She pulled at the ropes and he felt them loosen. Wiggling his fingers, he turned his head to glimpse at the woman who was now his wife. The sharp thrill of coming victory bubbled in his chest.
The ropes surrounding his ankles slid to the marble tiles with a small slithering sound. His thighs tensed as she moved to release the ones from his wrists. Only a moment more. A moment more and he would be fully in control.
He rotated his ankles, left, right, then left again.
Impatient, he shook the rope off, leapt to his feet, and whirled to face his new bride, already imagining her neck stretched across the opening of the town’s stocks and the helplessness she would feel at being thus contained.
She gasped, eyes going so wide he nearly laughed.
In one swift motion, he stepped close, knocked her headdress to the ground, and fisted his hand in her hair near her scalp. Red feathers scattered across the tiles. He pushed her forward so that she was bent in two. A position she might as well get accustomed to.
She screamed. The sound echoed over and over again through the church.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the monk slide forward. Not letting go of his captive’s hair, he spun on his heels and grabbed the nearest candlestick just as he had rehearsed in his mind.
The long tapered candles rolled across the tiles, dripping wax as they went. With a grunt, he smashed the heavy gilded weapon atop the monk’s head.
Giffard howled and went flying; his brown robe fluttered out like a butterfly. He landed near one of the candles, motionless.
Good.
The girl under his hand jerked back and forth, trying to wiggle her way free.
“Cease.” He tightened his grip, pushing her farther downward.
Her body crumpled forward as expected. She didn’t stop struggling, but she was small and easy to control; from this position he could lead her wherever he wished to take her—make her crawl on her hands and knees as she had done to him. That would be the first dent in her pride.
“Stop moving,” he growled.
Her hair had come unpinned and its ends trailed on the tiles like a maid’s mop. He stomped on it, anchoring her in place, wanting her to realize exactly how powerless she was, how stupid she had been. He wanted her to ask for mercy. To beg.
A tremble went through her body, and she screamed again. “Let go of me!”
“Get on your knees.”
When she did not immediately comply, he pushed her slightly, so she was forced slowly to the floor.
“Cease!”
“So much haughtiness, Princess.”
“How dare you! You—”
At that moment, a large gilded object came flying across the church. Jared flinched to one side, but was too late. A heavy Bible slammed him across the temple. The metal hinges scraped down his cheek.
Through blurry vision, he saw Irma standing by the alcove, an open trunk beside her, right before he sank wearily to the floor and his hand loosed its grip of his captive’s hair.
Chapter 9
Gwyneth’s mind raced in an attempt to come up with some sort of plan as she and Irma tugged and pushed the unconscious, blood-splattered form of her new husband out of the wheelbarrow’s belly and onto a narrow cot. They stood in the midst of a one-room chamber that belonged to one of Irma’s regulars who was currently not in residence. It was spartan, but clean with barren timber walls and a swept plank floor. Irma lit a tallow candle. Dark, acrid smoke tinged the air.
Jared’s scalp wound was only a small gash but it seemed to have poured oceans of blood—first in squirts and then in oozing drops. A scarlet trail dripped onto the planks and his tunic was awash with sticky red liquid. Irma threw his staff down beside the bed with a loud clatter.
Heavens! What were they going to do with him?
He was supposed to be lame and docile!
Instead, releasing him had been like releasing a dragon.
His large body tumbled onto the mattress with a whomp and another shot of fear quivered through her.
She pressed her fingers down on his wound to stop the flow of blood. His head needed to be stitched. “What are we going to do?” she asked, aloud this time.
All the way here, down the darkened cobblestone streets, she’d been asking herself that question. They could not release him, they could not go to the authorities, they could not—
“Poison him,” Irma answered drolly, interrupting her frenzied thoughts.
Sickness washed through her stomach. “Do not be morbid.”
“Ah ain’t. ‘Tis the best option. We kill ‘im off and dump ‘im in the river nice and slow jes like we did afore.”
Horrified at Irma’s coldness, Gwyneth stared at her friend. “We’re not committing murder!” It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she was no murderess, but the words died in her mouth. She had already killed one man.
Irma shrugged, the gesture telling. “Right. Well, that’s wot you’d do if you had sense.”
“We’re not doing that.”
“Shame the Bible didn’t brain ‘im. You reckon Giffard got the blood cleaned up afore anyone showed up at the church?”
“Surely he did.”
Giffard had helped them get Jared into the wheelbarrow and had shooed them away hastily, undoubtedly concerned about his own safety more than theirs.
She surveyed the man on the mattress, trying to discern what to do with him. She had to think logically, take it one moment at a time. Surely they would figure out something. She could go to Adele, get some help. Perhaps even send a note to Papa in Italy.
And tell her family what? That she’d captured a man out of a brothel and forced him to marry her? She nearly groaned. What a stupid, addle-headed plan this all had been.
Moving forward, she decided she would just secure him firmly to the bed, find something to stop the bleeding, and then give herself time to pace the floor and figure out what to do. Mayhap she could organize the cupboards. Straightening things always cleared her head.
With quick motions, she secured his wrists and ankles to the legs of the bed, then stepped back to survey her work. His body was so long and his shoulders so wide that he hung off the sides of the narrow cot.
Tied like a gift from hell.
Blood, some dried, some still red and sticky, covered his tunic.
“We need to get him cleaned up,” she said to Irma, who had been busy pulling the curtains and lighting a fire in the small hearth. “Find some rags, stop the bleeding. If we can find a needle, I’ll stitch the wound.”
Irma shrugged. “Suit yourself. The blood ain’t bothering ‘im. It’s slowed down to a trickle.”
“We can’t leave him thus. He needs to be sewn.”
“Ah ain’t ne’er sewn nobody in me life.”
“Well, I have. You can help me clean him.”
“Ah bathes ‘im every week,” Irma protested.
“Exactly. ”
“Nay. Absolutely not. We need to get rid of him, not be cleaning ‘im up like we’re takin’ ‘im to visit the queen.”
Irritated with Irma, Gwyneth surveyed the man. “How could you bathe him every week and not have known he was so strong! Look at his body. I’ve never seen so many muscles. ”
Irma clucked her tongue. “'e ‘ad a staff. Asides, one man’s like the next. Big lumberin’ jackasses the whole lot of ‘em.”
“You won’t help me?”
“Hmph. Ah say we poison ‘im and be done with it. All ah gots to do is go back to the brothel and get a stash of—”
“Nay!”
“Yer jes being impractical. You can’t stay married to a man like that, and if yer family finds out, you’ll be ruined.”
Gwyneth wrung her hands into her skirt. Think, girl, think. “We have to tell my family.”
“Tell ‘em wot? That you kidnapped a man, married ‘im, and now ‘ave ‘im tied to a bed in a chamber near a church?” Irma scoffed. “That new overlord o’ yers, Montgomery, ‘ll ‘ave yer ‘ead for it.”
“Not if"—Gwyneth paced the small room twice; it was only a few steps from one end of it to the other—"we tell them he was the one who did the kidnapping.”
Irma cocked her head to one side. “Wot’s the difference betwixt that and us poisoning ‘im? Lord Montgomery will ‘ave ‘im be’eaded if you do that, yes ‘e will.”
A rope of tension tightened Gwyneth’s spine, pulling a hard knot in her shoulders and leaving a string of stiffness running from her lower back all the way up her neck. Sinking into a slat-backed chair, she buried her head in her hands. “What was I thinking?”
“There, there.” Irma slid beside her, patting her on the shoulder. “I’ll jes ‘ead to the brothel and get the nightshade.”
Gwyneth sat upright so quickly she nearly toppled over the chair. Irma jumped back with a yelp.
“We’re not murdering him! ”
A sour look, as if she’d just eaten a lemon, crossed Irma’s features. “Why not? You did it afore.”
“'Tis not the same! He’s innocent!”
“No, he ain’t. We jes didn’t see ‘im do whatever it was ‘e did. One man’s pretty much like the rest.”
“You were the one who told me this one was different!”
“Well.” Irma looked uncomfortable. “Ah suppose ah was wrong.” There was an awkward silence, then Irma flounced to the door. “Will return with the nightshade,” she said on her way out. “Wait!”
The door banged closed in answer.
Gwyneth stared at it wondering if she should run after her friend or not. Slowly, she turned back to the man on the mattress.
Blood and dirt smeared across his face from his thick, dark hair to his goatee. His head lolled to one side.
A tendril of guilt swirled through her, but she pushed it aside. There was no call for him to act as he had in the church! They would have released him and, once she was in proper control of her dower lands, sent him on his way with enough gold to make his life comfortable. He was a peasant! A falconer! What she offered was far above his station. He should have been grateful! All he had to do was cooperate for a few weeks and he would have enough gold to set up a falconry business of his own. Instead he’d acted like a madman.
That thought sent her earlier panic somersaulting through her again. One moment at a time, she told her frazzled mind. Just one moment at a time.
Taking a deep breath, she rummaged around the room for items to dress his gash. Keeping her hands busy tending his wound would surely be better than standing around wringing her hands wondering what she was going to do with him.
The chamber was tiny, but she found it was quite clean and reasonably well stocked with supplies. No dust or cobwebs marred the corners, which pleased her sense of order and soothed her mind in a small measure.
A pitcher of water sat on a counter by the wall, and a cupboard by the window contained strips of cloth, needles, thread, and other basic living supplies in an organized fashion. The neatness brought a sense of rationality to her brain. At least someone had good housekeeping skills.
She gathered what she needed and returned to the man—her husband—tied to the cot. Husband! What a strange word. A strange word for an absolute stranger.
For the hundredth time since the scene in the church, she silently berated herself for the idiocy of this plan. How had she ever thought this was a good idea?
Undoubtedly, they would have to get the marriage annulled. Surely it would easily be declared illegal. Surely. But … what if her new husband didn’t cooperate?
Shuddering, she set aside that thought, leaned over Jared, and forced herself to observe him with cold detachment.
She would sew up his wound and, once he awoke, they would converse civilly, come to an understanding. Surely she could make him understand how her plan could benefit them both. If not, the marriage would be annulled and they would put this horrible night behind them.
She poured water from a clay pitcher into a basin, removed the wig, and washed the white powder and kohl from her face. She would face him as plainly and straightforward as she could manage.
Feeling more levelheaded after thinking the matter through, she pressed a cloth to the gash and held it there for a few moments. When it did not stop oozing, she wiped the area around it clean as best she could, threaded a needle, and made quick tiny stitches down the length of the wound.
He moaned a few times but did not awaken.
She surveyed her work carefully, very gently pulling his skin this way and that to verify that it would hold. There would be a scar, but not much of one—her stitches were tiny and even. Her prized embroidery work had allowed her to earn gold to bribe the jailors. Brother Giffard used his position as a traveling monk to help her secretly sell sleeves to ladies of the king’s court.
Her mother would be proud. Satisfied, she dipped her cloth into a bowl of water to wash off the rest of him.
The water turned from clear to red as she wrung out the rag over and over again. Slowly, Jared’s features were revealed.
A small white scar beneath his left eye felt lumpy beneath her fingers and his raven hair was silky and thick. He had a slight widow’s peak and a well-trimmed mustache and goatee.
She stopped her ministrations to stare at him.
Mercy, he was beautiful—especially for a peasant. Glossy black hair, high cheekbones, generous lips, and an almost aristocratic nose. Enthralled, she ran her fingers across his features. His chin was too pointed and his brows too winged. The two slight feminine features in an otherwise uncompromisingly masculine face fascinated her.
She’d never seen a man quite like him before. His breathing was deep and long and she wondered if she should wake him. With her finger, she drew a line across his cheek, brushed strands of his hair aside, and turned his face up so she could study it.
A shot of heat curled in her belly and for a fleeting moment she wished she could keep him here, like this, tied for her own pleasure. A man of her own. A husband she could totally control.
Guilt curled through her at the sinful idea. What a wicked thought!
Carefully, she turned his face from side to side, inspecting him.
At once, she blinked.
The monk?
The young monk?
Disbelief shot through her; she took a firmer hold on his chin and peered closer.
‘Twas definitely him. The man who had given her the book with the dragon cover. The book she carried even now tucked in her bosom. He was older, harder—a crease had formed between his brows. She smoothed it down with her fingers and wondered what had happened to him.
“Of all things,” she whispered, completely mystified and not knowing what to make of it.
How could he be here? Evidently he had not entered the monastery after all. Why?
Curious and intrigued, she slowly trailed her fingers down the column of his neck and loosened the ties of his tunic. She told herself that she needed to bathe him, that she needed to get all the blood off of him, but in her heart, she knew she lied to herself. He had been the one man she had felt a connection to all those years ago. The small book he had given her was pressed against her bosom, carried as it had been for three years. The dragon’s tail had lost flecks of its gilding because she’d thumbed through the pages so often.
She pushed Jared’s tunic upward, and sucked in a breath at the thick muscular ridges of his stomach. Heavens! It was so very different than her own soft, rounded white belly. He was tan, hard, chiseled.
Without thinking, she laid her palm fully across his midriff. Heat seeped from his body to her fingers. A wave of dizziness passed over her, and she snatched her hand quickly back.
Fanning herself with one hand, she reached for the cloth. She would attend her Christian duty of cleansing his wounds. He was not hers to keep no matter the beauty of his body. He was dangerous. Unpredictable. Had he not proved that in the church?
Asides, she had no interest in the carnal nature of man—such brought naught but pain on a wom
an.
She ran the wet cloth across the valleys and hills of his torso and allowed her fingers to linger across his skin. So much tantalizing masculinity.
‘Twas hard to believe that he was desexed, but Irma had been clear that his manhood never hardened.
She pushed the tunic farther aside, but it stuck to his skin where some blood had dried. She reached to unbind his wrists to remove it, but her hands hesitated on the ropes.
In the church, he had forced her to her knees all too quickly. Best to leave him bound until they came to some sort of an agreement.
She fetched a knife and sawed up the front of his garment and then down the sleeves. ‘Twas ruined anyway; she would send Irma to find another.
The pieces of cloth dropped onto the floor in a heap and Gwyneth’s eyes widened as she took in the expanse of his chest. Clothed, he had seemed large, but unclad he was more than merely large. Powerful. Enormous.
Mentally she counted the handbreadths across his shoulders. Wide. He was so bloody wide.
She wondered if instead of waking him, she should force more of the sleeping draught down his throat. If he were to get free, God only knew what he would do. Sliding her hand into her hair, she rubbed her scalp in the place where he had gripped her hair, the anchor point he’d used to force her to the floor so easily. Of a truth, the battle betwixt them could not be fought with physical force. Thank God he was unmanned and would be unable to consummate the marriage. Mayhap that was why he had been going into the monastery.
His naked chest rose and fell with deep, even breathing. She dipped her cloth back into the water, deciding to finish bathing him while she better formulated a plan to win him over to her way of thinking. She would be kind to him, smile at him, bend his mind to her will. She had plenty of practice doing that to men.
Back and forth the rag moved across his skin.
After a few moments, she stopped and stared at him. He was tied securely and completely helpless. She didn’t have to charm him—he was hers to use as she wanted!
A thrill of sheer female power went through her.
How very fascinating!
All her life she’d been under a man’s thumb in one way or another—first her father, then (now that her father was in exile) Lord Montgomery. All her life, she had manipulated, wheedled, and coaxed men to do her bidding. And here was a man she did not have to do that with. He was hers for the taking—to do with what she willed. She could undress him, wash him. Kiss him.
Defiant Page 8
