Maiden Bride. Deborah Simmons

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 until her fingers unfurled like a reluctant blossom. Her nails had left marks so deep that 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