Defiant

by Jessica Trapp

  His vision swam, and the woman—the one holding the dagger to his back—kept going in and out of focus. She seemed more well kept than the other harlots—downright attractive, to tell the truth.

  He tried to make out her features, but his vision bounced and blurred, disallowing him to discern her features.

  His hatred burned hotter, coming up in his throat. He would have spit on her if his mouth had not been stuffed with wool.

  The spinning in his head made it difficult to remain upright, and he had to concentrate to keep from falling over.

  The doors slammed behind him, an ominous sound in the midst of the church. His bound arms burned and he strained against the ropes until they cut into his wrists.

  Forcing a breath in through his nostrils, he blinked to keep himself upright. What had they drugged him with? His tongue felt thick and heavy as he pushed it against the woolen gag stuffed inside his mouth.

  “Who are you?” he mumbled, but his question sounded like garbled muck, unintelligible.

  The comely one looked nervously at her companion. “Irma, this is—”

  Irma shrugged. “Right. So ‘e’s not so docile as I expected. We’ll jes finish the marriage and get you both free. ‘e’ll be all right then after we explains t’all. ‘e’s ‘armless, ah tell you.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Oh, jes ‘urry up and marry ‘im. See ‘ere, Brother Giffard is ready. ‘es even got a Bible, ‘e does.”

  Raising his head, Jared stared at the tall, loose-limbed man clothed in a monk’s brown robe. He stood barefoot by the altar, a few yards in front of Jared. He had hideously furry feet, tonsured hair, and brows that pulled in tight between his eyes so that long lines ran up his forehead.

  “Mayhap we should not—” the monk started, but Irma cut him off with a snap of her fingers.

  The dagger eased from Jared’s back, and the pretty whore pointed it at the monk. Her arm was as straight and stable as royalty pronouncing judgment on a traitor. Haughty and imperious. “Begin.”

  Damn princess. Her dress was whore red, but of all things he was sure she was not some common harlot. But who?

  It did not matter. Whoever she was, he’d take pleasure in ripping her pride from her, hold her down and force her to eat like a cur off the floor. He pumped his hands to stave off the numbness that crept into his fingers; he needed presence of body as well as mind to get free from the shrew’s clutches.

  The monk cleared his throat. “This is not quite orthodo—”

  “Do it now, Giffard. I have no patience tonight,” Princess Harlot said. “For certes, you can smooth over any issues we might have with the church. You know the bishop.”

  “But I’m unsure if this is legal—”

  Irma stepped forward and whispered something in his ear. A blush crept from the neckline of his robe and trailed up his cheeks until even his earlobes glowed bright red.

  Fingering his Bible, the monk cleared his throat and began mumbling in Latin. “Vis accipere hic praesentem in tuam legitimam uxorem …”

  Of a truth, the man was blackmailed. As caught in this sham as Jared himself.

  Thirst for justice coursed through Jared, eating at his stomach and burning coldly through his veins. He shook his head, trying to clear the vestiges of drug from his mind. The hemp ropes scraped and ate at his skin.

  More dizziness. Awash of acid came up in his throat.

  The church’s interior swam in an opulent display of color. The huge space, dappled with stained-glass rainbows, monstrous columns, and gory religious paintings, felt like a crowded tomb. One complete with grim reapers and souls destined for hell.

  Grunting, he fought the ropes, fought the bile, fought his spinning head. He rocked back and forth on his knees. His hair fanned around him.

  Ignoring his fury, the monk officiating the unholy sacrament droned on. “… iuxta ritum sanctae matris…”

  Heedlessly. Recklessly. Stupidly.

  He should have been saying his last rites instead of the marriage ceremony. Jared vowed to have justice if it was the last thing he did.

  “Calm, man.” Princess laid a delicate hand on his shoulder, petting him like an overanxious dog as his struggles threatened to topple him from his knees to his belly.

  Anger, so thick that he could taste it even against the sourness of the woolen gag, pulsed in Jared’s mouth. He swung his body, butting her arm forcefully away with his head.

  The motion off-balanced him and he fell, landing hard on his stomach, prostate at the strumpet’s feet.

  She knelt at once, laid a palm against his forehead. Her fingers were warm, not reptilian, as he had imagined they would be. “Irma, we cannot do this.”

  “Bah. ‘e’ll be fine. ‘e’s jes in a bit o’ a stir ‘cause ‘is pride kicked up. I know men. This one is quite tame.”

  Tame? He’d show her tame.

  Forcing himself to roll onto his side, Jared squinted up at the two female faces gazing at him. Irma’s eyes held little pity, but his bride-to-be’s were wide. One tendril of glistening hair roped downward from beneath her cowl.

  He stared at the distinctive strand of hair, wishing he could remove the covering and see more of it.

  Gwyneth of Windrose? His angel of light?

  A brick of betrayal dropped onto his chest. How could his Gwyneth, the one he had pined for, be this harpy before him?

  He looked at her again. Her features came into clear view for the first time. Nay. This woman was older, with sharp, harsh features made all the more prominent by the heavy layer of lead paint, darkkohl, and rouge. She lacked the luster of the fresh girl he remembered.

  Not Gwyneth, then.

  This was a woman of the world. Not an innocent.

  She offered a thin smile. He cringed as her perfectly white teeth appeared. They should have been fangs dripping with poison. But, for certes, even tied and humiliated as he was, he could tell she was a woman who rivaled the beauty of his Gwyneth.

  The thought angered him. He wanted no whore to sully the memory of the girl he had gifted with his book.

  His body reacted differently, and he felt shaming heat enter his groin.

  This woman was a devil.

  A harpy.

  A temptress.

  The host of Satan.

  Her comeliness was that of a calculating mind—the sort that intoxicated men and turned them into blathering fools on purpose, just to bend them to her will. Her wide blue eyes bespoke innocence, but her hips, tiny waist, and perfectly sculpted breasts seemed made for pleasure.

  At once, he wanted to both tup her and kill her.

  “We mean you no harm, sir,” she said softly with a wide smile. One that had obviously oft gotten what she wanted out of most men.

  But he was not most men.

  Rocking against the floor, he strained to rise, but his limbs would not obey him. Tension pulled across his shoulders and he knew he would sell his soul to spit at her, to humble her, to rip the smugness from her face.

  The monk shuffled his hairy feet back and forth. “I fear the abbot will com—”

  Princess snapped her fingers at him and he fell silent.

  Strumpet.

  “I’d like to pay you for your trouble,” she said, turning back to Jared.

  And I would like to pay you for yours as well, he thought grimly.

  Candlelight glinted off her elaborate headdress as she leaned toward him. For a mad instant he wanted naught more than to hold her down, one hand on her body, one on her neck, and rip it from her so he could get a better look at his enemy. The thought of seeing her shamed and devoid of pride burned through him in a fierce wave. It would be pure pleasure to repay his own dishonor measure for measure. He wanted her to be unable to toss her comely head and tempt a man with her eyes to drink poison.

  He struggled, fighting to get up.

  “Lmmg!” he growled against the gag, his best effort at the words “let me go.”

  The women blinked at him impassive
ly.

  Stinging formed on the backs of his eyes born out of rage, of mortification, of helplessness. To be tricked and taken by two women! Girls! Not even burly girls. Small, inconsequential slips of womanhood. It was the ultimate degradation.

  For a heart-stopping moment, the remembrance of lying amid rat droppings on a dungeon grated his brain.

  He shook off the thought, refocusing on the present and determining to get free. A pox on all beautiful women. Better to have a mousy wallflower who would be grateful to cater to a husband’s needs. A quiet woman. A peaceful life. That’s what he wanted.

  Instead …

  “Come on. I’ll help you rise.” Princess Whore pulled on his arm, her fingers firm and tight against his bicep.

  His chest burned as if a coil of snakes, frustrated with captivity, writhed therein.

  He glanced down at her fingers. Lily hands. Perfect cuticles. Shaped nails. They trembled slightly.

  A tingling formed on his neck.

  This one, no matter her being at a brothel, was not a common harlot. Those hands belonged to a lady. A lady desperate for marriage. With that hair, it was possible that she was even a cousin of Gwyneth.

  Snarling at her, he forced himself, with her help, back up to his knees. Lady or no, she would pay for her crimes done here.

  Drawing in a deep breath to steady his mind, he cocked his head to one side allowing curiosity to cut a slight notch in his fury. He needed to think rationally. He needed a plan to get free, to look around the church and find some way to cut his bonds.

  A man could not be forced to marry. What sort of woman would think so?

  How would the union be consummated? The thought of getting hard while a blade bit into his neck was laughable.

  The officiating clergyman stammered out a few words, then looked at him expectantly.

  Jared’s knees ached from the stone floor as he waited for the gaggle of nitwits to realize that, gagged, he could not say the vow even if he wanted to.

  Light from the stained-glass windows flickered over them, casting blue and green dots over her face and homespun cape. Silence reigned in the sanctuary.

  The monk glanced from Princess to Irma to Jared and back to Princess. “He is, uh … gagged.”

  Brilliant. Perfectly bloody brilliant. Jared stifled the urge to roll his eyes at his captors.

  “We … should, uh … release him.” The monk’s halting tone confirmed Jared’s thinking that he was no more a willing participant of this ceremony than Jared was.

  Too bad. He would still pay for his part here.

  “Be a good boy and I’ll take out the gag.”

  Boy? She’d just called him a boy!

  In the pit of his belly, hot fury congealed into ice. His shoulders relaxed as his resolve hardened. Afore this scenario ended, she would call him master. He’d see her kneeling before him as he currently was before her.

  But such things could not be accomplished by reckless rage; they needed calculated intent.

  He nodded.

  Her fingers touched the edges of the gag, then trailed around his cheeks and mussed the back of his hair as she sought the knot. Her scent was of lavender and innocence—a far cry from her actions. Like Gwyneth’s. He shook off the thought.

  One of her breasts grazed his nose and her body jerked, curved inward to further avoid the touch. A dark thought that she might find his touch repulsive or frightening edged into his mind. A tool he could use?

  He leaned forward, closing the slight distance between them, and squarely laid his forehead against her chest and twisted his head back and forth.

  Gasping, she ripped the rough wool from his mouth and stumbled back, her eyes wide.

  “Ne’er fear, friend. ‘e’ll be gone soon,” Irma announced and stepped forward to put a stabilizing hand on the princess.

  The corners of Jared’s lips stung, worn raw by the gag. Determining to keep his composure, to not spit on the woman before him, he focused on moving his jaw around a few times. He needed to be free from the bonds and it was in his best interest to do nothing that would cause them to bind him any tighter.

  “Your name?” The sound came out as more of a rasp and he worked his tongue around in his mouth to get saliva flowing.

  “Never mind that,” Irma said briskly. “Introductions later.” She turned to Giffard. “What next?”

  The monk tapped his hairy feet up and down on the stones a few times. “Just the words, my lady.”

  “You cannot hide your name from me, wife” Jared spat out the word wife even though they were not fully married. Nor would they ever be.

  A short sword, wielded by Irma, pushed into his back, deeper this time. Drawing blood. Liquid trickled down his spine and seeped into his homespun tunic.

  He ducked to the side and flexed his shoulders in an attempt to get away afore it severed his spine.

  “Say the vow,” Irma demanded, her eyes alight with fervor. “We do not have all night.” The mole on her chin quivered.

  Princess flinched and bit her lower lip. “Irma?”

  “Will be o’er soon. ‘e’s naught someone to show mercy to. We let ‘im go now, and we’re all cooked. Jes

  finish this up and be done with it. Remember wot ya did afore. ‘Tis better than that. We’re a-doing this for yer own good, we are.”

  The princess’s skin paled.

  The monk thumbed his Bible.

  “Say the words, dog,” Irma continued.

  “Go to hell,” Jared gritted out. Burning fury singed his resolve to remain calm. He struggled, straining against the rope to rise from his knees and fight.

  “You’ll marry ‘er.” Irma’s hand cracked across his cheek.

  The bloody bitch. “A pox on you, whore.”

  “An’ you as well, dog. ”

  “Irma! Cease!” The princess stepped between them. “Truly, sir, we mean you no harm. This was supposed to be good for the both of us. I have gold for you. ”

  Gold.

  Gold would allow him to build a falconry business after he cleared his name. He could train hawks and purchase a small cottage—live a quiet life of peace.

  “How much gold?”

  “Plenty of it. I just want to be legally wed. ‘Tis a simple exchange between us, naught more. I’m terribly sorry about bringing you here as we did. ”

  He blinked at her. “Who are you?”

  Her lower lip trembled but no words came out. The ring on her finger glinted in the candle glow.

  A dispassionate anger chilled Jared’s veins. The instant he was free, he’d take it from her—take all her jewelry from her. Ne’er again would she be haughty and lofty.

  With an effort, he controlled his features and waited.

  “I’m the daughter of a nobleman, I need to get married. I heartily apologize for this inconvenience.”

  Inconvenience? She wanted them to marry, for heaven’s sake. Was she a half-wit?

  “We will release you—” she started.

  “Nay. Marriage would be perfect,” he said stonily. He would take gold, her lands, her everything. Marriage would give him the rest of his life to make her regret this day.

  The damn princess seemed determined to see through the vows before untying him! Irritating. Vexing. Infuriating.

  His palm itched to bury itself in her hair, drag her down to the church floor and take her as an act of sheer dominance, to prove to them both there would be only one master in the end.

  “What is your name?” he demanded. “Gwy—”

  Irma clapped a hand over her mouth. “The less ‘e knows the better. Marry ‘im, get ‘old of yer lands, and send ‘im on ‘is way. The marriage can be annulled.”

  Gwy?

  Gwyneth?

  Gwyneth of Windrose?

  Nay.

  Never.

  He had considered that earlier and dismissed the thought.

  Nay, ‘twas not his Gwyneth—the girl he’d pined for, the girl he’d longed for, the girl whose lock of hair lay bra
ided in his pouch.

  He took in the haughty lift of her chin and square set of her shoulders. He remembered a fresh-faced girl of fifteen summers—not a gaudy temptress. The woman before him was certainly beautiful enough to be his Gwyneth, but she was worldly, covered with powder and rouge and a horrid headdress. It made no sense that a woman who had suitors aplenty would choose a man from a brothel.

  “Who are you?” he demanded again.

  “My name is … Gwendolyn.”

  She was lying. He was sure of it.

  “Why did you choose me?” he asked, wanting to know more.

  “Silence! “ The monk glowered at all of them and started again in Latin.

  Jared gritted his teeth, biting back the urge to interrupt the ceremony and demand answers. The last two months of searching for his brother’s murderer had taught him the value of patience and pretending he was naught more than a poor peasant. He slumped to purposefully make himself smaller.

  He peered at the feathered hat, wishing to rip it from her and release her hair. If he could see all of it and not just the one strand perhaps he could discern the truth and demand answers.

  He pulled his wrists against the ropes and counted the tiles on the floor, knowing he needed to bide his time until he could break free, bind her with the ropes, and lead her straight to these lands that Irma alluded to and obtain control of them.

  Whoever she was, he would take her gold. And take his revenge as well.

  “I will,” he said when Brother Giffard prompted him.

  His bride cleared her throat delicately and faced him when the monk announced the end of the ceremony.

  Jared tensed his thighs, getting ready to attack. He would tackle his wife first, pull her downward to the floor, then grab the right hand candlestick and knock the monk senseless. Irma, unarmed, would be dealt with as the events unfolded.

  “'Tis done. Thank you for your cooperation,” she said gently. She rounded behind him and he smelled the scent of lavender, felt the brushing of her body against his neck as she bent to grasp the knot of the ropes. Her mannerism, so soft and feminine, was at odds with her behavior, and all the more heinous because of it. “Truly I do not wish any harm on you.”

  “Not even sticking a dagger in my back?”