“Gillian!” His shout sent both the boy and the steward scurrying away. In fact, the cavernous room seemed suddenly deserted, except for Edith, who lifted her head to scowl at him reprovingly, and his wife, who paused to wipe her hands before turning to answer him.
“Yes?” she replied calmly. Her placid demeanor only made him angrier, and he pierced her with an iron gaze. She was dressed in one of those pieced-together gowns, her face dirty, her hands red and ruined. She was his wife, by God, and did not belong upon her knees!
“What the devil do you think you are doing?”
“I am cleaning before we lay fresh rushes,” she answered reasonably.
“Get up.” Nicholas could see people peeking out of archways at him in astonishment, but he did not care. “We have servants to do such jobs here.”
She rose to her feet, a mulish look on her face and her eyes sparking with defiance. “And what am I to be allowed to do?” she asked, raising her voice. “I am not to heal. I am not to tend the sick or work in the herb garden. And now it seems that I am not to tend the hall!” She swept out an arm and frowned in bitter accusation. “Just what am I to do, husband?”
“You are to tend to me!” Nicholas snapped.
“You?” she shouted. “You disappear in the night without a word, without telling anyone where you are or when you will return!” The words tumbled from her lips before . she gulped and glanced away, as if regretting them, and Nicholas felt strangely light-headed. Had she been concerned about him? Had she missed him? He shook himself, certain that he was imagining things. The vixen had no doubt danced in glee at his absence. With an effort, he recaptured his anger and flung it across the space toward her.
“Get yourself decently dressed, wife! ‘Tis time for supper, and I will not sit down to eat with a grimy peasant!”
She gasped and opened her mouth as if she wanted to say more, and Nicholas forgot the allure of a willing eastern woman. His wife was alive and fresh, and she filled him with her fire. She was so passionate in her own defense, that for a moment Nicholas let himself consider that passion unleashed in other ways.
Forcibly he jerked his thoughts away, only to notice the streak of dirt on her cheek. He raised a hand and struggled with the urge to wipe it away with his thumb—or his tongue—before dropping his arm as if she would burn him.
Damn! He was tired, hungry and angry, and his discipline was already slipping. Bellowing orders at the servants who skulked behind the archways, Nicholas demanded supper, whether the floor was bare or not. Then he took a menacing step toward his wife, who had yet to move.
“Go!” he shouted, pointing toward the stair. And she went, but not without sending him one last hateful look. Then, lifting her chin high, she stalked across the hall, more regal than any queen, lovelier in her worn clothes than another in the finest of gowns.
Watching her, Nicholas smiled tightly, assured of his victory over this strong-willed wench. But, oddly enough, he felt no triumph, only a fierce ache in his belly that seemed to spread both upward and downward. It pulsed through him so painfully, that he did not even notice the shadow that was Darius drift across the hall to follow his wife.
Despite his fierce hunger, Nicholas picked at his food. Gillian had bathed and dressed in a dark blue gown that drew his gaze far too much for his liking, distracting him from the business of his revenge. His stomach churned, and he felt as if his insides were being torn in different directions, like a man he had once seen dragged apart by two horses.
It was time he did something with the sharp-tongued creature who was his wife, for she had a knack of seeking out trouble. She could not seem to remain idle, but would always find some activity designed to irritate him. No more! Hereafter, she would not shame him by playing at being a servant. Nicholas’s vague plans to reduce her to such had been abandoned as soon as he saw her scrubbing the floor like a peasant.
She was a beautiful woman, worthy to be any man’s bride, and he would not have her kneeling in the dirt. She would wear elegant gowns and jewels and keep her hands soft and unmarred, not for her sake, but for his own. Because he took pleasure in seeing her thus.
She wanted duties, so, by God, he would give her duties. She would tend to him, as a wife should, only more so. He wanted her more obedient, more attentive, more eager to do his bidding, than the most faithful bride. She would be at his beck and call, morning and night, like a squire, only more pleasing to the eye and enlivening to the spirit. Aye, that would be fit punishment for the headstrong wench, for it was what she was least inclined to do, he thought with a smile.
Nicholas’s momentarily lightened mood was disrupted by the sight of Edith bustling toward him purposefully. Glowering, he warned her away with his eyes, but the old woman did not flinch. Indeed, she hurried forward with a pleased expression and plopped a large cup on the table before him. He already had his ale, so what the devil was this? All his household knew he refused wine.
“Welcome back, my lord! ‘Tis a delight to have you home again, and to celebrate your return, I had a special drink made for you,” the servant said.
“What is it?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Why, ‘tis a tonic, my lord,” she said, hands upon her ample hips.
“A tonic? I have no need of a tonic, woman. Take it away,” Nicholas said, dismissing her with a turn of his head.
She did not leave, but hovered at his elbow. “Now, my lord, when I noticed the arrangements in the great chamber, I put my mind to helping set things to rights, and this is it!” she pronounced.
Obviously the old woman was being even more obtuse than usual, for Nicholas had not the faintest clue to what she was talking about. His eyes narrowed at the mention of his bedchamber, however, and he pinned her with a threatening gaze.
“Just try a sip, my lord,” she urged. “‘Tis a wondrous drink that will make your blood flow more readily.”
Normally Nicholas ignored the old woman’s eccentricities, but he had been sorely tried of late. Struggling to keep his burgeoning temper in check, he said, very slowly, “My blood flows just fine.”
Edith sighed and leaned closer, as if to impart some great secret to him. “Now, my lord, perhaps you do not get my meaning. I have it on the best authority that this will make your sap rise, often and long.”
While Nicholas stared at her, stunned to silence, she winked broadly, and he felt his cheeks heat with an unwelcome flush. Rage rushed through him, and he turned on his wife, fixing her with a piercing glare that promised swift retribution. “Was this your idea?”
Green eyes wide, Gillian leaned back, away from him. “Of course not! She… she asked me for a recipe for a man who…” Gillian’s creamy skin turned crimson. “But I thought it was for her husband!” she protested.
“I had no idea she would give it to you!” his wife continued with a horrified expression. “I do not want your sap,” she said, pausing to flick a glance at his lap, “or anything else, to rise!”
Beside her, the Syrian burst out laughing, and soon all those at the high table who had not dared smile at his discomfiture were chuckling or hooting with glee. Unaccustomed to such merriment at his expense, Nicholas felt his anger rise and burst like a foreign thing. His brain knew restraint, but something else seized control of him, and he swung out an arm, toppling the offending cup. He watched its contents run along the table and drip to the floor as silence fell once more.
“Get you gone, Edith, before I send you back to Dunmurrow,” he said, and the servant who had grown far too bold paled at the mention of Aisley’s new home. She stepped back, mumbling apologies, and with her exit, silence fell. Everyone returned their attention to the food, while Nicholas tore off a piece of bread with a vicious swipe, though he wanted it not.
“Nicholas.” His name filled the quiet, and he stilled at the sound of it on Gillian’s lips, awareness singeing him so strongly that even his skin felt hot and prickly. She had never called him by name, had never even addressed him that he could remember, though she sh
ould have been using “my lord,” as was his due. He ought to take her to task for that lapse in respect, but the sound of his name, spoken in that husky voice of hers, was too affecting, too compelling, for him to ever want anything else.
“She meant no harm,” Gillian said, and for a moment, Nicholas was so dazed that he could not follow her words. “She is only an old woman, trying to do her best by you.”
Edith? She would talk to him of Edith? Nicholas turned upon her again. “Do not take her part, unless you are eager to embrace the results of her folly! Or perhaps you are eager for the marriage bed, wife?” he taunted, watching her turn pale at his words.
“Believe me, wife, I need no tonic to raise my tarse. Shall we test it here and now?” Grasping her wrist, Nicholas pulled her arm toward him and pressed her palm flush against his groin.
It responded immediately, swelling and stiffening beneath the pressure until he was hard as stone and jutting up into her hand. His simple taunt became something more, as her touch rocked him to the core, sending heat flashing throughout his body, making his hips push toward her imprisoned fingers. His thighs trembled with aching want such as he had never known, and he bit back a groan. Only the presence of his household prevented him taking it further. Only the look of absolute terror on her face made him release his hold upon her.
The moment he did, she sprang away from him and up from her seat, nearly knocking it over in her haste to flee. He watched her go, too stunned by his reaction to call after her. When his brain finally began to function again, it told him that he ought to take some measure of satisfaction in her fright, but all he felt was hot, pulsing need.
Chapter Eight
Gillian ran, gasping, up the stairs, mindlessly seeking sanctuary where none existed. She realized the hopelessness of her search when she reached the door of the great chamber, for it was his room, filled with his bed. Resting her forehead against the wood, Gillian slumped against it, loath to enter.
As soon as she halted, the memory of what had happened below assailed her. Lord have mercy, she had thought him a stallion before, but beneath her hand his wick had become so huge, so horrifying, that her breathing had stopped. She was still trying to catch it, and she closed her eyes tightly, trying to concentrate on her flow of air and not upon him.
The fiend tormented her apurpose, of that Gillian had no doubt, and she welcomed the anger that came hard on the heels of her fear. How could he make her touch him, right there at the supper table, where people could see? Her cheeks burned, and she slammed a fist into the door, releasing her shame and frustration with the violent blow.
If only she could banish the recollection as easily. Her fingers tingled still where they had pressed against him, hot and hard and threatening. Gillian sucked in a deep, shaky draft, fighting her terror and revulsion.
But that was not all she felt. Underneath the more familiar emotions seethed something new and different and even more frightening: a strange quickening that centered deep inside her. Loosing a long, ragged sigh, Gillian realized that for an instant, when her palm held him, she had wanted to twine her other hand into his hair and put her mouth on his, losing herself to sensation. Surrendering.
Gillian blinked rapidly as anxiety swamped her. She could run from her husband, but how could she run from herself? There was no place to go, nowhere to hide.
Immersed in her misery, Gillian did not notice the small sound behind her until something drifted out of the shadows. Then she started, gulping back a cry as the form took shape. The Syrian. Lifting her head from the door, Gillian straightened, sniffing slightly.
“Do not fear him, lady. He will not hurt you,” the foreigner said, with a vehemence that made her uncomfortable. She did not want anyone to see her in this vulnerable state, especially not this stranger.
Turning to face him, Gillian did not dispute his words, for she knew he meant well. She nodded, eager to be rid of his prying eyes, but he was not yet finished. To her surprise, he took both her hands in his, clasping them lightly in a reassuring grasp. “Have faith, lady. And remember that you have friends here,” he said. His kindness made her want to weep—until he spoke again in defense of her husband. “Your lord has been filled with hate so long that he is afraid to feel anything else,” he whispered.
“Afraid?” Gillian scoffed. “He fears nothing.”
Darius shrugged, as if unwilling to argue with her, and a long silence followed that Gillian suspected was rich with hidden meaning. If only she were clever enough to decipher it. Nicholas she understood, for all her mixed emotions about him, but this mysterious man was beyond her comprehension. She stared up into his face, half hidden by the shadows of the passage, seeking answers, but the only reply was the sound of a deep, smooth voice, so laced with menace that it sent shivers up her spine.
“Take… your… hands… from… my… wife.” Nicholas pronounced each word as if he might explode at any moment, and Gillian saw him then, standing behind the Syrian, his face utterly cold and still. He did not raise his voice, and yet the icy tone was more threatening than his loudest shout.
Although Gillian quivered, Darius apparently felt no fear, for he squeezed her fingers lightly before releasing them and turning to face his friend. Or his enemy. At this point, Gillian could not tell what Nicholas had become. She backed up against the door.
“What do you here, Darius, alone with my wife before her bedchamber?” Nicholas asked. Gillian saw his hand drift to the dagger at his waist, and she bit back a cry. Surely he would not take the knife to his companion! “Well?” he taunted softly.
The Syrian showed no concern, nor did he touch his weapon, a large, curved blade so deadly-looking that Gillian’s anxiety shifted toward her husband. “I am guarding her, as you requested,” Darius replied evenly.
“You are relieved of that duty,” Nicholas said slowly. “And if you ever touch her again, I will kill you.”
The Syrian nodded, leaning forward slightly in a bow of sorts, and left without another word. Lord have mercy, the man acted as if a threat to his life were as nothing! Gillian collapsed against the door, relieved that no blood had been shed, but then her husband’s attention focused on her, and she stiffened under the sharp edge of his rage.
“Inside,” he said, and Gillian pushed at the wood with shaking fingers, never taking an eye off the predator who loomed over her. Once away from the closeness of the passage, she felt better, and she moved to the middle of the room, head held high, refusing to cower as she turned to face the beast he had become.
Like a fallen angel, he stood before her, too beautiful to be real, too terrible to be trusted. Heat seemed to pour from him in waves, a combination of fierce anger that repelled her and hot masculinity that drew her against her will. Gillian swallowed hard. She could almost imagine the fires of hell lapping at his heels.
“If he has done more than hold your hand, I will kill you both,” he promised, his voice a guttural bark.
What? The insult astonished Gillian, and she stared at him blankly. Surely he did not really think that she and the Syrian—?
His gaze never left her, bright and probing and denying her innocence. “Perhaps you did not realize, little nun, that ‘tis not wise to be alone with a man!” He spat the words out, as if the very taste of them was foul upon his tongue.
“We were talking, nothing more!” Gillian protested, alarmed by the look in the glittering depths of his eyes. “Trust you not your own guard?”
“Nay! I trust no one when it comes to you!” Nicholas growled, taking a step toward her.
Comprehension dawned slowly, laced with so much disbelief that Gillian shook her head, as if dazed. Regarding him with wide-eyed wonder, she whispered the truth. “You are jealous.”
He flinched, but did not deny it. “You are mine, body and soul, and you had best remember it!” he warned her. “I do not want to see you speaking to the Syrian again. Aye, or even looking his way!”
He was jealous! Gillian felt an odd tingling in her
chest that was not a loss of breath. “Oh, for the love of Saint Paul! The foreigner is nothing to me! What would he want with a big, gawky red-haired girl? He has shown me kindness, that is all. Truth to tell, he unnerves me, with those eyes of his,” Gillian said, pausing to shudder at the memory of them looking into her soul.
When she glanced up, Nicholas seemed calmer. Perhaps his temper was spent. And he accused her of having fits? The man acted like a raving lunatic at times. Gillian watched him lift a palm to his belly, and she knew that all this angry shouting aggravated his condition.
“I can give you something that will help.” The words were out of her mouth before she considered them, and Gillian immediately regretted her speech, for he jerked his hand away as if his own flesh had burned him.
“What?”
The icy-smooth tenor of his voice did not bode well for her efforts, but Gillian persevered. “Ground ivy will ease the pain in your stomach. I can easily prepare it for you.”
“I want nothing from you!” he snarled.
“Be sensible!”
“Be quiet!” Nicholas snapped, moving away from her. “No doubt you would like the chance to poison me, but I will take nothing from your hand, heir of Hexham. Your blood is tainted!”
Gillian fell back, as if he had struck her, so forcibly had he reminded her of her place within his world. Ever it would come down to this: She meant naught to him but a chance for vengeance.
And to think she had actually accused him of being jealous! Nicholas de Laci was not capable of such a reaction; there was no room in him for anything but hatred. His anger had been precipitated solely by possessiveness. He would let no other covet—or even comfort—the object of his revenge.
The knowledge sank through Gillian’s body like a stone, dragging at her spirits, deadening her heart. Suddenly chilled, she wrapped her arms about her chest, hugging herself close.
“Listen to me, wife, for I would make clear to you your position in this household. You will no longer take upon yourself the duties of a chatelaine or even a servant. You will respond only to my orders, attend solely to me, speak only to me, look only at me. Have you had a bath?”
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