In an effort to distract him from her slip of the tongue, Gillian threw a stick on the fire and watched it flare, the flames reaching up to light his flawless features. She realized that he could have taken anyone to wife, but now was stuck with her, a stranger who would serve as a constant reminder of some past grievance. No wonder he was angry.
“What of your father, Hexham’s brother?” he asked.
“What of him?”
“Did you love him?” His eyes narrowed, as if the thought displeased him, and Gillian did not know whether to give him lie or truth, for she suspected this man was much more adept at twisting words and thoughts to his own ends than herself.
“No,” she finally answered, honestly. “He was a wastrel and a spendthrift, losing any coin that he might gain, with no care for his wife or family. So you see, there is nothing between him or his brother and myself. Why punish me for their sins?”
For a moment, he looked uncomfortable, as if something pained his strong warrior’s body, but then his eyes glittered with unmistakable malice. “You are his heir. You are all that is left.”
The words, spoken so matter-of-factly, made Gillian catch her breath, and the look on his face as he uttered them frightened her far more than any threat. She realized that Nicholas de Laci lived for naught but revenge, and the knowledge filled her with despair.
“What will you do with me?” Gillian asked. Her heart pounded with trepidation, for she knew full well that he could do whatever he pleased—send her away, lock her in a dungeon, starve her, beat her—and no one would say a thing to him. As his wife, she was his chattel.
The convent, with its boredom and toil, was looking better by the minute, and her handsome husband more terrible than she had ever dreamed.
“Do not be in a hurry to discover your future, little nun, for we have many long years ahead of us,” he said, smiling grimly at the taunt.
His words, coupled with the promise in his tone, made Gillian’s blood run cold, and she put aside her trencher, her hunger forgotten. How could she ever have thought to make the best of this marriage? It was impossible!
“I am tired,” she said, suddenly eager to get away from his stifling presence. “You will excuse me?” She expected refusal, for he was nothing if not recalcitrant, yet he nodded curtly. Gillian understood why when she saw the glow of triumph in his eyes. With a gasp of fury, she rose and stomped off, the sound of his laughter following her to the tent.
Gillian’s pride smarted at his successful intimidation, and she would have marched right back to face him, were she not so fearful that he would join her soon enough. Each breath became a struggle as she contemplated the ill-usage that she was certain would come this night. Now that she knew the depths of her husband’s hatred, Gillian expected the worst sort of violence from him. She knew about rape, had seen its effects, yet she could do nothing but lie waiting for it.
Not until she heard the Syrian’s soft assurance did Gillian sleep at last, and then it was only to toss and turn restlessly, caught in dreams of Nicholas de Laci’s face, brightened by the fire’s flames, just like that of the devil himself.
For once, Nicholas was rather annoyed by the circumspect greeting he received upon his return to Belvry. Although usually unconcerned with his home or his people, for some reason he now found himself wanting the little nun to be dutifully impressed. He told himself that she should do well to recognize his power and wealth, which was evidenced by the prosperous demesne and modern castle.
He did not bother to note that such things had never mattered to him before. Nor had the behavior of the members of his household, who suddenly seemed distant and wary to his eyes. In truth, they had been more taken with Piers, but Aisley’s husband was a showy sort, given to great emotion, Nicholas thought with contempt.
The fools! They had no cause for complaint, for he was a good lord, knowledgeable and just. It was simply not his way to hold speech for the sake of talking or to visit his tenants for no reason or to throw a celebration upon every excuse, as his sister was wont to do since her marriage. Nay, he kept the castle in good repair, protected its residents and had an excellent steward who ran the place well.
And he was certain that was enough. Still, when Nicholas walked into his hall, he was aware of the silence that rippled like a wave through the great room, an odd quiet that had not been evident in Piers’s presence, or even in his father’s time.
Ignoring it, Nicholas stalked across the rush-strewn tiles with Darius at his side. Refusing to look back to see his bride’s reaction, he told himself that he did not care what she thought of his holdings. “I am for a bath,” he said without a glance at the expectant faces that surrounded him.
“I, as well,” said his companion. “Will your new bride do the duty? You have driven us hard and long, and I have a mind to have her wash my weary body.”
Darius’s words stopped Nicholas in his tracks, and he turned swiftly to meet the Syrian’s inscrutable dark gaze. “Is not that the way of your people?” Darius asked. “That the lady of the castle bathe her guests?”
“Not the little nun,” Nicholas snapped. “She is unaccustomed to such tasks.” Suspecting the Syrian of toying with him, Nicholas eyed his companion closely, but Darius’s face gave away nothing. Nicholas pictured his naked body, deep gold and gleaming, with Gillian bending over it. His belly burned.
“She will be busy, attending her lord,” Nicholas added, giving Darius a warning glare for good measure. He glanced back toward his wife, who trailed behind, gawking like a peasant.
“Osborn!” he called, so sharply that the servant stumbled over himself hurrying to Nicholas’s side. “See to my lady wife!” Nicholas fairly spat the last word as he inclined his head toward Gillian. At Osborn’s startled nod, Nicholas said, “Take her to my chamber and provide her with hot water.”
Then he turned to Gillian. “Get yourself a bath, quickly, for I want one, too, and I shall have you attend me.” The shock that passed over her lovely features gave him some measure of satisfaction, but, as usual, she was too much hidden by her ugly nun’s garb for Nicholas’s liking. He had seen his fill of it. “And rid yourself of that black gown. Osborn, find some of Aisley’s old trunks and bring them to the room. I wish my wife to be properly dressed.”
As Osborn hurried her away, Nicholas felt more than a little relief. She would attend no one but himself, by the faith! The knowledge stirred his blood, and he watched her as she left the hall, hips swaying gently beneath her heavy garments. So intent was he upon his wife that he barely acknowledged his steward, who came forward, offering tentative congratulations.
Accustomed to keeping his own counsel, Nicholas saw no need to share the facts of his marriage with anyone, so he accepted their good wishes, but greeted any questions with a silent scowl that discouraged further curiosity. And although he listened absently to their foolish chatter, his eyes kept straying to the stairs that led up to his chamber.
A sudden eagerness flooded him at the thought of the vixen washing his body. Of course, such duties would be onerous to her, and Nicholas told himself that was why the notion appealed to him; yet that could not fully explain his impatience.
When he felt sufficient time had passed, Nicholas dismissed his people with a nod and slowly walked to the curving stair. Once out of their sight, however, he took the steps two at a time until he reached the top. Although the great chamber had never held