Defiant

by Jessica Trapp

  Irma drummed her fingernails on the tankard, a habit of hers, one that Gwyneth could never have—not ladylike, her tutor had chided when she had accidentally imitated her friend at sup one evening. The sting of the switch across her knuckles had made a lasting impression.

  “Have out with it,” Gwyneth said finally, unable to contain herself when Irma kept tapping her fingers and staring across the chamber, her eyes slightly up and to the left the way she did when she was deep in thought.

  Gwyneth snapped her fingers.

  Irma blinked as if coming back into the present. Her sharp eyes glittered with intensity. “You should marry. ”

  Huffing out a breath, Gwyneth picked up her tankard and looked out into the busy room. Hundreds of tallow candles flickered and smoke swirled in the air. At the bar, a group of swarthy men, arms around each other’s shoulders so that they formed a chain, toasted the air and sang along with the bard in loud, drunken voices.

  “Have you not been listening? I am going to marry. Tomorrow morn.”

  “Nay, I mean you should marry tonight.”

  Gwyneth nearly choked on her ale and she had to cover her mouth and nose to keep from spewing on the table.

  “Tonight?” she squeaked out when she recovered herself.

  “Aye. But not to some silly lord. To a man of your own choosing—one you can command, control, even send away at will.”

  “I have tried. Papa never approved any of my choices and Montgomery, the new overlord, is even worse! At least I had some sway with Papa. I do not even know the name of the man that was chosen.”

  Irma didn’t argue, she just sat up straight and looked around the brothel. “'ow about tha’ one?” She pointed to a young blond man with a foppish hat.

  Gwyneth grimaced. He was scarce more than a lad.

  “We could steal ‘im. Feed ‘im a sleeping draught and ‘aul him to a church. We’ll find Brother Giffard and insist ‘e marry the two of you. Then you can tup ‘im for good measure and send ‘im on ‘is way with a purse full o’ gold.”

  The plan was unthinkable.

  Annoyed with Irma’s absurdity, Gwyneth slammed her palms on the table in an uncharacteristic gesture. She should not have bothered even coming here. “Preposterous. And stupid. ”

  Irma looked at her impassively, then they both started giggling. It was sheer freedom to be able to make unladylike gestures and have no sharp rebuke or switch across her palms for the action.

  “It were the mention of the tupping you didn’t like, eh?” Irma said.

  Gwyneth cringed but said naught, pushing away the flood of bad memories from watching a man brutalize her friend.

  Scratching her head, Irma scrutinized the brothel, thoughtfully taking in the immodestly dressed girls and their bedecked patrons.

  “There’s a good one.” She pointed toward a tall man, sitting alone at a corner table, hunched over a tankard of ale. His crude brown cape was pulled up over his head so she could not discern his features. At his side, leaning against his stool, was a long wooden staff that had a dragon carved into the top of it. “'is name is Jared.”

  Gwyneth gave Irma an exasperated glare and began to rise, ready to head back to Windrose and spend the night crying across her bed. “I do not want a man.”

  Irma cocked her head to one side. “All noblewomen want a husband.”

  “Not me.” Gwyneth shuddered, remembering Irma lying on the dirt beneath the grunting brute who pumped himself into her. She wanted none of that. And no babies either. The women she rescued from the prisons needed her more than some man needed heirs. “I do not wish to marry at all.”

  “'ear me out, now, I say.” Irma latched onto Gwyneth’s forearm in a tight grip. “'e comes in every week and pays me to bathe ‘im and that is all. ‘e’s unmanned. It must ‘ave something to do with the injury of ‘is legs, because ‘e never asks for a good tupping. ‘e’s got long scars from his groin to ‘is knees, and even when I touch ‘im ‘e stays soft as a floppy carrot.”

  A giggle welled in Gwyneth’s throat at Irma’s description even despite the bleakness she felt in her heart.

  “'e told me once all ‘e wanted was a cottage in the woods and a place to raise ‘is birds—'e’s a falconer—and a kind one at that. ‘e speaks to me as if I were a lady and ‘as never tried to pinch me in any way. ‘Tis almost as though there is a deep sadness in ‘is ‘eart. ‘e comes ‘ere, drinks ale, we a-go to a bedchamber, and I bathe ‘im. You’d never ‘ave to worry about the consummation. ”

  Gwyneth pursed her lips; Irma’s mad plan had more and more appeal as she kept talking. “I cannot believe I am listening to this,” she muttered.

  “'e’s a peasant—jes marry ‘im, give ‘im a bag o’ gold and send ‘im on ‘is way. It ain’t like ‘e’s going to find some other woman, bein’ unsexed and all.”

  Shifting on her stool, Gwyneth took in the man, trying to determine if Irma had spoken truth. He had turned slightly, and she could see a little beneath his hood. His face, still covered in shadows, was an interesting blend of darkness and light. He had straight, dark hair that hung past his shoulders, winged brows, and a mustache and goatee. She could not make out the color of his eyes, but his expression seemed pensive. He looked a little dangerous to her.

  “Are you sure he’s unmanned?” she asked warily.

  Irma nodded. “For certes. ‘e never even twitches down there during the whole bath. It’s plain odd, it is. ‘e’s the kindest man I’ve ever known—not that any man is kind, because they all have black, dirty souls—but ‘e never even tried to pinch me titties.”

  Gwyneth leaned forward, trying to peer deeper beneath the man’s cowl. Darkness shadowed his cheeks. He didn’t look kind.

  He looked lethal.

  Still … Irma hated men, so if he’d been kind enough to win Irma’s regard, he must be special. A man who didn’t try to paw at women in a whorehouse was rare indeed. Irma knew a lot more about men than she did.

  Mayhap the plan might have merit after all.

  “Perhaps he’s a half-wit,” Gwyneth suggested.

  “All the better. We don’ need ‘im’s brains, only ‘is hand in matrimony.”

  The reversal of roles, the thought of forcing a man to marriage rather than the other way around, made a small spark of power surge up Gwyneth’s spine.

  “We can’t steal a man,” she said rationally. But another part of herself wondered if the plan, addled as it seemed, might work. She would no longer be hounded and bothered by marriage proposals that she had to work her way out of.

  “Why not?”

  “It just… it just isn’t done.”

  “Well, not yet. But we give ‘im a pitcher with herbs then we can just walk ‘im out of ‘ere nice an’ easy. ‘e ain’t got no friends, leastwise, I ain’t never seen ‘im with any, so it’s no’ like ‘e’ll go a-missin'. We’ll take ‘im to the church on the other side of the bridge and ‘e’ll be as docile as a lamb, happy to wed you and do your bidding for the rest o’ your life.”

  Gwyneth lifted her hand to chew on one of her fingernails, then put her hand back down on the table. She’d been broken of that particular habit years ago—had been made to scrub the walls until her fingers bled as punishment—and had no intention of going back to it again.

  “Do you really think he might?”

  “O’ course, luv! Wot could be easier?”

  Gwyneth looked from the man to Irma and back again. “He’s awfully large.”

  “e’s lame! ‘is legs are all scarred up like Satan got ahold of ‘em.”

  Without waiting for further comment, Irma stood. Her curly hair fanned around her face. “Come with me,” she instructed. She strong-armed Gwyneth to her feet and forced her toward the back of the brothel where the kitchens and pantries were.

  They passed the man in question and she could practically feel him watching her. She spared a glance at him, this time able to see farther into the shadow beneath his cowl.

  His eyes were dar
ker than anything she’d ever seen before. Darker than midnight.

  Instinctively, she drew her hood farther over her face, hoping he had not caught a glimpse of her hair. Too many troubadours sang about that particular feature of hers and ‘twas best to keep it covered or she’d be recognized for certes.

  Once they were in the kitchens, Irma busied herself gathering dried herbs and dumping them into freshly poured ale.

  Kiera ran up to her mother, hugged her legs, then turned to Gwyneth. “Lady Gwyn.”

  Gwyneth picked her up. The scent of the brothel, of ale and sweat and fornication, permeated the child’s smock even though Irma kept her sheltered here in the back room as best she could. Gwyneth’s heart squeezed. It wasn’t right for children to grow up in brothels.

  “Here,” Irma said, taking Kiera and handing the tankard to Gwyneth. “Take this to ‘is table and give ‘im a smile. ‘e’ll be grogged up afore you know it.”

  “I cannot do that! “ Gwyneth said, but she was looking into Kiera’s large brown eyes, as innocent as a doe’s.

  The dower lands could provide shelter for this child and many others. Like the dark-haired one who never spoke.

  “Sure you can. Easy as pie. Then you’ll marry ‘im and your worries will be done with.”

  Her fingers whitened on the ale. Was it possible?

  “Go on!” urged Irma. “You’ll be getting married one way or another; might as well be to a man of your own choosing.”

  A shot of boldness coursed through Gwyneth. Why should she not choose a man of her own? Make her own way in life? Not be so bound by duty and honor? Have a sanctuary for women.

  Her sister and brother-in-law would be furious.

  That thought made her take a step forward. What fun to see Brenna’s face, to tell her she had taken care of the situation herself. It would serve Montgomery right to have to make excuses to the man he had arranged for her to marry. Likely it would even cost him to get out of the betrothal. Too damn bad.

  “Out with you, then.” Irma opened the door that led back into the main room of the brothel.

  “Why me? Why can’t you take him the herbed ale?”

  “Because you’re the one going to marry ‘im. Might as well get a good look at ‘im up close.”

  Gwyneth considered for a moment. “I need a disguise.”

  “Fine.”

  Moments later, Gwyneth wore a low-cut bright red dress, had her hair tucked under a red feathered headdress, and wore a cowl. Irma smeared white powder on her face while one of the other women painted her eyes with kohl. A patch was applied to her cheek along with two red spots of rouge.

  Irma clucked her tongue. “Just right. You look stunning and not at all like the fresh-scrubbed lady you were when you came in. No’ a customer in the place will recognize you.”

  Gathering her courage, Gwyneth rose and tried to imitate the way Irma walked. With measured steps, she sauntered, hips swaying, out the brothel’s kitchen doors and over to Jared’s table. How hard could this be? Go to the table, set the ale in front of him, then flee back to the kitchen to wait until he drank it. She was used to charming men into doing her bidding—not dressed as a harlot, but surely it would not be so difficult.

  His head raised and he looked sharply at her. His eyes looked familiar, but she could not place his face. She filed quickly through her memories. He was not a nobleman, of this she was certain. Likely someone she had seen on one of her trips into the town.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Her legs turned to water, but she forced a smile. Your bride. “I’m new.”

  His dark brows drew together and he touched a finger to his goatee. “I’ve been waiting for Irma. Where is she?”

  Irma? He was asking for Irma?

  “I thought you might like a tankard of ale.” She made her voice sound flirtatious, slightly shy, just as Irma taught her.

  He didn’t reach for the cup. “I just want Irma and a bath.”

  Perhaps she should take the ale back to the kitchen. Nay, that would make her look dim-witted. She set the tankard on the table in front of him.

  “Irma’s coming,” she assured him, changing her tactic slightly. “She was the one who wanted me to bring this to you because of the delay in her coming to you.” There. That should set his mind at ease. “There is no charge for this tankard tonight. ”

  His gaze flitted from her eyes to the patch on her cheek to her hood and back again. “Do I know you?”

  Panic shot through her. If he had seen her before, recognized her, she could be ruined. “Of course not. I have just arrived.” Too late, she realized that she’d let aristocratic haughtiness creep into her voice.

  She turned her face away, thinking to head back into the kitchen.

  He reached up as if to flip her hood down.

  She gasped, jumping back and barely checking the urge to slap him for his impertinence. How dare he! But of course he would dare. He thought she was a harlot.

  “I like to see who is serving me.”

  “It is unnecessary to remove my cowl.” Gwyneth drew her hood even farther over her head.

  He stared at her suspiciously. “Are you truly a whore? The way you speak …”

  Fluttering nerves clustered in Gwyneth’s stomach. Surely if he knew who she was, he would have said something by now. She licked her lips, determined to bravado through their encounter.

  His eyes went wide at her motion. They were not black at all, she realized. Green. Moss green. An interesting green. The familiar male reaction brought her a measure of satisfaction, and she felt her confidence grow.

  “I’ll jes take this one,” she said boldly, plucking the mostly empty tankard from his grip, “and go see about Irma.” Careful to keep her hair covered, she let her cape slide open at the neck and stuck out her bosom in the manner she’d seen other girls do.

  He released the tankard easily and relief poured through her.

  Victory.

  With what she hoped was a disarming look, she turned, gazed at him over her shoulder, and sauntered back toward Irma, who was standing, holding Kiera, and waiting for her near the door of the back room, only slightly out of sight.

  He lifted the herb-laced tankard.

  “Perfect,” Irma cooed when Gwyneth reached her. “Give ‘im some time and ‘e’ll be passed out cold.”

  Sheer giddiness settled on Gwyneth. Even with all her ploys at the jail, she had never done something so utterly shameful or bold. A lofty sense of female power flowed through her.

  The abbess walked by and gave them both a good hard glare. Gwyneth pulled her hood back up so that her face was again in shadows and mulled over the possibility of marriage to a man she could control. She would be mistress of her own properties. She would have a place to take Kiera and Irma and Elizabeth and others as well. She would have gold of her own. She would have freedom.

  At long last, the man’s head began to droop.

  Irma scrambled to her feet, pulling Gwyneth from her thoughts. She sent Kiera over to play in a corner with two other children.

  The abbess looked in his direction, a severe frown on her pinched face. Men were not allowed to sleep here; it was against brothel rules, bad for business.

  They rounded on Jared, who let out a loud sigh.

  “You’ll ‘ave to go,” Irma coaxed him, “on yer feet.” She swung her arm around his shoulders and tried to lift him.

  He didn’t budge.

  With her eyes, Irma guided Gwyneth to take the other side of his large body.

  Nervously, Gwyneth wrapped her arm around his waist and they lifted. The movement felt vaguely reminiscent of the last man they had carried together.

  Jared was heavy, and her shoulders sagged under his weight. He smelled faintly of leather and the outdoors, an altogether masculine scent, one she was totally unused to. It was almost heady.

  She shook off the silly thought. She did not wish to be attracted to him. Their relationship would be a business transaction—like bu
ying a loaf of bread. Or a meat pie. She would marry him, give him a bit of gold, and send him on his way.

  He lurched, his legs shaky with drug. “Huh? Oh. I dishn’t mean to shrinks show—”

  “Just come on, dearie. We’ll show you to a nice bed to sleep it off, we will,” Irma said, tugging him farther upright.

  They dragged him, stumbling, through the kitchen. He kept moving one foot in front of the other in an artless stupor, half in, half out of slumber. He muttered unintelligible words. At last they got him, swaying this way and that as he went, to the back door.

  Freedom was just one husband away.

  Chapter 8

  A pox on women!

  Jared St. John, bound and gagged, knelt on the hard stone floor of a small church not far from the brothel and vowed that when he got free, the whore holding a dagger to his back would get her comeuppance.

  He’d see her begging for a mercy that would not be forthcoming.

  He’d have her thrown into prison.

  He’d have her tried as a witch and burned at the stake.

  “Move forward,” she demanded. “Toward the altar. It’s only a little farther.”

  His pride, a fierce barbarian that hammered war drums in his chest, yowled in outrage as the point of her dagger pricked him betwixt his shoulder blades and prompted him to shuffle in the direction she wished. The small pinprick of pain, intensified by the spinning of his head, nearly sent him toppling to the floor.

  She’d tricked him.

  She’d drugged him.

  She’d kidnapped him.

  Not alone, but with the help of that fuzzy-headed Irma to whom he’d been kind for weeks—overpaying her for naught more than bathing and gossiping.

  “You are too large to carry,” Irma explained in that raspy voice Jared had come to associate with her quick and gentle hands whilst she washed him each week at the brothel. “Move forward, ah say, so we can close the doors. The ceremony will be over soon, and you can be on yer way.”

  There will be no ceremony, he wanted to shout. Saliva oozed around the gag and leaked off his chin.