it became a small victory simply to hold his position and not give chase to Gillian Hexham like some herder after an errant pig.

“Forgive her, my lord,” the abbess urged. “Gillian is impetuous, a bit headstrong, even, but she will come around. She simply needs some time to grow accustomed to the idea.”

Amazed at the depth of his rage, Nicholas breathed slowly, seeking his vaunted discipline before he spoke. “Why did you not let her know that I was coming, so that this display might have been avoided?”

The abbess did not meet his penetrating stare, but turned her head away, forcing Nicholas to wonder whether Gillian had spoken the truth. Would she flee, rather than wed him? But why? She had no notion of his hatred or of what lay between her uncle and himself. The abbess had told him that Hexham had taken no interest in his niece save to tuck her away in the convent, and that no communication had passed between them in the years since. Gillian could hardly be devoted to a man she had never even met.

An oddly unsettling notion took root in Nicholas’s fevered brain, and he watched the abbess closely for her response. “Has she a lover nearby? Or some tie that would make her refuse to leave here?”

The nuns gasped at his plain language. “No, no, my lord, I assure you that Gillian has nothing holding her here. ‘Tis only her own strong will, my lord,” the abbess answered. Her reply filled him with a strange relief, which Nicholas put down to a desire not to be cuckolded.

“She is stubborn, my lord,” one of the nuns whispered.

“She dislikes anything that is not her idea,” the other one said, her face pinched with disapproval.

“She has had a hard life, my lord,” the first nun added.

“In a convent?” Nicholas asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

“After her father died; she and her mother were forced to live very meagerly, and then her mother, too, passed on. She was cast adrift until her uncle finally sent funds for her to join us here,” the abbess explained.

Cast adrift? “What do you mean? Where did she live?”

“She took shelter with a burgher’s family, as little more than a servant.”

Wonderful. His wife had been as one lowborn. Oddly enough, the thought of her trials did not give Nicholas pleasure, perhaps because they had been brought on by fate, and not by himself. Perverse as it might seem, he wanted to be the sole source of distress to Gillian Hexham.

“She hardly seems subservient,” he commented dryly.

“She is a good girl, my lord, but lacks the proper disposition for the holy life. Perhaps she is better suited to be a chatelaine,” the abbess suggested, with a gleam in her eye.

Nicholas frowned. If the old woman was likening Gillian’s behavior to that of her betters, she was sadly mistaken. The ill-mannered creature little resembled any lady he knew. His sister, Aisley, never raised her voice, and she was the most regal of females.

Nicholas nearly laughed at the comparison. His tiny, fair-haired sister was nothing like this green-eyed jade. Convent-bred, indeed! Obviously, the old woman could not control her flock, but Nicholas would put the fear of God into Gillian Hexham quickly enough.

The ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth as he contemplated his revenge. By faith, by the time he was done with her, Gillian would look back on her past with longing. Aye, she would envy even a peasant’s meager lot!

Gillian rushed to the dormitory in which she slept, frantically wondering how much time she had. Soon it would be time for vespers, and her absence from prayers would be noticed. Oh, why her? And why now, when she had finally resigned herself to the convent? Suddenly the existence she had viewed as stifling and regimented seemed wholly satisfying.

It was her own fault. She had become complacent and bored with her lot, forgetting that the very same walls that hemmed her in kept the outside world at bay. She had never fit in here, lacking the patience and commitment that was needed to answer a holy calling, but she had been clothed and fed and, most of all, kept safe.

Too late, she remembered that a life outside the convent was fraught with dangers. Poverty, starvation, degradation and horrors too evil to contemplate lay but a short walk down the road. And Gillian knew most of them well. Swiftly she considered her choices while she gathered together her bedding—small payment for her years of service.

Already she could feel the breathlessness that took her when she was frightened. How long had it been since she had been forced to struggle for air? It all came back to her now: the hunger that had gnawed at her belly too often, the cold that had chilled her to the bone, the grimy smell of a body too long between baths and the frustration that had never found surcease.

Gillian’s hand stilled as she sucked in a harsh breath. It did not have to be like that again! She was older and wiser now, with many skills to her name. Surely she could become a servant in a respectable home. No, she thought, with a shudder, it would have to be something else. Although the guilds kept a stranglehold on most of the trades, the city must have other jobs that would keep her out of harm’s way.

Tossing in her meager belongings, Gillian yanked the linens into a knot, then slipped out of her room. Although she knew she ought to take food with her, she could hardly dare the kitchens. Obviously, several of the nuns were aware of her situation, and they might expect her to bolt. Unfortunately, she was not known for her cool head, and now she rued her reputation.

Deciding that the doorways might be watched, Gillian snuck toward a window. It was a good drop to the ground, but there was no help for it, she thought, gazing down at the grass below. She had no time to dither; she had to get away before he came after her.

Long ago, she had dreamed of a family of her own, of a husband who did not waste his coins, as her father had. A shopkeeper, a knight… Gillian smiled humorlessly. Even then, she had not aspired as high as the de Lacis, famous throughout the country for their wealth!

Gillian could still hardly believe that she, lowly daughter to an unsuccessful second son, was betrothed to the owner of Belvry. Although she had long since changed her mind about marriage, still Gillian might have been tempted, if the man had been kind and gentle and patient. A man who would not frighten her with his brute strength, or…

Gillian shuddered again, for he was none of those things. One look at that face—so handsome, yet so implacable-and those strange eyes filled with hatred had settled her mind. She had no idea why he despised her. Perhaps he did not want to wed her, or harbored some grudge against her uncle; the reason mattered not. She knew only that his icy gray gaze frightened her far more than a flight into the unknown. She had managed once before on her own, and she would do it again, rather than face a life with that one! Tossing her bundle to the ground, she swung a leg over the stone and jumped.

The fall knocked the breath from her, and Gillian lay on her back, gasping for air. Luckily, the grass was soft beneath her, but she gingerly wiggled her fingers and toes, just to make sure that she had suffered nothing more than a few bruises. She was sprawled in an unladylike pose, her legs apart, her gown hiked up to her knees, her wimple askew, yet it hardly mattered. Her days of strict decorum were over, she thought, smiling slightly.

That was when she saw him.

He was standing a few feet from the top of her head, so that he looked upside down to her, and so close that she could have reached out to touch his boots, below the rich material of his long tunic. The thought startled her, and she jerked her eyes upward. His hands were fisted against his slim hips, and above his wide shoulders, his face was dark with contempt, those silver eyes like the points of twin daggers.

“If you were trying to kill yourself, you should have picked a higher window,” he commented. For a moment, Gillian could only lie there, staring up at him, so stunned was she by his words. What kind of monster was he to make such a twisted jest?

“I will make sure that the ones in your room at Belvry are barred,” he said, the low purr of promise in his voice making the threat sound serious. Gillian sat up abruptly then, tugging at her skirts and twisting around—the better to see her enemy. His lips were curved into the ghost of a smile, as if her discomfiture pleased him well, and Gillian’s blood ran cold.

“Resign yourself to your fate,” he said softly, “for tomorrow we wed.”

He had not locked her in, for there was no need. No woman, not even Gillian Hexham, could get by his men, Nicholas thought with grim satisfaction. He lay with his arms crossed behind his head on a hard pallet in one of the small cells reserved for visitors, content that on the morrow she would be his.

But what a strange creature she was! Nicholas could not understand why she would flee the convent with nothing but a change of clothing rather than marry him. And to jump out a window! The stupid wench could have broken her neck, and then where would he be? She would not rob him of his revenge, as Hexham had done!

Nay, he would see to it that she did not endanger herself again, foolish chit. She obviously needed a firm hand to keep her from such escapades, Nicholas thought, clearly remembering the absurd picture she had made sprawled upon the ground. Some of her hair had escaped, spilling like molten fire from her wimple. Red it was, bright and clean, and Nicholas wondered what it would look like loose. He had yet to really see her, although she had given him a glimpse of shapely calves, the way she had displayed herself on the grass, her legs wide open like a whore’s…

Taking a slow breath, Nicholas shifted, bringing his arms down to his sides and firmly crushing such thoughts. What mattered to him the color of her locks or the manner of her form? She was nothing to him but a tool for his revenge.

Yes, Gillian Hexham would soon be his wife, but Nicholas wanted no part of her body. Although he had seen many a man fall prey to that feminine trap, slave to their own desires, he had never let passion rule him. Hexham’s niece would not gain mastery over him in any way.

She might as well have taken her final vows, Nicholas thought, his lips curling at the irony, for she would never know his touch, nor any other man’s. And that small deprivation would be just the beginning…

“My lord?”

The voice broke into his thoughts, seemingly out of nowhere, and Nicholas could have cursed his own inattention. Without a sound, his fingers closed over the dagger at his hip. Although he had removed his tunic, he had left his girdle in place, and now he was glad, for even a convent held its dangers, it would seem. As he had learned long ago, nowhere was safe, and no one—not even a nun, apparently-could be trusted.

Nicholas glanced toward the low opening, which had no door or covering, but he could see nothing in the darkness except the vague shape of a bent figure. He moved swiftly into a low crouch.

“No! Please, stay where you are. It is I, Abbess Wright.” The old woman’s voice came low and oddly breathless as she stepped back behind the entrance, cold, thick stone separating her from his sight. “I wanted to have a word with you privately.”

At this hour? Despite her vows, Nicholas might have suspected her of seeking out his male flesh, but the abbess was far too old for such sport. “What is it?” he whispered.

“‘Tis a most delicate matter, my lord, that I could not easily say to your face.”

Better to sneak up on him in the middle of the night and risk a knife in her gullet? Nicholas wondered at her reasoning, but did not send her away, for her office allowed her some respect—and some allowances. “Go on,” he said.

“It is about Gillian, my lord. I would beg you not to treat her ill.”

Annoyance flared. “She is to be my wife, and no longer your concern,” Nicholas replied dismissively.

“Yes, my lord, but I would not have you.. .force yourself upon her person.”

What the devil? Was the abbess giving him advice upon his marital duties? “You do not want me to consummate the marriage?” he asked, incredulous.

“Not until your heart has warmed to her, my lord.”

“Forgive me if I am confused, Abbess,” Nicholas said, not bothering to disguise his sarcasm, “but doesn’t the church demand that wedding vows be consummated?”

“I would only remind you that rape is a sin,” the abbess said, a bit vehemently.

“There is no such thing as rape between man and wife!” Nicholas snapped. His amusement at lying half-naked in a darkened convent cell, discussing sex with a nun faded, replaced by rising annoyance.

“Nevertheless, the Lord sees and knows all, and he will judge accordingly!” The old woman’s voice broke, and Nicholas reigned in his spleen with some difficulty.

“Abbess, what makes you think I would rape my bride?” he asked, as mildly as he could.

“I have seen the hatred in your eyes when you look at her!” The words rang out clearly, an accusation that he could not deny, and then a rustle of skirts signaled the abbess’s departure. Astonished by her behavior, Nicholas stared at the opening to his cell, wondering if all holy women were as mad as those to be found here.

Cursing silently at the folly of females, he lay back down upon his hard pallet, struggling against the pain in his belly. If the old woman had not had the effrontery to scold him, Nicholas might have assured her that he had no intention of bedding his wife.

He had much worse planned for her.

Nicholas knew a heady triumph he had not felt since he had destroyed Hexham’s army and given chase to his enemy. They had never faced each other, never engaged in personal combat, since Hexham had fled like the coward he was, but now Nicholas stood beside the bastard’s niece, before a priest who would make them man and wife. And then she would be his…

She was wearing her black nun’s garb, and Nicholas felt a stab of annoyance. Had she no other clothes? Probably not, for she had no money of her own. And then he wondered at his perversity. What cared he what she wore? If she liked fine things, he would keep her in rags, and if she wanted to wear drab garments, then he would dress her in finery. His lips curled in anticipation.

His bride was not as tall as Nicholas had first thought, for the top of her head reached only to his chin. He watched it now, wondering about the hair that lay hidden, and then let his gaze rove over her features: delicately arched brows over thick-lashed eyes, creamy cheeks, and lips of the deepest rose. They were gently curved, and yet, even when she was prompted, they remained silent. With a tingle of surprise, Nicholas realized that she was hesitating over her vows, and he moved closer, menacing her without a word.

Although Nicholas expected her to be firmly cowed by his movement, she glanced up at him in challenge, just as if she dared him to threaten her. Their eyes locked, and he tried to force her to speak through sheer strength of will, but she did not flinch. Nay, Nicholas had the distinct impression that she would have spat in his face, if she could. But she could not, and, ultimately, no matter how fierce her pride, he would be the victor. The knowledge made him smile, and she looked away from his triumph, fairly snarling her vows to the startled father.

Her bravery took him aback, if truth be told, for his years in the East had made Nicholas value courage above all else. How odd to find such a staunch heart beating in Hexham’s heir. Nicholas caught himself studying her curiously and glanced away, telling himself that her actions were born of foolishness, not valor.

As soon as the priest had finished, Nicholas turned his back on his bride in blatant dismissal. “We leave at once,” he told the startled abbess.

“Come, wife, say your goodbyes,” he snapped, hoping to dismay her with their abrupt departure. But she only gave him a stony-faced nod. Nor did she weep any farewells. Indeed, she stunned him, yet again, by walking past the nuns without a word. Faith, she was an unnatural female!

For a moment, Nicholas stared after her as she stepped toward the doors, head held high, but then he returned his attention to the abbess. “Have no fear, I will not touch her,” he said, jeering.

The old woman did not seem relieved by his assurance. Indeed, her wrinkled face showed only consternation, and she reached out toward him with a trembling hand. “Now, my lord, I know that Gillian is not as fair as some, but God tells us to go forth and multiply.”

Nicholas fixed her with a glare. His bride’s beauty, plain for all to see, was not the issue. “That is not what you said last night,” he reminded her with a sneer.

“Last night?” The old woman appeared flustered, or was she confused? Perhaps she did not care to be reminded of her unseemly visit to his quarters, he thought, but when she lifted her pale eyes to his, Nicholas saw only bewilderment. Suspicion pierced him like a blade, and without volition, he swiveled toward the doors.

She was standing outside, by her palfrey, her back to him. He knew, without a doubt, that it was Gillian who had come to him in the night. She had snuck through the darkened convent to his cell, pretended to be the abbess and made a fool of him, right enough!

When Nicholas thought of the red-haired minx giving him advice as to the bedding of her, his blood boiled. Faith, was there nothing she would not dare? Slowly, as he gained control of his anger, his outlook altered, his lips curving slightly with satisfaction. Although she was not at all what he had expected, perhaps that was all to the good.

Have at your tricks, then, vixen, Nicholas told her in a silent challenge. The war has just begun.

Chapter Three

Nicholas had driven them hard until dusk, and he took satisfaction in seeing the little nun stumble from her mount, barely able to walk after the journey. He and his men were well used to such travels, but Gillian would have done little riding at the convent.

Now her head was bent over her supper in what Nicholas could only assume was exhaustion. In another woman, he would have thought the pose a sign of submission, but not so with this one. He suspected that she would not reveal even this small weakness, if she knew he was watching from underneath the trees.

She was a strange creature, but a worthy opponent, Nicholas decided. Aye, in the brief time he had known her, she had shown more courage by far than her worthless uncle! Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. Only her midnight visit to him at the convent smacked of Hexham’s deviousness, and he had yet to discover the reason for that foolery. Still, it served to remind him that treachery and deceit ran in her blood, and he had best not turn his back on her, wife or no.

The knowledge fueled his hatred for her, and Nicholas stepped forward, impatient to torment her. She had eaten more than enough already. Indeed, he was beginning to wonder where all that food was going. His bride might be taller than most women, but she was certainly not fat. Yet he had been finished for some time, and still she continued to feed. Perhaps she sought to delay speech with him, he mused, his lip curling. The suspicion urged him on, and he stalked to where she sat by the fire and stood over her in purposeful intimidation.

“Have you had your fill, wife?” he asked.

She stiffened and straightened her drooping shoulders, her chin lifting imperceptibly, and Nicholas spared a bit of admiration for her strength. It was quickly replaced by annoyance, however, when she refused to look at him.

“No,” she answered, sharp as a fishmonger’s wife. Then she took another bite of bread, without even bothering to acknowledge his lordship over her.

Her impudence made him bristle. “Whether you wished it or no, I am your husband now, and I say you are finished,” he snapped, reaching for her trencher.

She glanced up at him then, her green eyes flashing contempt. “Would you starve me, my lord?” She spat the appellation at him as though it were a curse.

“Ha! ‘Twould be hard to waste away on what you have put in your belly this night!” Nicholas replied. Then he paused, as if to reconsider her suggestion. “But ‘tis a notion, wife. Perhaps I will, if you do not please me.”

Instead of lashing out at him, as he expected, she released the trencher and dropped her gaze to her lap. Did she think to ignore him? Nicholas would not allow it. He took her chin in his hand and raised it, forcing her to meet his eyes. The antagonism he had come to know greeted him, but something else lurked in those green depths.

Fear. Nicholas could almost smell it. Her nostrils flared, and her breasts began rising and falling rapidly with the force of each breath. Despite her bravado, the vixen was terrified, for the first time since he had met her. Why now? Nicholas wondered briefly, before the answer came to him, clear and swift.

The bedding. This daredevil who had braved her abbess, his wrath and a leap from a convent window was afraid of doing her marital duty. She had come to him last night begging him to spare her body not out of whimsy, to make him look the fool, but because she was frightened of his lust.

His first reaction was to feel insulted. Nicholas never made an effort to please women; his de Laci looks had always guaranteed female attention, more than he wanted, in fact. And although he did not pride himself on any particular skills, those he took to his bed had never complained of their treatment there.

Nicholas could feel her pulse beneath his finger, racing wildly, but not with anticipation. Why should he be offended? He had sought to torment her, and he had succeeded. His proud, defiant wife was scared to death. Nicholas told himself the means did not matter.

But, somehow, it did.

Nicholas released her chin, and though she made an effort to keep it from falling, her bold stance was gone. Her fists were closed so tightly that her knuckles had gone white from the strain, yet Nicholas took no delight in the sight. Her discomfiture was strangely affecting, and without thinking, Nicholas took her wrists and drew them forward.

She flinched, but he held them fast and gently ran his thumbs across the fleshy part of her palm until her fingers unfurled like a reluctant blossom. Her nails had left marks so deep that Nicholas was surprised they had not drawn blood. Slowly he moved his thumbs over the punctured skin, wondering when last he had touched another person.

He could not remember ever holding a woman’s hands, though there was something oddly compelling about the act. Gillian’s were soft, yet strong, with blunt-tipped fingers that had seen their share of work. Nicholas stared at them, fascinated by their form and feel, and continued stroking until he heard a strangled sound. He glanced up, startled by the stunned look on her face, and released her abruptly.

“Get to your bed, wife,” he snapped. Turning on his heel, Nicholas stalked away, but he felt her gaze following him until he gained the cover of the trees. Then a flurry of noise told him that she ran, stumbling, to her tent.

Stupid wench! Refusing to look at her, Nicholas remained where he was until she had settled down. What the devil had possessed him? His efforts to bully her had turned into something else entirely, although Nicholas was not sure what. She was his enemy! And he had best remember it. He tried, concentrating on the hatred that he had long nurtured, but his stomach rebelled, burning with a fire brighter than that which lit the camp.

Although he wanted to bend over in agony, Nicholas forced himself to remain still. It would be better soon, for he usually gained some ease after eating, and meanwhile he could do naught but wait.

“Why do you not rape her?”

The words, more than Darius’s voice, made Nicholas start, and he swiveled to stare at his companion, his eyes narrowing into slits. The Syrian was seated against a tree, blending in with the shadows as if he were one with them.

“Obviously it is the girl’s worst fear, else why last night’s charade?” Darius asked, his face expressionless.

“You heard her?”

“She made enough noise about it,” Darius answered. “I also saw the abbess when you talked with her this morning. The holy woman knew nothing of it, did she?”

Nicholas shook his head, thoughtfully. “‘Twas the little nun, masquerading as her better.” He sank down to his haunches, trying vainly to soothe the ache in his belly.

“Then why not rape her? You said you would find that which she feared most and make her suffer it. Why do you dally? We are far from any aid. No one will heed her screams. Perhaps you would like the men to watch?”

Nicholas frowned in annoyance, for he was not fooled by Darius’s cool suggestions. The Syrian disliked Nicholas’s plans for his bride, and so would force them down his throat. “I want her not,” Nicholas retorted.

“Why? She has not the beauty of the women of my lands, but-”

Nicholas cut him off, his head filled with the memory of blazing green eyes and slender hands alive beneath his own. “She is comely enough,” he muttered.

“Why, then? Does not every Frank sire himself an heir at all costs?”

“I want no child, especially not one with Hexham’s tainted blood!” Nicholas snapped. “Nor will I surrender to the vixen any part of me—not even my seed!”

Refusing to elaborate, Nicholas glared his companion into silence. Darius’s experience with women was expansive; he loved them freely and then moved on without a qualm. None ever really touched him, so he was not wary of their wiles, but Nicholas had seen other men, seemingly intelligent and reasonable beings, succumb to the pleasures to be had in a woman’s bed. A man’s body too easily ruled over his head, and Nicholas would never let that happen to him.

Unwilling to share his reasoning with one who would not understand, Nicholas remained sullen and quiet. Beside him, the Syrian was still, his dark expression unchanging, but those eyes, blacker than the night, seemed to probe into Nicholas’s soul, seeking out his secrets.

Swearing, Nicholas looked away, unwilling to let the other man see too closely. “‘Tis more of a torment to make her wait and wonder and suffer her fear,” he said, telling himself, as well, that he took grim satisfaction in her terror.

Married but one day, and he had already found a way to bring his arrogant bride to her knees! Nicholas sought the heady rush of victory that he had so coveted, but all he felt was a twisting ache in his gut that would not go away.

Gillian tried to breathe slowly, concentrating on the air that moved into her body and out again, lest she become a gasping wreck, unable to feed her own lungs. Coward, that she should lie here immobilized by fright! And all over something that other women did easily enough.

She knew what was going to happen, of course. Her master, Abel Freemantle, had told her more than once, describing it in graphic detail as he groped her. Gillian shuddered, gasping at the memory of the fat, dirty burgher loosening his braies to show off his wick, a horrid little red thing that Gillian could hardly believe capable of all that he claimed.

Yet, if what Freemantle had said was true, then she could expect her husband to bare his part, too, and do more than talk about it. Gillian tried to imagine Nicholas de Laci pulling down his braies for her, and she shivered, suddenly hot inside and cold without. Shutting her eyes tight, she hoped to block out the image of him, so terrible and yet so beautiful.

Oh, she was not oblivious of his appeal! No woman could be, for though Nicholas de Laci acted like a heartless fiend, there was nothing harsh about his features. His thick sweep of hair, so dark as to be nearly black, was always smooth, falling perfectly to his shoulders, in sad contrast to her own wild mane.

His brows were finely arched over eyes the color of silver, his cheeks smooth above the shadow of new beard and his lips curved nicely under a deep indentation that made her heart trip, whether she willed it or no. His nose, not aquiline, was nonetheless well formed and kept his face from looking feminine, though none would ever confuse him with a woman.

Nicholas de Laci was distinctly, deliberately male, from the way he moved to the hard lines of his strong, tall body, from the deep timbre of his smooth voice to the flicker of his dark lashes. In fact, he seemed to possess more masculine appeal than Gillian had ever imagined possible. She suspected that any number of women had gladly lain awaiting the lord in his bed, for he was not only handsome, but clean, and he smelled not of horses and sweat, but of some exotic essence all his own.

Although he did not fit the descriptions of the flattering, courtly heroes of the ballads, he could be…less severe than she had come to expect. When he grasped her wrists, Gillian had thought for one terrifying moment that he was going to tie her up, but instead he had taken her hands in his, running his thumbs over her palms until she felt a strange quickening. Just the memory of his dark head bent over her and the slow caress of his fingers drew a moan from her such as the one that had erupted from her throat at the time, dispelling the odd mood that had settled over him.

Gillian hugged herself. His gentleness had disappeared as swiftly as it came, leaving her with naught but his usual cold fury. Nicholas de Laci would save his tenderness for other women, while serving her only the icy splinters of his hatred.

And that, Gillian suspected, would be the worst of what awaited her. Not only would he violate her body this night, but he would try to despoil her soul, too, with the force of the malevolence that lurked inside his beautiful frame.

Yet Gillian had no choice but to lie and wait, her fright feeding upon itself, deep into the night. Her exhausted, aching flesh begged for respite from her day of riding, but her eyes remained wide open, her breathing swift and ragged, until finally she heard something above the roaring of her own blood in her ears.

“Rest, my lady, for your husband sleeps. He will not come to you.”

Gillian jerked her head up in response, for there had been no footfall, no sound of approach. Was she imagining things, or had someone spoken? It must be the foreigner, she decided, for who else would bring her tidings of peace? He was a strange one, but so were all males, she thought as she finally relaxed.

None, however, were quite as terrible or as beautiful as her husband.

He was watching her. Gillian could feel those silver eyes boring into her, and her cheeks burned with frustration. It was bad enough that she was forced to ride until her muscles screamed for relief, but on top of that misery, she had to suffer his predatory gaze. All day she had felt it pricking her, disrupting her thoughts.

Although aching and weary, she had tried to assess her situation and make some sort of decision about the future, without much success. Gillian was not one for planning; she knew that the best of schemes were all too easily overturned. Life threw things at you, and the most you could hope to do was endure.

And she had. Gillian was a survivor. She told herself firmly that she had already abided worse things than this unwanted marriage. She even knew that some women would be thrilled to find themselves wed to a young, handsome, wealthy knight, despite his evil disposition. Some were even drawn to cold, cruel men, but not Gillian. She recognized the evil fiend lurking beneath that beautiful exterior.

What, then, could she do? Her first instinct to flee returned, but now was not the time to do it, when surrounded by his men on the road, her location unknown. No doubt she would have a better chance of escaping when they reached their destination.

Still, the idea did not sit well with her. Somehow, she felt as if Nicholas de Laci had thrown down his gauntlet in challenge, and she would be a coward to run from it. She had always faced her troubles; it was not her way to hide from them.

All her life, Gillian had tried to make the best of every situation. She was not fatally optimistic or unrealistic, but she was determined not to fall into despair, as her mother had done, wasting away to nothing because of the follies of others.

With a sigh, Gillian realized that she was just going to have to reserve judgment until they arrived at wherever they were going. A lot depended upon him. Just how much did he hate her? How badly would he treat her? Perhaps his glares were brought on by her close proximity, and once among his people he would forget her. She shot a glance at him as they sat by the fire, hoping he would do just that.

During the day, he was not so frightening. He was just another mean master, albeit a handsome one, who drove them all on too far, too quickly, and wore his animosity toward her like a shield. All through the long ride, she had known naught but anger toward him, for she had done nothing to earn his enmity.

During the day, she had returned his dark glares with her own, had even possessed the temerity to answer his orders with tart replies. But now that twilight was settling around them, Gillian was not so sure of herself. She felt her nerves grow taut once again and her breath quicken.

During the day, Nicholas de Laci was simply a man, but when night fell, he became her husband and, as such, a creature to be feared for what he might do to her in the darkness. His evil looks took on a more sinister aspect, his face an unholy beauty that both repelled and attracted her.

Shuddering, Gillian nearly dropped the piece of meat she had plucked from the fire. Then, in her haste to retrieve it, she thrust it into her mouth too quickly and flinched as it burned her. Hurriedly she grabbed her cup and drank enough water to soothe her steaming throat.

“By faith, you make a pig of yourself,” her husband commented from a few feet away from her. Although she suspected that she did appear unmannerly, Gillian tried to give him a ferocious look, but it was difficult to do while her eyes were watering.

He made a sound of disgust, then suddenly stilled. “You eat enough for two,” he whispered, as if to himself. His face grew even more cold and frightful, and his eyes narrowed as they raked her from head to toe. “Are you with child?”

Gillian nearly choked at the question. Truly, he was a madman! “Aye, ‘tis the way of things in a convent,” she replied.

He stiffened at her snide answer, and she braced herself for his wrath, but he did not strike her. “It has been my experience that some of the so-called holy women wander the halls at night, seeking out male visitors. Indeed, did I not see you involved in such a game?” he asked, fairly purring with superiority.

Gillian’s mouth popped open at the realization that he knew of her masquerade as the abbess. Obviously, he was more clever than she suspected, damn the fiend to hell!

“Do not try to lie to me or fool me, little nun,” he snapped. “For you shall fail—and suffer for your efforts.”

His voice, so deep and smooth in the darkness, sent shivers up Gillian’s spine, but it was not his threats that startled her. Little? No one had called her little since she was a child. Yet this lord was a tall one, and she would have to lean back her head to look at him, if she ever desired to get that close…

“Why do you hate me?” Gillian asked, to remind herself just what lay between them. As she eyed him intently, she could tell by the flick of his lashes that her question surprised him, but he quickly recovered his disdain.

“Your blood, vixen. ‘Tis tainted.”

His forthright response annoyed her, though the answer was what she had expected. “And what manner of man was my uncle, that you worry his heir after his death?”

“He was a base coward, a thief, and a treacherous, murderous villain.” The words were spoken with such cool conviction that they nearly took Gillian’s breath away, and she watched, horrified, as his silver eyes came to life with the force of an enmity greater than she had ever imagined. Her heart sank under the weight of it.

Entreaty was hopeless, and yet she made the effort anyway. “But I am blameless,” she reasoned. “I knew him not. I have never even set eyes upon him.”

“He sent money for you to join the convent.”

“Yes,” Gillian said, bitterness creeping into her voice. “To be rid of me… because he did not want me, as no one ever wanted me.” Too late, she realized how much of herself she had revealed, and she would have taken back her words. This man seated so close to her might be possessed of an angel’s face and form, but he was a devil who despised her. Better not to give him any part of herself, else she find it used to destroy her at the first opportunity.

In an effort to distract him from her slip of the tongue, Gillian threw a stick on the fire and watched it flare, the flames reaching up to light his flawless features. She realized that he could have taken anyone to wife, but now was stuck with her, a stranger who would serve as a constant reminder of some past grievance. No wonder he was angry.

“What of your father, Hexham’s brother?” he asked.

“What of him?”

“Did you love him?” His eyes narrowed, as if the thought displeased him, and Gillian did not know whether to give him lie or truth, for she suspected this man was much more adept at twisting words and thoughts to his own ends than herself.

“No,” she finally answered, honestly. “He was a wastrel and a spendthrift, losing any coin that he might gain, with no care for his wife or family. So you see, there is nothing between him or his brother and myself. Why punish me for their sins?”

For a moment, he looked uncomfortable, as if something pained his strong warrior’s body, but then his eyes glittered with unmistakable malice. “You are his heir. You are all that is left.”

The words, spoken so matter-of-factly, made Gillian catch her breath, and the look on his face as he uttered them frightened her far more than any threat. She realized that Nicholas de Laci lived for naught but revenge, and the knowledge filled her with despair.

“What will you do with me?” Gillian asked. Her heart pounded with trepidation, for she knew full well that he could do whatever he pleased—send her away, lock her in a dungeon, starve her, beat her—and no one would say a thing to him. As his wife, she was his chattel.

The convent, with its boredom and toil, was looking better by the minute, and her handsome husband more terrible than she had ever dreamed.

“Do not be in a hurry to discover your future, little nun, for we have many long years ahead of us,” he said, smiling grimly at the taunt.

His words, coupled with the promise in his tone, made Gillian’s blood run cold, and she put aside her trencher, her hunger forgotten. How could she ever have thought to make the best of this marriage? It was impossible!

“I am tired,” she said, suddenly eager to get away from his stifling presence. “You will excuse me?” She expected refusal, for he was nothing if not recalcitrant, yet he nodded curtly. Gillian understood why when she saw the glow of triumph in his eyes. With a gasp of fury, she rose and stomped off, the sound of his laughter following her to the tent.

Gillian’s pride smarted at his successful intimidation, and she would have marched right back to face him, were she not so fearful that he would join her soon enough. Each breath became a struggle as she contemplated the ill-usage that she was certain would come this night. Now that she knew the depths of her husband’s hatred, Gillian expected the worst sort of violence from him. She knew about rape, had seen its effects, yet she could do nothing but lie waiting for it.

Not until she heard the Syrian’s soft assurance did Gillian sleep at last, and then it was only to toss and turn restlessly, caught in dreams of Nicholas de Laci’s face, brightened by the fire’s flames, just like that of the devil himself.

Chapter Four

For once, Nicholas was rather annoyed by the circumspect greeting he received upon his return to Belvry. Although usually unconcerned with his home or his people, for some reason he now found himself wanting the little nun to be dutifully impressed. He told himself that she should do well to recognize his power and wealth, which was evidenced by the prosperous demesne and modern castle.

He did not bother to note that such things had never mattered to him before. Nor had the behavior of the members of his household, who suddenly seemed distant and wary to his eyes. In truth, they had been more taken with Piers, but Aisley’s husband was a showy sort, given to great emotion, Nicholas thought with contempt.

The fools! They had no cause for complaint, for he was a good lord, knowledgeable and just. It was simply not his way to hold speech for the sake of talking or to visit his tenants for no reason or to throw a celebration upon every excuse, as his sister was wont to do since her marriage. Nay, he kept the castle in good repair, protected its residents and had an excellent steward who ran the place well.

And he was certain that was enough. Still, when Nicholas walked into his hall, he was aware of the silence that rippled like a wave through the great room, an odd quiet that had not been evident in Piers’s presence, or even in his father’s time.

Ignoring it, Nicholas stalked across the rush-strewn tiles with Darius at his side. Refusing to look back to see his bride’s reaction, he told himself that he did not care what she thought of his holdings. “I am for a bath,” he said without a glance at the expectant faces that surrounded him.

“I, as well,” said his companion. “Will your new bride do the duty? You have driven us hard and long, and I have a mind to have her wash my weary body.”

Darius’s words stopped Nicholas in his tracks, and he turned swiftly to meet the Syrian’s inscrutable dark gaze. “Is not that the way of your people?” Darius asked. “That the lady of the castle bathe her guests?”

“Not the little nun,” Nicholas snapped. “She is unaccustomed to such tasks.” Suspecting the Syrian of toying with him, Nicholas eyed his companion closely, but Darius’s face gave away nothing. Nicholas pictured his naked body, deep gold and gleaming, with Gillian bending over it. His belly burned.

“She will be busy, attending her lord,” Nicholas added, giving Darius a warning glare for good measure. He glanced back toward his wife, who trailed behind, gawking like a peasant.

“Osborn!” he called, so sharply that the servant stumbled over himself hurrying to Nicholas’s side. “See to my lady wife!” Nicholas fairly spat the last word as he inclined his head toward Gillian. At Osborn’s startled nod, Nicholas said, “Take her to my chamber and provide her with hot water.”

Then he turned to Gillian. “Get yourself a bath, quickly, for I want one, too, and I shall have you attend me.” The shock that passed over her lovely features gave him some measure of satisfaction, but, as usual, she was too much hidden by her ugly nun’s garb for Nicholas’s liking. He had seen his fill of it. “And rid yourself of that black gown. Osborn, find some of Aisley’s old trunks and bring them to the room. I wish my wife to be properly dressed.”

As Osborn hurried her away, Nicholas felt more than a little relief. She would attend no one but himself, by the faith! The knowledge stirred his blood, and he watched her as she left the hall, hips swaying gently beneath her heavy garments. So intent was he upon his wife that he barely acknowledged his steward, who came forward, offering tentative congratulations.

Accustomed to keeping his own counsel, Nicholas saw no need to share the facts of his marriage with anyone, so he accepted their good wishes, but greeted any questions with a silent scowl that discouraged further curiosity. And although he listened absently to their foolish chatter, his eyes kept straying to the stairs that led up to his chamber.

A sudden eagerness flooded him at the thought of the vixen washing his body. Of course, such duties would be onerous to her, and Nicholas told himself that was why the notion appealed to him; yet that could not fully explain his impatience.

When he felt sufficient time had passed, Nicholas dismissed his people with a nod and slowly walked to the curving stair. Once out of their sight, however, he took the steps two at a time until he reached the top. Although the great chamber had never held any particular allure for him before, Nicholas rushed to the door and flung it wide, without pausing to knock.

She turned, startled by the noise, and he could see that she had, indeed, completed her toilet. In fact, while he watched, she finished plaiting her wet locks into a fat braid that fell over one shoulder. Her fingers were slim and nimble, and her hair… Faith, even damp, it was a fiery color, like a bright sunset, and ungodly thick and long, for his eyes followed it down below her breast.

She was wearing one of Aisley’s gowns, a dark green that matched her eyes, but it was not right for her by any other means. Crafted to fit his sister’s dainty, slender frame, it was too short and much too tight for his wife. Gillian was far more generously endowed, a fact that had been hidden under her shapeless clothing. Far more generously endowed, Nicholas realized as he stared at the bodice of the dress, where her breasts were flattened into two great mounds.

She must have hurried, for Nicholas thought he saw a patch of dampness where the linen was stretched taut. It looked as if it could accommodate nothing more without bursting at the seams, and yet Nicholas suddenly saw it ripple as her nipples hardened, creating two tiny points in the fabric.

He whirled away from the sight. “You will make yourself some clothes that fit,” he ordered, hoarsely. His plans to robe his wife in rags were forgotten at the swift and sure knowledge that he not want her appearing below in such provocative garb as this.

Eyeing the still-steaming bath, Nicholas yanked off his boots. “Help me from my mail before the water is stonecold,” he snapped, and soon her hands, surprisingly strong, were lifting the coat from him. He tugged off his hose and his braies and stepped into the tub, but when he looked around, his wife was conspicuously absent.

“Well?” he snapped, irritated to discover that she had turned her back in some sort of misplaced modesty. “Get over here and do your duty!”

Her eyes flashed fire at him, and her braid bounced over her shoulder as she grabbed up a swatch of linen and the lump of soap. Well satisfied with his victory, Nicholas leaned forward, only to feel her begin scrubbing his back fiercely enough to take the skin off. What the devil?

His hand shot out to snare her wrist. “Gentle yourself, vixen, or else,” he warned. Her green eyes clashed with his for a long moment, as if in a battle for supremacy, but finally they dropped away in sullen acquiescence. With an angry tug, she pulled her wrist from his hold and bent once more to her task yet this time, Nicholas felt no discomfort. Indeed, he began to enjoy himself thoroughly.

It had been years since he had been washed, if one did not count his months of helpless recovery in the Holy Land. He had no use for women, and certainly had never availed himself of their giggling presence in his bath. But this was different. Gillian was no flirting female or simpering maiden. Far from it, he thought with a smile, and he leaned back, taking pleasure in a welcome, though unexplained, respite from his stomach pain.

Obviously, the vixen had been a poor servant, for she made no effort to hide her dislike for waiting on him. Nicholas grinned, reveling in the scowl that marred her face. Although he had thought her skin creamy and clear, he could see now that a few freckles were scattered over her turnedup nose. However, they did not detract from her beauty, which struck him now with astonishing force. Was it the change from her black nun’s garb, or had he simply never been near enough to observe it?

Slowly Nicholas let his gaze rove over her features. Her lashes were dark and thick, her cheeks flushed from anger or exertion, and wispy tendrils of bright hair were drying around her face. Amazing that she had turned out to be so lovely… Nicholas’s reverie was interrupted by a vicious pull on his arm as she stretched it out and soaped it. Apparently she was trying to injure him, but her puny efforts were laughable.

She moved around him to take his other arm, and Nicholas caught a whiff of her scent. It was clean and heady, like wildflowers. It lingered in the steamy air, fresh and fragrant, teasing at his senses and robbing him of his brief tranquillity. The atmosphere changed, and as she bent close, he was no longer filled with triumph, but with an unnerving desire to reach out and touch the thick braid that fell down her back.

Tearing his gaze away from it, Nicholas looked down, but that view was worse. She was washing his chest, her strong fingers tangling in his hair as she spread the cloth over him, and he drew in a harsh breath as he watched her move lower, across his stomach, kneading his flesh, more slowly, more gently…

How long had it been since someone had touched him like this? He had never felt comfortable with close contact. Even his experiences with women were swift and sure, and yet he knew none of his usual repulsion now. Indeed, Nicholas felt heat spreading through him, filling him with sensation…

When her wrist brushed his upraised thigh, his calming bath suddenly was transformed into something else altogether by the reaction of his body, both immediate and unexpected. His blood ran hot and fierce, and his tarse stiffened and swelled, as if reaching for her, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to feel those blunt fingers stroking him to release.

“Get out!” he shouted. Unwilling to let her see his response to her touch, Nicholas sat up, sloshing water over the sides in his hurry to hide the evidence from her gaze.

“What?” Gillian lifted her head, and Nicholas looked at her, only to feel himself grow even harder. Her ferocious scowl was gone, replaced by a rather dazed expression. Her skin had gone rosy, her lips were parted, and her green eyes were all soft and dark. Farther down, he could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts in her too-tight bodice, her nipples outlined boldly by the damp fabric. She resembled nothing so much as a voluptuous dairymaid, ripe for a tumble.

“Get out!” Nicholas shouted again, and this time the order seemed to penetrate her dulled senses, for she dropped the soap and fled. The door slammed loudly behind her, and only then did Nicholas release the breath he had been holding. And only after firmly disciplining his thoughts did he gain control over his own body.

But just as he finally mastered himself, Nicholas realized that his wife was running around the castle in that shamelessly small gown and, if he was not mistaken, bare feet. To some randy knight on the prowl, she might have the look of a bold villein eager for a mounting. Although he had no intention of bedding her himself, Nicholas wanted no other man putting hands on his property. The very thought made his blood boil.

Cursing fluently, he climbed from the tub, dripping-wet, wrapped a linen cloth around his waist and flung open the door. His usual alertness was abandoned as he took after her, heedless of the slippery tiles beneath him. Without a thought as to how he might appear, Nicholas raced along the passage as fast as he could manage while still clutching his scant covering.

Suddenly, nothing else mattered but that he find her before someone else saw her as he had, before another man was tempted by her vixen’s face and voluptuous body. As for himself, Nicholas put his own reaction down to exhaustion and the unusual circumstances of the bath.

He refused to consider the mortifying notion that he might be attracted to his wife.

* * *

Gillian ran into the first room that stood open. It was smaller than the great chamber, of course, but like all else here at Nicholas’s home, it was quite luxurious. For once, however, Gillian did not stare in awe at the furniture and tapestries, but went straight to the window, where a lovely seat had been fashioned with brightly colored pillows. Throwing herself on them, Gillian put her head down upon her crossed arms and burst into tears.

She had not cried during her long years without privacy at the convent, but now, unleashed, Gillian’s misery poured forth in wracking sobs. And it might have continued unabated, if she had not heard a noise in between her gulps for air. Lifting her head in cautious curiosity, she was horrified to see an older woman, short and rounded, standing right beside her, cooing to her gently.

“There now,” the woman said, reaching out to pat Gillian’s shoulder consolingly. “Surely ‘tis not as bad as all that. Here, tell Edith all about it, and you will feel better.”

Gillian’s embarrassment faded under the warmth in the stranger’s gentle brown eyes. No one had comforted her, really, since her mother had passed on, and when Gillian found herself buried against the Edith’s ample bosom, she let out her woe in a long wail. “I am a big, gawky, ugly thing, and he hates me!”

“Tsk, tsk… That is not so, my girl,” Edith said. “You are tall, true enough, but you are neither fat nor ungainly. Here, let me take a look at you.”

Sniffing loudly, Gillian stood up and waited while the woman assessed her, turmng her this way and that under a discerning gaze. “Well, you have not the coloring of my Aisley, but that does not mean you are not lovely. Why, just look at your eyes, rare as emeralds, and such thick lashes! And the color of your hair, bright as a flame, and enough to heat any man’s passions, I’ll warrant.”

Gillian blushed, unaccustomed to such plain speaking, or, indeed, flattery of any sort. “Aye, you would please any knight with that figure of yours, and many a lady would kill for your curves.”

Startled, Gillian looked down at her body in wonder. She had never received compliments before, and although she suspected that much of what the woman said was designed to comfort, still, she suddenly saw herself from a different perspective—no longer too big and too boldly colored, but unusual. Maybe even special.

“Now, who is the great fool who would make you feel other than the beautiful woman you are?” Edith asked, clucking in disapproval.

Before Gillian could answer, the chamber door was thrown back on its hinges with a loud bang, and Nicholas filled the doorway.

He was dripping-wet and naked, but for a dampened linen cloth around his waist that did little to hide his magnificent body, and with a low gasp, Gillian took in the whole of him, beautiful and deadly and larger than life.

Strength was there, riding beneath his skin, not in great, lumpy bulges, but in smooth, well-delineated muscle in his arms and across his shoulders. And his chest! Gillian had never seen anything like it. All too well she remembered the feel of it beneath her fingers, smooth and hard and thick with curly dark hair that made something jump and quicken inside her. And below, what she had taken great pains to avoid looking at in his bath now was boldly outlined under the thin material.

Gillian stared. Although in repose, it did not resemble Master Freemantle’s wick in the slightest, but rather more a stallion’s nether parts. Abruptly Gillian glanced away, her face red, her breath coming quickly at the frightening size of him.

The deafening quiet that had descended upon the women at Nicholas’s entrance was broken by Edith, who stepped in front of Gillian, as if to protect the younger, taller woman from the man who stood before them, glaring ferociously. “My lord Nicholas! What are you about, racing around without your clothes?”

Ignoring the older woman, Nicholas pinned Gillian with his glittering, hateful eyes. “Get to your chamber, wife!” he said. His tone, though lbw and even, was laced with threat, but Gillian was too outraged to beware.

“You just bellowed at me to get out!”

“Do not raise your voice to me, vixen?”

“My lord Nicholas, what has gotten into you?” scolded Edith, still poised protectively before Gillian.

“Do not overstep your bounds, Edith,” Nicholas snarled.

“It is all right,” Gillian said, moving out from behind the older woman. “His quarrel is with me, as always.”

“As I live and breathe, I never thought to see such a sight,” Edith continued, as if her lord had not reprimanded her. Indeed, she seemed not to fear his wrath, for she put her hands on her hips and glared right back at him. “You should be the one to hie to your chamber, before you catch your death! And the lady can stay here with me.”

“This is Aisley’s room,” Nicholas snapped.

“And since Aisley has her own home now, I am sure she will not mind the lady’s presence here.”

Although he looked as if he would fain kill them both, Nicholas made no move. “Very well,” he snapped. “But I hold you responsible, Edith. She is your charge—for now.” Flicking a contemptuous gray glance over Gillian, he added, “And for God’s sake, contrive some decent clothes for her!”

When he left the room, still clutching his makeshift covering, Edith snorted and shut the door behind him.

“Are you not afraid of him?” Gillian asked. Nicholas was taller than she, but he fairly towered over the older woman, and his malice was greater even than his size.

“Nicholas?” Edith asked, dismissing the fierce lord with a shake of her head. “Nay, I am not frightened by him. Why, I have known the boy since he was but a mewling babe. And tilere is little that scares me anymore, after Dunmurrow!” She shivered, as if the very name chilled her.

“Dunmurrow?”

“Shh… you just sit down here by the fire, my lady,” she said, coaxing Gillian onto a beautifully carved settle. Though it was a warm day, Edith threw a soft fur over her shoulders and another over her bare feet, until she felt cozy and pampered. It was easy to relax under the older woman’s ministrations, especially after the harsh routine of the convent and the tense days since her marriage. Gillian rested her head against the smooth wood and closed her eyes.

“There now, that is better! Where shall I begin? Well, I am Edith, and I have served at Belvry since I was a young girl myself. I attended the lady of the castle, God rest her soul, and after she died, I took care of her daughter Aisley.”

Gillian lifted her lashes in surprise. “Aisley is Nicholas’s sister? I had thought…” She lifted her chin, uncertainty making her grim. “I have heard that a lord is wont to keep a leman.”

“Nicholas?” Edith snorted. “Nay, the man is virile enough, but where he spends it all is beyond me. Probably churns it all back into the bile that makes him so fierce.”

Gillian could not help smiling at Edith’s words, though she was still amazed by the woman’s plain speaking. So, Nicholas did not have a female installed at Belvry! Gillian ignored the tiny leap of pleasure that shot through her at the news, and told herself she was relieved to have one fewer enemy.

And yet, Nicholas had a sister. Gillian found it hard to picture such a female. Was she as cold and heartless as her brother? “Perhaps I should not be in the Lady Aisley’s chamber,” she said, voicing her fears aloud.

“Nonsense, child, she is grown and gone now, and lady of her own keep. Though ‘tis not as fine as Belvry, she prefers to live there,” Edith said, as if she did not quite approve of the choice.

Personally, Gillian was not surprised that Nicholas’s sister should choose to stay away. She could not imagine anyone seeking the company of the soulless creature she had married. “Perhaps she fears him, as I do.”

Edith scoffed. “Aisley is frightened of nothing,” she said, her tone revealing mixed emotions about that fact. “After marrying the Red Knight, she can handle her brother easily enough.” The older woman blew out a long sigh.

“Nicholas is not such a bad sort, my lady. He was but a young man when he went with Prince Edward, now our good king, to fight in the Holy Land. I know not what happened to him there, but we were told by that villainous neighbor of ours, may he rot in hell, that Nicholas had been killed. Of course, his poor father was heartbroken, though you would not have known it to look at him.”

She eyed Gillian sharply. “Listen up, my lady, for you might as well know that the de Lacis are a cold lot, my little Aisley excepted, of course. They are not much for affection, and keep a tight control on themselves. Although they do not shout and scream when in a temper, like someone else I could name, neither will they touch another willingly, nor give in to the gentler emotions.”

She shook her head sadly. “But they feel pain as keen as the rest of it, and after losing all his sons to illness and battle, the old lord sickened and passed on himself. That is when Aisley took over the demesne, and ran it very well, thank you, until she married Baron Montmorency.”

The name seemed to affect the older woman deeply, and Gillian lifted her brows in an unspoken question. “Make no mistake, he turned out to be a fine man, but Belvry is my home, and after the wee one was born, I came back here with a new husband of my own.” She gave Gillian a broad wink and a smile.

“But I am getting ahead of myself! ‘Twas only when the castle was under attack, and Aisley’s husband fighting bravely, that Nicholas returned. Just in time, they all say, to save us from our villainous neighbor, Baron Hexham. The people were well pleased to have a de Laci take his rightful heritage, and I am not the only one who hoped that he would marry soon and continue the line. But he had changed, coming back from the East a harder man, and after that business with Hexham… Well, he seemed but a shell of himself.”

Edith brightened then, and grinned. “I must admit that I was surprised to hear him call you wife, but after meeting you, I am sure you are just the one to put everything to rights. Why, just look at the difference in the man already,” the older woman noted. “Never in all my days did I expect to see Nicholas de Laci chasing after a woman, and him half-naked besides!”

She laughed softly, as if the memory were a pleasant one, but Gillian could hardly join her. She remembered too well the glitter of hatred in her husband’s eyes. And, though she was grateful for Edith’s chatter, she was dismayed to learn that the older woman, and perhaps other members of the household, expected her to have some influence over their lord.

Ha! They might as well wish for the moon, for it would be more likely to do their bidding than Nicholas, Gillian thought, doubly angry with him now.

She looked up to see Edith’s brown eyes, eager with curiosity, upon her. “So tell me, my lady, how did you manage to get his attention?” the older woman said with a grin.

“In truth, I did nothing but be born,” Gillian answered after a long silence. “You see, I am Hexham’s niece.”

Nicholas was surly at supper, and so inattentive to the steward who tried to report upon his holdings that the man gaped at him in astonishment. The food seemed to sit like a hot stone in his belly, and he soon pushed away his trencher, though he knew that if he did not eat, he would regret it later. The promised pain meant little, for he had lived with it for years. Instead, his thoughts traveled to the upper chamber where his wife was taking her repast alone.

It was only natural, Nicholas told himself, to wish to keep the object of his revenge within view. Although he had sent a soldier up to guard her door, he trusted no one, least of all Edith, to watch over his wife. The foolish old servant did not know, nor could anyone guess, that the little nun was really a vixen who might leap out a window at the slightest provocation.

The thought of her escape attempt made Nicholas rise halfway from his seat, and he would have gone up to check on her, but for the startled gaze of his steward. He shifted slightly, nodding to the man, then stared at his cup. Had the meals at Belvry always been so interminable? Was there no way to hasten the serving and eating of food?

He looked at the members of his household, seated side by side along the trestles that lined the tables of the great hall, and realized that they had become soft, taking their ease at length. He ought to send them scurrying to their pallets, and then…

“I am glad to see that you abandoned your previous attire for something more suitable.” The sound of the low voice, suddenly so close to him, startled Nicholas, and he cursed himself for the lapse in his alertness. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the Syrian, who leaned near.

“What are you talking about?”

Darius lifted his dark brows in an enigmatic expression that made him look all the more exotic and foreign. “I had heard you were running around the castle wearing nothing but a scrap of linen to cover your modesty.”

For the first time in years, Nicholas felt heat rise in his cheeks, at the reminder of his headlong rush after his wife. He picked up a bare bone and rolled it absently between his fingers. “‘Twould be a bit chilly for continual wear,” he said coolly.

Darius smiled slowly. “At first, I thought you were but donning your emir’s robes, but from what I gather, your costume was even less substantial.”

Nicholas did not comment. He had no intention of explaining himself to the Syrian, or of dwelling upon an incident best forgotten. If Darius’s object was to inform him of the gossip, then he had done so. He had no wish to discuss it further.

“They say you charged after her like a bear—”

“Enough!” Nicholas said. Immediately he regretted his response. Was the Syrian trying to goad him? Nicholas assessed his companion with narrowed eyes. Although his expression revealed nothing, Nicholas had the distinct impression that the Syrian was amused. And he did not like it.

The bone in his hand snapped abruptly.

“Do you find something humorous, Darius?” Nicholas asked. The Syrian shook his head, his dark face impassive, his black eyes cloaked. But Nicholas persisted, staring hard at his companion until he realized that he would welcome a fight to ease his frustrations. Finally, he looked away, angered by his own lack of discipline.

“I will see to the sentries,” the Syrian said. Nicholas nodded, and was grateful for a respite from that knowing gaze when Darius left his seat. It was getting late. He ought to seek his rest and attend to his wife.

Gillian. Nicholas’s heart seemed to pound faster and harder as he pondered her fate, come the night. After what had happened in the bath, he was leery of sleeping with her. Nun or novice she was not unfamiliar with womanly wiles. Aye, innocent as she might seem, she could entice as well as the sultriest of harem dwellers. And he had no intention of becoming a slave to her body, when it was she who was at his mercy.

In truth, he ought to make her lie on the floor at the foot of his bed, like the meanest of servants. And yet her skin was so creamy and fine, Nicholas wondered if such a hard berth might not mar it. Perhaps he should just let her stay in Aisley’s room.

Daunted by his indecision, Nicholas took a deep breath to clear his head. Usually his judgment was swift and sure, and he liked not this continued dithering. With a frown of annoyance, he resolved to keep his wife within his sight. She was a clever, bold thing, and he would be wise to keep an eye on her, lest he find himself deprived of his vengeance come morning.

His. vengeance. Nicholas’s blood quickened as he contemplated his course. Already he had discovered her deepest fear and how effortlessly he could torment her with it. He would let the vixen sleep on a thick pallet, so that she would suffer no bruises, but he would keep her within reach… at the foot of his bed.

For the first time this evening, Nicholas’s lips curled into a ghost of a smile. Absently he stroked the curve of his cup with his thumb, again and again, while he pictured Hexham’s niece on her knees before him. Aye, he would taunt her easily enough—with his sex.

Chapter Five

Gillian sat back, a bit uncomfortable under Edith’s constant attention. Being waited upon took some getting used to, and the habits of the nunnery died hard. Still, the older woman seemed offended by Gillian’s offers of help, so she played at the role of lady, and wondered just how long this treatment would last.

Somehow, she did not think Nicholas would approve.

“Well, you certainly have a healthy appetite,” Edith commented. As the servant cleaned away the remains of the meal, she eyed Gillian closely. “Could it be that he has got you with child already?”

Gillian blanched. “Certainly not,” she answered sharply. Then, feeling guilty for attacking her only friend here at Belvry, she took a deep breath and tried to find the words to explain. “‘Tis an old habit,” she said. “There was a time when I…when I did not have enough to eat…and since then I have filled myself whenever I can.”

“Oh, my poor child,” Edith said. Gillian turned away, too proud to see the pity she knew would be in the old servant’s eyes, but to her relief, Edith did not belabor the subject. The woman simply made a brisk sound in her throat and moved on.

“Well, you look fine and healthy, so I am sure that a baby will be not long in coming, especially since Lord Nicholas wants you to attend him in his chamber this night,” she said, giving Gillian a broad wink.

Gillian was horrified. The good food and friendly company of the older woman had relaxed her, but that easy mood fled at such news. She sat up straighter, so as to take slow, simple breaths, and stared, wide-eyed, at the door that had kept her closed away—and safe—from him.

“See, my lady, he cannot hate you as much as you say, or else he would not take his pleasure with you,” Edith rambled on. Suddenly the woman’s chatter seemed irritating, and Gillian would stop it before it embarrassed her further.

“The only pleasure he will take is in abusing me.”

“My lady!” Edith said, with a gasp of surprise. “I admit that Lord Nicholas is not the gentlest of men, but you cannot mean to say he has hurt you?”

“Not yet, for he has not had the opportunity to…to consummate the marriage,” Gillian said baldly.

“Oh!” Edith put a hand to her bosom, as if heartily relieved. “‘Tis your fears that are speaking, my lady. Lord Nicholas is a fine figure of a man, tall and strong and well made. Why, he is the most handsome man I have ever seen, excepting my own dear Willie, of course.”

“Yes, he is beautiful. Beautiful and terrible,” Gillian muttered.

“Nonsense,” Edith said. “He has been to the East, where men are said to acquire an expertise in the arts of love. You cannot tell me that Lord Nicholas does not know his way about a bedchamber.”

Gillian blushed and ducked her head, unprepared for this frank discussion of what transpired between a man and a woman. Not since her days in Master Freemantle’s household had she heard such bold speech, and the memory of the burgher’s foul breath and loathsome touch made her shudder.

“Have no fear, my lady,” Edith said. “There are ways and there are ways, and if Lord Nicholas does not please you as he ought, you can take things into your own hands, so to speak,” she said with a loud chuckle.

“What?”

“I am only saying that there are some who do not respond to kind words and sweet smiles, but most men are swayed easily enough by a woman’s attentions under the covers.”

Stunned, Gillian stared, openmouthed, at the older woman.

“Aye, my lady,” Edith said conspiratorially. “I have marked the way Lord Nicholas looks at you, and to my mind, you could have him at your feet easily enough, should you but make a bit of effort.”

Gillian felt dizzy at the thought. She was distrustful of men and fearful of their lusts, and yet, when she bathed Nicholas de Laci, she had felt only a strange excitement. His body was so compelling that she had found her hands lingering at their task, her fingers exploring the broad pelt of dark hair that covered his hard chest. Trying to maintain a modicum of privacy, she had averted her eyes from the water’s hidden depths, but she had found out later that everything about Nicholas de Laci was larger than life.

Gillian’s heart started beating wildly as she remembered Nicholas de Laci as he had stood in the doorway, naked but for a scrap of linen. She pictured him leaning close, touching her, doing things to her that Master Freemantle had whispered in her ear. The images held a certain forbidden allure that Gillian would never have thought herself capable of feeling, and she closed her eyes, as if to block them from her sight.

When she did, her husband’s face swam before her, handsome enough to turn any girl’s knees to water, yet his expression showed not ecstasy but triumph, and his silver eyes glittered with malice. With a gasp, Gillian lifted her lashes, knowing that she could never turn him away from his twisted course of vengeance.

“Here now, calm yourself, my lady,” Edith said, bending over Gillian, concern in her gaze. “I did not mean to upset you. ‘Twas just a thought, and should you change your mind, you just ask old Edith for some advice. We will have haughty old Nick begging for your favors like a trained pup!”

Gillian smiled bitterly at the woman’s words, for she knew just how impossible it would be to accomplish that feat. Edith was gentle and kind, but she saw what she wanted to see, and she had never faced Nicholas de Laci’s dagger eyes, empty of all but his hatred.

“Well, now, you had better come along, and remember what I said, child,” Edith added.

Gillian stood and nodded, but when the older woman turned, she made sure that her eating knife was secreted upon her person. Although not much of a weapon, she would use it, if endangered. By rights, her body belonged to her husband, but before God, she would not let him harm her.

Grimly she followed the servant toward the great chamber, where he was waiting. Fighting against the same sensations that must have assailed Daniel upon entering the lions’ den, Gillian went in with head held high. She heard her husband’s sharp dismissal of Edith and the ominous thud of the door closing behind the servant, but still she refused to look at him.

Silence settled around her, thick and ominous, and Gillian decided there was something horribly close about the bedchamber, although it was the biggest one she had ever seen. Large, warm and luxurious, it was typical of Belvry, this fantastic home of the de Lacis.

A huge bed with heavy hangings stood against one wall, across from a clean hearth surrounded by coffers and settles soft with thick pillows. Eyeing a fat woven cloth with exotic designs that must have been made in the East, Gillian realized that she had never dreamed of such a place. Truly, it must resemble paradise.

There was only one problem: He was in it.

He had never shared her tent while on the road. In fact, they had been alone only once, right here, when she attended his bath, running her hands over his sleek, wet skin and discovering the hard muscle that ran beneath it. Shivering at the memory that beckoned to her, Gillian forced herself to look at him.

All her longings disappeared in a rush. He stood before her now, so arrogant and cruel that she could hardly believe him to be the same man who had relaxed under her touch, or that she had felt anything other than revulsion toward him.

“You will stay here tonight, wife,” he said, and she drew in a sharp breath. His mouth curved wickedly, as if promising myriad horrors, and without volition, Gillian’s gaze dropped to his groin. He whirled away suddenly, pointing to a thick straw pallet at the foot of the bed. “There is where you shall sleep,” he snapped, as though angered anew.

The floor was traditionally the repose of servants and squires, but Gillian did not protest. Although the bed was big enough to hold six people, she was relieved that she did not have to share it with him. Better to feel the hard tiles beneath her than his body against hers… naked. She trembled.

As if sensing her dismay, he turned on her again, leering spitefully. “I have been lenient with you, vixen, but our trip is over, and now you will be expected to pay the price for your uncle’s treachery.”

He walked slowly around her, like a cat stalking a mouse, but Gillian lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated by his threats. “I have thought long and well on my revenge,” he added, his eyes glittering as they always did when he spoke of his one true passion.

“Of course, it would have been better, if Hexham’s brother had sired a son. Then, I could have killed him outright, but since you are a woman, and at the king’s behest my wife, I shall have to devise other methods of enacting my revenge.”

His sharp gaze raked her slowly, and Gillian struggled to maintain her composure under his sly insinuations. “There are many ways to torture a man, but a woman—?” He left the question dangling in the silence, and Gillian’s breath grew short. His lips curled, as if her fright pleased him mightily.

“Get to your pallet, wife, and await me at my leisure,” he ordered, but Gillian could not move. Too busy trying to fill her lungs to heed his command, she could only gasp, and she kept on gasping until the scowl left his face and he eyed her with alarm.

“What the devil?” Stepping toward her, he took her by the shoulders and shook her slightly. His attentions only agitated her further, and Gillian could do naught but stare at him wide-eyed. His face swam before her, hard and beautiful, before dizziness engulfed her. He must have felt her sway, for the next thing she knew she was scooped up in strong arms and laid upon a soft fur on the great bed.

“By all the saints, ‘tis no wonder you cannot breathe in this gown,” he snapped, and, turning her, he began to loosen the ties. Gillian felt his hand, warm even through her shift as he rubbed his palm across her back, and despite all his warnings and her own wariness, it was not unpleasant.

Although his was not the gentlest of touches, neither was it threatening, and Gillian felt her terror ease at the rhythmic pressure. Indeed, to her surprise, she found the sound of his breathing, low and quick, and the sensation of his heavy hand against her, oddly soothing—until his callused fingers slid onto the bare skin above her shift.

Abruptly her comfort fled, for his fingertips seemed to sear her flesh with their heat and incite in her an unwelcome excitement. Starting, she gasped again, and he moved away, muttering imprecations.

When he returned, he pressed a cup of ale upon her, apparently from a flask he kept in the chamber. “Here, sit up and drink,” he said. Although gruff, his voice seemed different to her ears, as if stripped of its usual cool distance. Though conscious of her gown gaping behind her, Gillian let him help her up against the pillows and took a sip.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Gillian nodded, acutely aware of how close he sat beside her, warm and solid and no longer fearsome. “Are you prone to these fits?” he asked, his tone harsher.

“No,” Gillian answered softly. “Only when I am… Only rarely,” she said, catching herself just in time. She would not let him know how well he had terrorized her—or did he gloat in triumph already? Gillian stiffened and glanced up at him, but he avoided her gaze, surging to his feet, with his back toward her.

“Good! Then I shall expect never to see you possessed by such demons again,” he snapped. As Gillian watched, he leaned forward and pressed a hand against his stomach before straightening swiftly to his full, impressive height. The movement was so subtle that she would not have noticed, had she not been eying him so closely. Did her invincible husband suffer some ailment?

Gillian’s concern fled when he whirled back toward her, his handsome face once more composed and cruel. “Rest yourself,” he advised coldly, “for I will not have you die on me, as your traitorous uncle did. I will have my revenge!”

He stalked to the door and slammed it behind him, the loud bang of the wood echoing into silence, and Gillian was aware of a sharp pain in her chest that had nothing to do with her loss of breath.

Slowly she set the cup down upon a coffer and climbed from the bed. Easing the rest of the way from her outer garment, she folded it neatly and set it aside. Then she settled onto her pallet, still clad in her shift, and pulled a fur over herself. Accustomed to sleeping with a roomful of other women, Gillian found the quiet of the empty chamber strange.

The fire glittered nearby, making Gillian realize that this nest was far softer and warmer than her cot at the convent had ever been. And she would not have to rise again at midnight to kneel upon cold stone for lengthy prayers.

But Belvry held dangers that the nunnery did not. Perhaps this evening her husband would leave her alone and she might snatch some badly needed sleep, yet she could not count upon this respite. There were many long nights ahead, and Gilhan knew the mysterious Syrian would no longer whisper to her of safety.

Suddenly, Gillian recalled the brush of warm fingers across her back, rhythmic and comforting and something more. An odd sensation that she had never known before had taken hold of her…

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