by Diane Darcy
Elation filled him.
She was a virgin.
He would have his bride.
Kellen nodded once to dismiss the midwife. He allowed himself to feel relief and hope as he looked down at the tiny garment in his hand.
Tristan slapped him on the back. “Congratulations.”
“’Tis good news, my lord,” Owen concurred.
Tristan’s grin widened. “She is a comely thing.”
Sir Owen nodded. “And she seemed to like you well enough.”
“That is true,” said Tristan. “She lay her head on your chest. To my way of thinking that showed a level of trust and gratitude for your rescue.”
Owen looked as if he might actually smile. “A fine beginning.”
Kellen did smile. “Yes, it is.” It was good they had started their marriage with his rescue of her. She seemed to have a limited understanding of things, even for a woman; and her speech was strange, but surely she would appreciate having a strong lord. Of course, he would have to break her of her foul language. But perhaps the fault lay with another.
He wondered if her mind were simply damaged by a recent attack, by her father’s knights, Royce and his men, or others he did not know of. He had many questions in need of answers.
Kellen took a deep breath and let it out with a smile. “Better a virago than a weakling to my way of thinking.”
Tristan agreed. “A strong mother produces strong sons.”
“Yes. That is true,” said Owen.
The girl in question came to a halt at the top of the stairs. As her gaze settled on him, she lifted a finger and pointed.
“You!”
She stormed down the stairs dressed in a proper gown that swirled about her in agitation as she moved downward. His bride looked beautiful. And very, very angry.
Kellen guessed he was about to get the chance to voice his questions.
Chapter 5
There he was! The man she blamed for this entire debacle was standing near the bottom of the stairs! Gillian, her face burning hot and her temper flaring hotter, stopped halfway down to wrestle her skirt free of her shoes; as she jerked the caught material, she stopped long enough to point a finger again.
“You despicable, loathsome, creep!”
She was torn between letting him have it and fetching a police officer or two to let him have it. She’d relish seeing the big jerk handcuffed and face down in the dirt . . . er . . . was that straw on the floor?
But her heart pounded and her hands fisted to keep them from shaking. She wasn’t sure she could wait long enough to find an officer; and so finally freeing the hem of her skirt, she headed toward him, the material of her sleeves fluttering, and her shoes slapping against stone.
She’d let him have it, and then an officer could let him have it.
She no longer had any doubt that she was wide awake. This wasn’t a dream, and she wasn’t in a coma. There was nothing like a good gynecological exam to snap a girl out of a delusion. She still wasn’t sure where she was. In fact, the day was starting to blur together.
How did she get here? No idea. Someone along the way had probably drugged her somehow. Why did they give her an exam? Why was she wearing a medieval dress? Again, no idea.
Apparently, just because Americans and English people spoke the same language, it did not mean they understood each other’s cultures. She was definitely joining up with a tour group for the rest of her trip. One run by Americans. No more touring foreign countries on her own. What had she been thinking?
As Gillian finally came to a stop in front of the knight she’d trusted her throat constricted and tears burned her eyes. Yes, he was big. Yes, he was fearsome. And yes, he was still mind-numbingly gorgeous even with the confused look on his face.
But she hated him like poison now and wouldn’t be sidetracked. Righteous indignation was on her side. He was going to get it, and she was going to be the one to give it to him.
Gillian lifted her arm and slapped his face as hard as she could, stinging her fingers.
His mouth dropped and he lifted a hand to his cheek.
The other men, and the servants in the cavernous room, gasped.
“Just who,” she poked the knight’s chest hard enough that it hurt her finger which ramped her anger even higher, “do you,” poke, “think you are?”
The guy captured her hand with his and she jerked away, angry that the big, warm calloused hand engulfing hers had reminded her of the ride to the castle and the security she’d felt.
She sucked in a breath. “At your request, I’ve been violated by a group of women. Violated! By women!” Her face burned with remembered humiliation and she swallowed. “Granted, it’s been a very strange day, but who could have expected I’d be given an exam against my will?”
Gillian’s hand flew wildly in the air and the guy jerked back a step, caution and watchfulness in his expression.
“And by a woman with extremely dubious sanitary practices, I might add.” Gillian’s entire body flushed again at the memory. “And not only that, but except for my athletic shoes, my clothes have been stolen; and I’ve been stuffed into a hot, heavy, itchy gown.” Beautiful too, though she’d never admit it now.
“I want out of this loony bin. I’m going to sue every person here. My trip to England, and probably my next vacation, and maybe even my next house is going to be paid for, gratis, by you. And by those women, too. How dare they . . . they . . . they . . . well how dare they!”
The guy continued to look wary and confused, but that was all. She didn’t see a smidgeon of repentance, and he didn’t look intimidated in the least. And darn it, she was still attracted to the guy! Tears sprang to her eyes. When he was down on his knees in the dirt, he wouldn’t be quite so attractive, would he?
Unable to help herself, Gillian gave him a hard shove. He didn’t move and just continued to stare down at her, that slightly baffled expression on his face.
“Oooh!” She hit him in his large chest with both fists. Again, other than his eyebrows raising, no real reaction on his part. The guy didn’t so much as step back. With a scream of frustration, she shoved past him.
She gulped in air. Her face reheated every time she thought about what had just happened. Granted she hadn’t been hurt, but the humiliation kept replaying itself in her mind; and she wanted out of there. She gasped in another breath.
Two men stepped forward and one bowed at the waist. “Lady Corbett, please allow me to introduce myself, I am—”
Gillian looked beyond them and disbelief had her jaw dropping. “You’ve been in my backpack! You’ve looked at my passport! You guys are so dead!” Feeling lightheaded, she strode over, grabbed up her pack, and started stuffing her things inside it. “This is my stuff. Mine. My pencils, my camera, my candy, my iPod, my umbrella, and my pepper spray. Snoopy, invasive, nosy, prying, weird. . .” She glanced at the knight again—cute, confused—Gillian groaned. Could a person get Stockholm Syndrome in less than an hour?
She finished loading her pack, then slung it over one shoulder. She needed to get out of there. Apparently, she was just not equipped to handle this situation. She needed to find an officer to deal with these cretins. And since she still found the guy attractive, she obviously needed to find a therapist, too.
Spotting a few of the maids peering down at her from above had fresh mortification heating her face; unable to help the pressure building up within her, she turned back to the knight and started to rant. Again.
Kellen tried to hide his bewilderment. She’d pushed him. Struck him. Some might even say she’d thought to attack him. Without a doubt, the girl was in no wise like her sister. And her speech was odd, but leastways she was talking to him. Shrieking, mayhap, but communicating nonetheless.
He had questions he wanted answered. He needed to find how she came to be there, and what her father’s purpose in sending her in such a way might be.
But she babbled on, and Kellen was having a difficult time understanding her word
s. She talked very fast, alternately pacing, and pointing her finger at him, at his men, and at the servants peering down from above. He did not understand her meaning, and some of her words were strange to him.
Had she been hit on the head? Had she been injured in some way? She was a beauty, no doubt, her cheeks warmed with color and her eyes flashing with anger. Even the shorter hair fluttering about her face was attractive, but her speech was very odd.
Kellen reached out a hand to pat the top of her head to feel for bumps and search for bruises, but the girl knocked his hand away and continued to blather.
Kellen tried not to feel disappointed. First an unfaithful wife and now a violent and broken one? Was he to have no luck in begetting a healthy heir?
He would take this up with Corbett. The man had seven daughters. Their original agreement promised his best, and instead they’d sent him a murderer. And now a mental deficient? Kellen would hold Corbett to his promise.
But perchance all Corbett’s daughters were so afflicted? Mayhap Kellen was given the best of the lot. Again, he wondered why her father sent her to him in such a manner. Was Corbett really so afraid of him? Perhaps afraid that when Kellen met this daughter he’d be angered by her deficiencies?
Kellen moved toward the girl and tried to keep his tone gentle so as not to upset her further. “Mayhap I could take your father’s ring into safekeeping until your family arrives?”
The girl jerked her hand away as if he were a thief.
Kellen’s impatience grew. “Where are your guards? Your ladies? Your personal maid? Why do you arrive five weeks early?”
She did not answer, did not seem to understand. He was saddened that such a beauty was so damaged.
“You are a jerk!” The girl took a deep breath, swallowed, and spoke in a much slower vein. “You ordered those women to . . . to . . . grope me. You are going to pay for the humiliation that’s been inflicted on me. Do you honestly think a pat on the head and a pretty dress are going to pacify me?”
He finally understood that the girl was angry with him about the violation of her privacy. Confounded at her ire, Kellen said, “I own you. You are mine to do with as I will.”
“What?” The girl looked amazed. “How do you figure?”
Kellen’s puzzlement grew. No one ever questioned him, and for this tiny girl to do so was as astounding as the blow she’d dealt him. “We are betrothed.”
The girl’s face reflected surprise, then she glanced quickly around. Kellen looked too but could not fathom for what or whom she searched.
“What is this?” The girl’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “The English version of Punked? An improv play? A medieval weekend in the country complete with command performance?”
Now that she spoke more slowly, Kellen understood her words better but still not their meaning. He tried to explain again, speaking more slowly himself. “You are my betrothed.”
Her face took on a haughty expression, much like the one her sister had always worn. “I see.” She glanced around again, her gaze taking in his knights and the servants staring at her. “As in engaged to be married? To you?”
“Yes, matrimony.” He saw a glimmer of understanding on her face and so tried to explain further. “Your father has paid a dowry, the contract is signed, and we are to be married in five weeks’ time.”
Her mouth tightened. “And this is your excuse for ordering those . . . those . . . women to violate me?”
“I need no excuse to establish your virginity.”
The girl gaped at him for a moment, her face losing its color before flooding with red once more. Then she took a step forward, sucked in a breath, and poked a finger in his chest. Again.
“Now you listen here, bucko. Even if we were engaged, which we are not, do you think engaged means owned? Because I don’t think so!”
She walked away, took several audible breaths, then came back, shaking her head. “So, let me just make sure I have this straight. You’re saying we’re engaged, right? Isn’t that what this ad-libbing is about?”
Kellen was getting more befuddled. “What?”
“Betrothed.” She spoke slower. “Are we betrothed, you idiot?”
Kellen stiffened. He did not like her tone nor her name calling, but as they seemed to be making progress, such things could be discussed at a later time. He nodded his agreement.
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “So, my father paid a dowry? Making it all right and tight?”
“Aye. That is true.”
Her smile thinned. “Well, in that case, I am the one who owns you! You are mine.” She lifted her nose in the air and gave him a condescending look. “Not only have you been paid for, but as the woman I am your superior in almost every way.” She held up a fist. “I am the only one who can ask for directions, have children, and cry in public.” Three fingers went up, one at a time.
“And women live longer! Women are smarter!” Holding up five fingers, she lifted her other hand and continued the count. “And they have better peripheral vision and can load the dishwasher without acting like they’ve been asked to eat horse droppings!”
She shot him a look filled with triumph. “And didn’t the girl’s . . . my father, give you money? A transaction was made, was it not? My family paid for you. I own you. Money is power. The only thing men are better at is peeing standing up! So, count them.” She lifted both hands higher to hold up eight fingers. “Eight reasons, and that’s just to start with, so I am the winner; therefore, I own you!”
Kellen could not help the big smile that spread on his face.
“You agree?” she asked.
Kellen nodded slowly, very pleased by the show of intelligence. She could count? Reason? “What about strength? Am I not bigger and stronger?”
Her tight smile was presented once more. “Who do you use that strength for? If we are engaged, that would be me. I guess I win again, don’t I? That makes nine.”
Kellen laughed, startling many. He was incredibly amused at her reasoning. Also, relieved that while she might be angry, and her talk strange, she not only seemed sane, but intelligent. His first impression of her was obviously wrong. Her way of speaking was still odd, but charming, now that she’d slowed her speech and he understood her. “How came you to be here?”
The girl’s shoulders drooped and for the first time she appeared lost. “I was drawing a castle and some men started chasing me.”
She looked so dejected that Kellen softened his tone. “Yes. This I already know. But how did you make the journey from your father’s keep?”
“What do you mean? How did I get to England? I flew here.”
Kellen glanced around. He did not want any accusing her of witchery. Obviously, she was being sarcastic and did not wish to answer him, a trait he would soon break her of. He knew she could not have made the journey by herself and suspected her father sent her out for reasons of his own. Her temper? Perhaps she was in love with another? Did she seek to escape the match? Corbett’s reasons were unimportant now.
If her family did not know how to care for her, he would gladly do so.
She might think she owned him, but she belonged to him now.
And he was keeping her.
Chapter 6
This was going absolutely nowhere. With an exclamation of disgust, Gillian turned to leave. She didn’t have to stand around while this bozo questioned her.
She gave the knight one last, long look before heading for the door. The guy obviously wasn’t even the least bit sorry, so now would be a really great time for her to find a police officer to make him sorry!
Feeling uncertain, wondering if she’d be stopped, she left through the open front doors. When no one tried to intercept her, she breathed a sigh of relief and headed down the steps and into the courtyard. She spotted a couple of men nearby dressed as peasants.
Gillian approached, hoping she wasn’t jumping from the frying pan and into the fire by asking a favor from complete strangers. “Excuse me.” Sh
e sounded a little breathless and cleared her throat, not wanting to sound like anyone’s victim. “I need to get a ride back into the town of Marshall. Do you think you could help me out? Or at least lend me a cell phone?”
The men looked at each other, at her, then as one they shook their heads, bowed slightly, turned, and walked away whispering and casting glances over their shoulders.
With a sigh, Gillian watched them go.
She was really starting to hate this place.
She looked around, hoping for someone more sympathetic. Everyone was busy. She could see a stable with several men at work, what looked like barracks being fixed by a couple more guys, and some buildings that could be storehouses with some kids playing in the dirt nearby.
There were a couple of workshops, doors open wide, with men inside. Herbs, plants, and roots hung from the rafters of one building; and in the other, what looked to be pieces of wood in various shapes and sizes. What she didn’t see were any friendly faces. People were casting wary glances in her direction or flat out ignoring her.
She looked at some men digging in the dirt on the side of one stone wall. Not one of them would meet her gaze, so no help there. Further on, a cart was being loaded by several men; and beyond them, a tall, rounded structure with a cross over the doorway looked to be a chapel; but its doors were shut tight.
Another building, from what she could see and hear, was a kitchen filled with energetic women coming and going.
She started in that direction when a woman with an armful of material bustled across the courtyard. Feeling a one-on-one conversation might be less intimidating, Gillian hurried to intercept her. As she approached, the woman’s eyes widened, she stopped, and dipped a quick curtsy.
“Excuse me.” Gillian halted in front of her. “I’m looking for a ride into town? Could you help me out?”
