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.
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
