"And from me." Connor's words sounded as a low growl.
"No longer do I desire such a thing, of course," Grady wisely conceded. Even hinting that he still had amorous desires for Jill to Connor would be akin to reaching under a crowning eagle to pull away its meal. "She is for you, and only you. A swooning girl, if ever I saw one. No man but Connor Bildeborough could bed her now, but by force.
"And what of Connor Bildeborough?" Grady bravely pressed. "Has Jill surrendered?"
"No," the frustrated nobleman admitted. "But the time is near."
"End of midsummer, I should say," Grady agreed, "or will you wait that long?"
"I give her until the wedding night," Connor replied. "She is fearful - virgins always are - but of course, my rights on that night are absolute. She will offer it, or I shall take it!"
Grady wisely bit back a remark questioning the virginity of his adopted sister. It really didn't matter; all that mattered was what Connor believed.
And indeed Connor believed! Grady could see that in his every fidget, in his almost animal-like intensity. Why, even the practiced whores of House Battlebrow were losing their charms for him!
"Dear Jilly," Grady mumbled under his breath as Connor rose furiously from the chair and stormed across to the exit. "You teasing little wench. Putting your maidenhead on a barbed hook and jiggling it before the baron's nephew." Grady silently applauded his conniving little sister, though his perception of her actions almost scared him; he had never thought her capable of such a beautifully treacherous play. "Ah, good enough for both of them, I say," Grady remarked more loudly, addressing a pair of ladies sitting on the bottom step of the wide stairway as he walked past in pursuit of Connor. The women cocked their heads curiously. "I'll be rid of you, dear sister," he went on; speaking to himself once more, "and let Connor Bildeborough learn in his own time that you were not worth the waiting!"
Another prostitute entered from the street just before Grady went out. He cupped her chin in his hand, drawing a smile from her. "The little teasing wench," he said, moving near the woman, who was one of his favorites: "Poor Connor will learn soon enough that she hasn't your charms nor your talents."
He kissed her, then rushed out behind Connor. The night was young but getting on, and Connor would soon enough have to get to the Way to meet Jill. But perhaps he'd have time for a few drinks and a dice game before.
It was a ceremony that had all of Palmaris talking; the women swooning, the men standing tall, feigning importance, wishing they were in the carriage in Connor Bildeborough's place as it made its winding way, through the streets. Any reservations that the nobleman's family had held toward the peasant orphan girl had been washed away when they met Jill, truly beautiful both inside and out. Now, seeing her adorned in a white gown of satin and lace, her long, thick blond mane pinned up on one side and hanging loose on the other, she seemed made for royalty. There were even whispers that the young woman was indeed of royal blood, and a host of rumors as to her past made their way through the crowds.
It was all nonsense, all pretension, but in Honce-the-Bear in God's Year 821, that was the way things were done.
For Jill, her face was a mask of paint and false smiles. She looked a princess but felt like a little lost girl. On the one hand," she couldn't deny the pleasure of dressing so beautifully, of knowing she was the center of attention. On the other hand, being the center of attention truly terrified her. It was bad enough that the carriage would roll through every part of the large city, bad enough that more than five hundred people would be in attendance at the church when she and Connor were wed, but the thought of what would come later, after the grand ball . . .
"I have waited long enough," Connor had said to her that morning, following the words with a kiss on the cheek. "Tonight."
And then he had left Jill with the thought. She hadn't even been able to kiss him yet without those black wings of that awful past flapping up around her, but she knew what he expected - one of his house servants had described it to her in great detail.
She had smiled at Connor before he left, trying to be comforting. She dreaded the night to come.
The ceremony went off perfectly solemn yet joyous, ladies crying, men standing tall and handsome. After the carriage ride, the newlyweds came to a hall filled with music and drink, with ladies and gentlemen spinning about, twirling and laughing. It was loud and rushing, exhilarating. Jill rarely drank more than a single glass of wine, but this night, Connor kept foisting glasses upon her, and she kept taking them. He was trying to loosen up her inhibitions, and she was too.
Or maybe she was just trying to blur the terror.
She found herself in the arms of dozens of men whom she did not know, gentlemen all, by blood if not by deed. More than one whispered something lewd in her ear, more than one tried to get a hand somewhere it should not be. Even a bit drunk, Jill was agile, and she got through the dancing with her purity intact.
The ball ended far too soon, at Connor's insistence, which brought more than a few randy comments.
Jill suffered them as she had suffered everything else, quietly and privately, looking at Graevis and Pettibwa as they stood beside the Bildeboroughs. This was for them, Jill constantly reminded herself, and in truth, she had never seen them, particularly Pettibwa, looking so happy.
When the guests were excused, Connor took Jill across the town to the mansion of his uncle, the Baron Bildeborough. They entered quietly through a side door of the west wing, proceeding to the guest quarters, which were empty; save a pair of handmaidens Baron Bildeborough had put at Connor's bidding. The two young women - younger than Jill even, though she had just passed eighteen - took Jill to the private chamber, a room that made her feel tiny indeed! The ceiling was high, the walls covered in grand tapestries, and both the bed and the hearth were of heroic proportions. For Jill, who had spent her life so simply, it seemed somehow obscene; a dozen people could sleep comfortably on that bed, and she needed a stepping stool to even get onto it!
She said nothing as the handmaidens helped her to get out of her great gown, making suggestions all the while as to how she should proceed, of this trick or that trick they had heard about. "A lady must be well practiced in the ways of lovemaking for royalty," one of them remarked.
"Is there a girl in Palmaris that Connor Bildeborough could not bed?" the other added.
Jill thought she would throw up.
When the tittering pair finally left, Jill was sitting on the edge of the great cushiony bed, wearing only a simple silk nightgown that was too low cut, both front and back, and didn't go nearly far enough down her legs. The night was chill for late August and the room drafty, but the handmaidens had lit a small fire in the hearth. Jill was just moving for it when the door swung open and Connor, dressed in the black pants and white shirt he had worn for the wedding and ball but without his boots, without his jacket, and without his belt, entered.
She started for the hearth; he cut her off and wrapped his arms about her.
"My Jilly," he whispered, the word lost as his lips brushed against her neck.
Connor backed off almost immediately, his face crinkled in confusion. He could feel her tension, she knew, and that notion alone allowed her to relax a bit. Connor knew her so very well; he could sense her fear. He would be gentle with her, she believed, would give her all the time she needed. He loved her, after all!
Even as that thought cascaded down through Jill's body, easing the muscles, Connor grabbed her and pulled her to him roughly, crushing his lips against hers. She hadn't even time to consider the rush of passion, so surprised was she. She didn't fight back, not at first, just stood there perfectly still.
She tasted his lips, felt his tongue brushing through.
In her mind, she heard a scream, agonized. The scream of a dying child, of her mother, of her village.
"No!" Jill growled, pushing him back.
She stood before him, panting.
"No?"
Jill could not find the breath to an
swer, to explain. She just stood there, shaking her head.
"No?" Connor yelled again, and he slapped her across the face.
Jill felt her knees buckle and she would have gone down, except Connor was on her again, squeezing her tight, kissing her all about the face and neck. "You cannot deny me," he said.
Jill squirmed and twisted, not wanting to hurt him, even sympathetic to him, but simply unable to comply with his needs. Finally she worked her arm up under his and broke the hold enough so that she could move back a step.
"I am your husband," Connor said evenly. "By law. I will do as I please with you."
"I beg of you," Jill said, her voice barely a whisper.
Connor threw up his arms and spun away from her. "You have kept me waiting all these months!" he roared. "I have dreamed about you, about this night. Nothing else in all the world matters but this night!" He spun back to face her, now several steps away.
Jill felt as if she must be the most horrible person in the world. She wanted to give in to Connor, to give him what he deserved for his patience. But those wings, those black wings, that distant scream!
Connor's demeanor changed again, suddenly. "No more," he declared, his voice low, even threatening. Jill watched helplessly as he tore open his shirt, leaving it back on his shoulders, then squirmed out of his pants.
She had never seen a nude man before, and certainly not like this! But whatever feelings the sight of Connor's body - and he was indeed a beautiful main - might have inspired were washed away by the fear, by the black wings, by feelings that Jill could not understand.
Even worse, there was no love, no tenderness in his face as he stalked back to her, just heated desire, an almost angry passion. "Look at me!" he demanded, grabbing Jill by the shoulders and turning her roughly, forcing her to face him directly. "I am your husband. I will do as I please, when I please!" As if to accentuate his point, he reached over with one hand and tore down the side of Jill's nightgown, pulling it low enough to reveal one of her breasts. The sight of it, round and firm and creamy white, seemed to calm him for a moment.
"You approve of my appearance," he concluded.
Jill looked down. Her nipple stood hard, but it was not for love, not for excitement, just fear and a cold sensation that coursed through her entire body. Connor brought his hand to it and pinched it hard.
Jill winced and pulled away. "I beg of you," she whispered again.
Her hesitance incited his rage once more. Connor grabbed her and pulled her down, and before she could move to protest, he was on top of her, his knee between her legs, forcing them apart.
"No!" she begged, and she could feel him prodding at her, tearing at her nightgown to get the material out of his way.
His passion seemed to mount, driving him on, forcing him closer, rougher.
Jill gasped for air that would not come. She heard the flapping wings, the screams, the dying. She pulled and turned, looking away as his hungry mouth descended, but he only pursued, pinning one of her arms, putting all of his weight atop her.
The screams, distant, agonized. Her mother dying!
Jill scraped her forearm on the sharp edge of the stone hearth. She looked up to see she was trapped by the raised hearth, no room to squirm, her head close to the stone. And Connor would not relent, prodding and pushing.
Her mind was lost to the swirl of the past to the screams, to the sights, the smells of torn bodies swelling, growing thick with decay. She was there again, in that most horrible place, with no escape, with the death and the fire.
The fire.
She saw the ember fall from a log, orange glowing like the eye of some hideous night creature. She closed her hand on it and felt no pain, was beyond pain.
And then she turned and stuck it into the face of her attacker, into the face of this thing that was atop her, this thing that had killed her mother, had murdered all of her village. It howled and fell away, and Jill rolled out from under it and scrambled to the bed.
Her surroundings confused her. She saw the man - it was a man, it was Connor! - rise to his feet, clutch at his face, and run screaming out of the room.
Waves of pain assaulted her suddenly; she threw the ember back into the fireplace.
What had she done?
She fell upon the bed, crying, clutching her burned hand in the other and pressing both of them under her, against her breasts. Her sobs did not relent for many minutes, for half an hour perhaps, for all of an hour. She did not stop, did not look up when she heard the door open, when she heard the sound of footsteps - more than one set - approaching.
She did not stop crying when she was grabbed roughly and turned about, her arms pinned out wide to the sides, her legs hooked under the knees and similarly pulled out wide.
The handmaidens had her securely, and Connor, the burns on his face mercifully not so bad, approached, wearing only his shirt, and with that garment open wide.
"You are my wife," he said grimly.
Jill had no more fight left in her. She looked up pleadingly at the two women that held her, but both seemed impassive, even somehow pleased by it all, by the sight of her, and of Connor - seemed pleased by her helplessness and their part in it.
She looked back as Connor climbed up onto the bed, moving right atop her.
She shook her head. "I beg," she whispered.
Connor thrust against her, but she felt no stabbing point.
Connor lifted his head up from her, and he seemed to her truly hurt and saddened. He spun away in frustration, shifting off the bed right back to his feet.
"I cannot," he admitted, looking back sharply, his eyes reflecting a simmering rage. "Take her out of here and lock her in a room," he demanded of the handmaidens, who immediately and none too gently moved to comply. "We shall let the magistrate, Abbot Dobrinion, determine her fate in the morning. Take her!
"And then return to me," Connor added, speaking to the handmaidens, but aiming the words at Jill's heart. "Both of you."
CHAPTER 18
The Test of Faith
Hour after endless hour, day after endless day, the Windrunner glided lazily across the sparkling glassy surface of the South Mirianic. The sun became the enemy; the air grew uncomfortably hot. All the time.
Avelyn thought his very skin would slip off his body, a great rag, and fall rumpled to the deck. He burned and blistered, then browned, darker and darker, taking on the leathery appearance of those seasoned sailors around him. He tried to keep clean shaven, as did his monk companions, but there was no blade fine enough, and soon all three had scraggly beards.
The worst of it was the boredom. All they could see in any direction was the flat bluish-gray line of the horizon. Moments of excitement - a whale spout, the flight of a dolphin beside the prow, a run of bluefish churning white the water - came all too rarely and lasted barely seconds, to be inevitably replaced by the emptiness of the open sea. All romantic notions Avelyn had held concerning sea voyages were long gone, washed away by the slow, creaking, rolling reality.
He visited Dansally often, and for hours at a time. She was forbidden to come out of her cabin and preferred it that way, both she and the captain fearing what might happen if the common sailors, men who had been away from women for great lengths of time, caught her sweet scent. Thus she kept her cabin door securely locked.
Avelyn also noted that his three monk companions, apparently tiring of Dansally, visited her far less often. He was glad of that, though he wasn't certain why. Dansally didn't seem to mind at all the duties of her profession, and Avelyn had come to accept her work as a part of who she was. As he had said to her on his initial visit, it was not his place to judge her.
He believed that with all his heart, and yet he couldn't deny he was glad to see that the others, including Captain Adjonas, were spending less time with her. He came to know aspects of Dansally that his companions would never think to look for: her witty sense of humor, tenderness, and her regrettable resignation for her station in life. Avelyn came to
hear her dreams and ambitions, uttered rarely and never to anyone else, and he, alone among all the men the woman had known, tried to encourage those dreams, to give the woman some respect for herself. The issue of physical intimacy did not come up between them during those weeks, for both of them had found a more special intimacy, far more satisfying.
And so the days went, the sun, the stars, the endless swells and sparkles. The one relief for the monks and crewmen alike came on cloudless nights, for the colors of the Halo were much clearer here than in the northern zones. Soft blues and purples, vivid oranges and sometimes a deep crimson lined the night sky, lifting hearts and spirits.
Even prosaic and gruff Quintall appreciated the beauty, saw the Halo as a sign of God, and took faith whenever those colors appeared.
"Starboard ho!" came the cry one bright morning the second week out of Jacintha.
Quintall peered at the horizon, hopeful, though he knew from his discussions with Adjonas that they were not near to halfway to Pimaninicuit, and any other land they might sight would only tell them that they were far off course.
"Whale to starboard!" the lookout cried a moment later. "Must be a dead one, 'cause he's not moving."
Farther back along the deck, Avelyn was close enough to hear Captain Adjonas mutter, "Damnation."
"Is it bad fortune to spot a dead whale?" the innocent monk asked.
"No whale," Adjonas answered grimly. "No whale." He headed forward, Avelyn in his wake, and Bunkus Smealy, Pellimar, and Thagraine falling in line. Quintall was already at the rail, pointing far out and down.
Adjonas took up his spyglass and peered in the direction. He shook his head almost immediately and handed the instrument to Quintall - a move that Bunkus Smealy apparently did not like.
"No whale," Adjonas said again. "Powrie."
"Powrie?" Avelyn said, confused. Powries were skinny dwarfs, barely four feet in height.
"Powrie vessel," Adjonas explained. "Barrelboats, they're called."
"That is a boat out there?" Pellimar asked in amazement.
Quintall nodded, bringing down the glass. "And keeping fair time with us," he added.
Demon Wars 01 - The Demon Awakens Page 21
