offended by Gillian’s offers of help, so she played at the role of lady, and wondered just how long this treatment would last.
Somehow, she did not think Nicholas would approve.
“Well, you certainly have a healthy appetite,” Edith commented. As the servant cleaned away the remains of the meal, she eyed Gillian closely. “Could it be that he has got you with child already?”
Gillian blanched. “Certainly not,” she answered sharply. Then, feeling guilty for attacking her only friend here at Belvry, she took a deep breath and tried to find the words to explain. “‘Tis an old habit,” she said. “There was a time when I…when I did not have enough to eat…and since then I have filled myself whenever I can.”
“Oh, my poor child,” Edith said. Gillian turned away, too proud to see the pity she knew would be in the old servant’s eyes, but to her relief, Edith did not belabor the subject. The woman simply made a brisk sound in her throat and moved on.
“Well, you look fine and healthy, so I am sure that a baby will be not long in coming, especially since Lord Nicholas wants you to attend him in his chamber this night,” she said, giving Gillian a broad wink.
Gillian was horrified. The good food and friendly company of the older woman had relaxed her, but that easy mood fled at such news. She sat up straighter, so as to take slow, simple breaths, and stared, wide-eyed, at the door that had kept her closed away—and safe—from him.
“See, my lady, he cannot hate you as much as you say, or else he would not take his pleasure with you,” Edith rambled on. Suddenly the woman’s chatter seemed irritating, and Gillian would stop it before it embarrassed her further.
“The only pleasure he will take is in abusing me.”
“My lady!” Edith said, with a gasp of surprise. “I admit that Lord Nicholas is not the gentlest of men, but you cannot mean to say he has hurt you?”
“Not yet, for he has not had the opportunity to…to consummate the marriage,” Gillian said baldly.
“Oh!” Edith put a hand to her bosom, as if heartily relieved. “‘Tis your fears that are speaking, my lady. Lord Nicholas is a fine figure of a man, tall and strong and well made. Why, he is the most handsome man I have ever seen, excepting my own dear Willie, of course.”
“Yes, he is beautiful. Beautiful and terrible,” Gillian muttered.
“Nonsense,” Edith said. “He has been to the East, where men are said to acquire an expertise in the arts of love. You cannot tell me that Lord Nicholas does not know his way about a bedchamber.”
Gillian blushed and ducked her head, unprepared for this frank discussion of what transpired between a man and a woman. Not since her days in Master Freemantle’s household had she heard such bold speech, and the memory of the burgher’s foul breath and loathsome touch made her shudder.
“Have no fear, my lady,” Edith said. “There are ways and there are ways, and if Lord Nicholas does not please you as he ought, you can take things into your own hands, so to speak,” she said with a loud chuckle.
“What?”
“I am only saying that there are some who do not respond to kind words and sweet smiles, but most men are swayed easily enough by a woman’s attentions under the covers.”
Stunned, Gillian stared, openmouthed, at the older woman.
“Aye, my lady,” Edith said conspiratorially. “I have marked the way Lord Nicholas looks at you, and to my mind, you could have him at your feet easily enough, should you but make a bit of effort.”
Gillian felt dizzy at the thought. She was distrustful of men and fearful of their lusts, and yet, when she bathed Nicholas de Laci, she had felt only a strange excitement. His body was so compelling that she had found her hands lingering at their task, her fingers exploring the broad pelt of dark hair that covered his hard chest. Trying to maintain a modicum of privacy, she had averted her eyes from the water’s hidden depths, but she had found out later that everything about Nicholas de Laci was larger than life.
Gillian’s heart started beating wildly as she remembered Nicholas de Laci as he had stood in the doorway, naked but for a scrap of linen. She pictured him leaning close, touching her, doing things to her that Master Freemantle had whispered in her ear. The images held a certain forbidden allure that Gillian would never have thought herself capable of feeling, and she closed her eyes, as if to block them from her sight.
When she did, her husband’s face swam before her, handsome enough to turn any girl’s knees to water, yet his expression showed not ecstasy but triumph, and his silver eyes glittered with malice. With a gasp, Gillian lifted her lashes, knowing that she could never turn him away from his twisted course of vengeance.
“Here now, calm yourself, my lady,” Edith said, bending over Gillian, concern in her gaze. “I did not mean to upset you. ‘Twas just a thought, and should you change your mind, you just ask old Edith for some advice. We will have haughty old Nick begging for your favors like a trained pup!”
Gillian smiled bitterly at the woman’s words, for she knew just how impossible it would be to accomplish that feat. Edith was gentle and kind, but she saw what she wanted to see, and she had never faced Nicholas de Laci’s dagger eyes, empty of all but his hatred.
“Well, now, you had better come along, and remember what I said, child,” Edith added.
Gillian stood and nodded, but when the older woman turned, she made sure that her eating knife was secreted upon her person. Although not much of a weapon, she would use it, if endangered. By rights, her body belonged to her husband, but before God, she would not let him harm her.
Grimly she followed the servant toward the great chamber, where he was waiting. Fighting against the same sensations that must have assailed Daniel upon entering the lions’ den, Gillian went in with head held high. She heard her husband’s sharp dismissal of Edith and the ominous thud of the door closing behind the servant, but still she refused to look at him.
Silence settled around her, thick and ominous, and Gillian decided there was something horribly close about the bedchamber, although it was the biggest one she had ever seen. Large, warm and luxurious, it was typical of Belvry, this fantastic home of the de Lacis.
A huge bed with heavy hangings stood against one wall, across from a clean hearth surrounded by coffers and settles soft with thick pillows. Eyeing a fat woven cloth with exotic designs that must have been made in the East, Gillian realized that she had never dreamed of such a place. Truly, it must resemble paradise.
There was only one problem: He was in it.
He had never shared her tent while on the road. In fact, they had been alone only once, right here, when she attended his bath, running her hands over his sleek, wet skin and discovering the hard muscle that ran beneath it. Shivering at the memory that beckoned to her, Gillian forced herself to look at him.
All her longings disappeared in a rush. He stood before her now, so arrogant and cruel that she could hardly believe him to be the same man who had relaxed under her touch, or that she had felt anything other than revulsion toward him.
“You will stay here tonight, wife,” he said, and she drew in a sharp breath. His mouth curved wickedly, as if promising myriad horrors, and without volition, Gillian’s gaze dropped
