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.
