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.”
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
