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
