offset the luscious fullness of her lips. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his judgment of her.
“Hilda, go below,” he ordered, his tone tempered by his continuing appraisal of the woman who was to be his wife.
With a toss of her head, Hilda obeyed. However, she came much closer to him than necessary on her way to the door as if to remind him of the countless nights of mutual pleasure they had shared. Unfortunately for Hilda, he had already decided to end their liaison. For one thing, as aptly demonstrated by her departure, the serving wench was becoming far too impertinent. For another, once he vowed to be faithful to his wife, he had every intention of abiding by his pledge. His honor would not allow him to do otherwise, even if he didn’t particularly care for the woman. He simply would not break any vow, for any reason.
“Sir Roger, what is the meaning of this intrusion?” Mina Chilcott repeated, her tone calmer and her eyes much more enigmatic than they had been at their first meeting, or even moments before.
Sir Roger de Montmorency was reminded that he had intended to put his betrothed firmly and forever in her place. He was used to unquestioning obedience, respect or fear, and his wife was not going to be any different. “Perhaps I came to assure myself that my servants were attending to you properly,” he said. “You implied that I was somewhat remiss in my supervision.”
She held the dress a little higher. “Hilda seems quite competent. In a number of ways, I suppose,” the young woman finished casually, although there was a brief flicker of condemnation in her eyes that Roger did not like.
He walked toward her slowly and deliberately. “I am the master here,” he said in a commanding tone that was not a shout, but deep and resonating, nonetheless. “I will do as I wish, within the bounds of honor, and it is not for you to criticize, ever. When you are my wife, you would do well to remember that I am used to obedience. I will accept nothing less.”
“And I am used to being chastised, Sir Roger,” she answered quite calmly. “For the present, I am neither your lackey nor your wife, so I ask you again, will you please have the goodness to leave?” Then, to Sir Roger de Montmorency’s considerable chagrin, Mina Chilcott had the effrontery to turn her back to him.
His anger turned to shock when he saw the marred flesh above the neckline of her shift. The white, silky skin was covered with long, thin scars, as if from a lash or a switch. For a moment, he was speechless at the thought that anyone could have inflicted such damage on this woman. Any woman. “Who did that to you?” he demanded hoarsely.
“A man who wanted me to obey,” she replied matter-of-factly, twisting to look at him over her shoulder. Her face was expressionless, except for her remarkable eyes. They were full of defiance, and such resilient inner strength that he could not quite believe those flashing blue gray eyes belonged to a mere woman. “Good night, Sir Roger,” she said.
Astonished by what he had seen, and not quite sure what to say, Roger left the room, slamming the door behind him.
A deep shudder of released tension shook Mina’s body as she slowly lowered her arms and threw the gown back over the chair. She rubbed her arms to restore some warmth after clutching the cold, wet gown. Still shivering, she stoked the coals in the brazier, fighting the memories from her past, especially the horrible years after her beloved mother’s death, which always brought a chill to her.
She slipped out of her damp shift and hung it over the chair, as well. Taking the heavy coverlet from the bed, she wrapped it around herself and went to the narrow window, where she looked out at the rainy night. Clouds now completely obscured the moon, and everything beyond the nearest wall was in darkness.
This castle was not at all what she had expected, considering the awestruck way Reginald spoke of Sir Roger. Her half brother was forever reminding her what a favorite her betrothed was with the powerful Baron DeGuerre and how long the de Montmorencys had held this land. She had expected something much more impressive than this simple structure with only one round curtain wall and the interior buildings lining the walls. Indeed, when they had first entered the inner ward, she had thought they were merely in the outer wards, not the courtyard.
As she watched the moon appear at the edge of a cloud, it occurred to her that if there was anything impressive about Montmorency Castle, it was the master, not the place itself.
Sir Roger de Montmorency was not quite what she had anticipated, either. He was as vain and arrogant as any man, but in his case, not without some cause. Nor was it a surprise that he expected unwavering obedience.
She sighed softly. She was used to such expectations, which did not mean she intended to give in to them. Or to him. For too long she had been at the mercy of others. She had learned to endure in silence and to pray for the day when she would be free.
But what freedom was there for an unmarried woman? None, she had discovered after her father’s death, and even less respect. She was merely a valueless commodity to be disposed of in marriage with the least trouble possible, or sent to the seclusion of a convent.
Marriage had seemed by far the lesser of two evils. As a nobleman’s wife, she would at least share in the respect due her husband.
Sir Roger obviously demanded and commanded a great deal of respect, so her plans were being fulfilled in one way. However, it remained to be seen if he could earn such a response from her. Thus far, she didn’t find that likely.
Still, things could be worse, she reflected as she walked back to the brazier. Sir Roger had ambition, another quality she had wanted in a spouse. It had to be ambition that would cause him to join with the Chilcotts, whose greatest asset was not wealth or power but the value of their ancient name. She was ambitious, too, or at least eager to better her lot.
She could also appreciate her future husband’s self-control, perhaps better than any other noblewoman. Despite his anger, Sir Roger had not hit her. Her father would have beaten her for considerably less aggravation, but then, her father often beat her for nothing at all.
A greater mystery, perhaps, was what Sir Roger made of his bride. She had angered him, and he had understood all too well that she acted not as she truly felt in the hall below, but as might be expected of a woman in her position. It was something new to discover that somebody had seen through her deception.
She recalled the unexpected tone in Sir Roger’s voice when he asked who had scarred her back. He had sounded angry, yet it was a different kind of anger, as if he wanted to punish the person responsible.
Or was it pity? She frowned and crossed her arms. She didn’t want or need pity. She wanted a place in the world. And she wanted respect.
Mina went toward the bed. She surveyed the linens and lightly brushed her hand over the fine coverings. Her gaze roved over the other furnishings, simple but finely made, chosen with a discerning eye. The hour was growing late, and she suddenly realized she was exhausted. She blew out the candles and prepared to get under the covers.
Then she heard a woman’s giggle and a man’s low voice in the corridor. Sir Roger’s voice, she thought. Curious and quite used to listening at doors to avoid future trouble, she got out of bed, drew the coverlet around herself again and opened the door a crack, peering along the corridor. Someone had taken the torch from the iron bracket outside her door and doused it in a nearby bucket of sand, so the only light was provided by another torch flickering near the spiral stairs.
Mina could discern two shapes, one a woman with her back against the wall, the other, larger one obviously a man—and obviously Sir Roger. The woman laughed, low and guttural, as she slid her slender arms up
