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
