Daring Damsels

by Domning, Denise

  "I wish I knew," Gilliam muttered to himself. Still, there was some consolation in knowing that Nicola would have gone to the village woman whether she was running from him or not. "Thomas, I have no knowledge of this sort of gathering. What is expected of me?"

  The reeve again set his head to one side, as if doing so was what made his lips work. "We're a simple bunch, my lord. First, have Father bless the food, then say a few words in welcome to us and comment on the harvest past. I'll translate for you. After that, we eat. When the eating's done, the drinking begins in earnest. The night’s goal is to see who can hold the most ale without sickness or sleeping."

  Having said this, Thomas leaned a little closer and offered in a low voice. "The boy should sit and eat, rather than serving you, my lord. There's no need on our account to wear your meal, the way the child's already wearing the water."

  Gilliam looked at the commoner for a long moment, unsure whether he should be insulted or complimented by such familiarity. He decided to be complimented, mainly because it made his life much more comfortable. With a smile, he said, "I like this place more and more, Thomas. Here I was thinking I had to be on my best behavior."

  Turning to the left, he leaned forward to speak to the priest at the table's opposite end. "Father, it appears that most everyone is seated. Any time you wish to deliver the blessing, you may do so. I am ready to eat."

  And eat they did. By Nicola's design, they dined on roasted beef and mutton, the last of the stubble-fed geese, along with doves from their cote, stewed with onions. There were tench and eels from the millpond, and two types of stewed fruit. One was a compote, the other just stewed pears for Jos.

  As the reeve suggested, the drinking was done as a competition. After four hours of participating, Gilliam was ready to cede victory to Ralph by Wood. The man had a hollow leg. Unlike the reeve who was struggling to fend off unconsciousness, the only mark of Ralph's prodigious consumption was the change in his temperament.

  Gilliam glanced beyond Ralph, pitying the priest who had to endure the farmer's crude guffaws of laughter. Where Father Reynard had been was now an empty bench. He raised his brows in surprise.

  With the remains of the meal confined to two tables for a later distribution to the poorest cottars, the other tables had been dismantled and set at the walls. Those villagers who owned musical instruments had brought them. Tambours thrummed, pipes twined their discordant sound into the sawing of bows against string. Those who danced did so in twisting, swirling circles of flying skirts and fleet feet. Those yet seated stomped in time to the melodies. The air grew heavy and warm with so many folk in so small a space.

  Gilliam looked for Jos. With Roia confined to the stables for the night, the boy lacked a companion. Jos had drifted to a clutch of village lads and was peering shyly over their shoulders as the boys threw dice, gambling for the odd treasures precious to lads of this age.

  As he looked away he caught a glimpse of motion from the room's far corner: a couple doing what he wished he could do with his wife. Filled with jealousy, he turned his attention back to the room's center as the door opened and shut. It was Walter.

  Gilliam frowned. But if he was here, where was Nicola? He started to lift his hand to signal his soldier, but Walter was already pushing and shoving through the crowd toward him. The man's frantic motions brought Gilliam to his feet. He swayed, noting he was just a might giddier with drink than he'd thought.

  "What is it?" he called.

  Walter was shaking his head, his face caught in worried lines. "l ran ahead to warn you. It went badly, and something's wrong with our lady, terrible wrong. She tore her clothing then went blank. Come, my lord, come with me."

  Before Gilliam could rise there was a sharp cry from near the barn's door, and those nearest to it scattered away from the opening. It was like watching a wave on the ocean. Folk rolled and parted, stumbling and crying out as they squeezed against the walls. A stool shattered against the beaten earth floor. The music screeched to a halt, dancers fell aside, giving their lady ample room to pass.

  Nicola entered the now open space at the room's center and stood staring at the fire. She was without mantle or head cloth, her skirts stained with blood and covered in straw. Her overgown was rent from neckline to near her waist. But, it was the pallor and stillness of her face that most worried Gilliam. She was gone, hiding deep within herself. When he turned to move to her, the reeve caught his arm.

  "She'll strike if you touch her," Thomas said to him, struggling to speak clearly as he rocked on his bench. "She's deadly, you know."

  "Aye, that I do," Gilliam said, removing the man's hand from his arm.

  He started through the crowd now clustered behind his table, his gaze never leaving Nicola. She turned slowly, looking around her with eyes that did not seem to see, and moved toward the food-laden table. Gilliam knew without doubt she meant to tip it.

  "Move aside," he said, yet hampered by the crush of villagers. He broke free and strode swiftly for her as she took hold of the table's edge. "Cease, Nicola." He made his voice hard with command, hoping to rouse her.

  The reeve laughed. "Her name's not Nicola, 'tis Colette, my lord."

  The tabletop tilted. "Cease this instant, Colette," Gilliam bellowed from behind her, his hands gently on her arms, ready to stop her if she did not comply.

  The tabletop clattered back onto its braces, stews sloshing and trays rattling. Nicola turned so swiftly that Gilliam stepped back in reaction, losing his grip on her arms. The folk in the room gasped as one.

  She struck out, but he caught her fist. She raised the other, his hand closed around it. Gilliam forced her arms down at her sides. With her hands contained, the blankness in her eyes receded just enough to show him what she hid beneath it.

  "Ah, Colette, does it hurt you so much?"

  She drew a deep and trembling breath. Her face was yet pale, but his Nicola returned. Gilliam released her hands. His wife kept her gaze locked on him. Just now, her eyes were a deep green. He combed his fingers through her hair then moved his thumbs on her temples in a gentle caress. Nicola leaned her head into one of his palms.

  "Spill your grief on me, my sweet," he offered quietly. "I will carry what you cannot bear."

  She blinked. Her mouth trembled as she spoke. "Gilliam." It was a breath of a whisper. She took a step toward him and rested her brow against his neck, her arms coming around his waist.

  Gilliam embraced her. "You need to sleep. Let me put you to bed." When she nodded, he leaned down and caught her beneath her knees, lifting her into his arms. He started toward the door, silent folk easing back out of his path.

  At the door, he called to the room, "Please continue your celebration without me."

  "That we will, my lord." The reeve's voice rang in the rafters, only to be followed by a loud hiccup, a belch, and a thunk. Ralph by Wood shouted in triumph.

  With Nicola still and soft in his arms, Gilliam smiled and exited into the bailey. The same icy wind that soughed and sighed around him had finally driven away the clouds. With the winter solstice so near, the sun was already settling into the gentle bosom of Ashby's rolling hills, leaving a sky stained in grays and purples. The frigid breeze caught in Nicola's curls, setting them to dancing around her cheeks.

  Gilliam turned her a little in his arms, trying to shield her from the chill, then wondered why he bothered. Their chamber would be just as cold. Besides being too small, the room lacked the draft for a brazier; there would be no hearth for them until the hall rose. If these last days were any indication of the coming winter's temper, they would soon be forced to retreat to the hall and fire.

  He climbed the stairs and fumbled with the latch a moment until he managed the door. The movement seemed to rouse Nicola from whatever place she was in. She made a tiny sound, as if she were just awakening.

  Lowering her to sit on the mattress at the bed's foot, he turned back the bedclothes. When he sat beside her, it was to draw her close for warmth's sake. Now he ne
eded to prod her into spilling what festered in her. When she'd done so, he would put her to bed.

  He stared out into the small chamber, waiting for her to speak. Twilight was just beginning, but the room was already dim and gray. Shadows marked the unevenly hewn stones in the walls and dulled the bed's brightly colored curtains to a gleaming pewter tone. Even with the window shuttered, a breath of the wind entered, just enough to set the heavy curtains shifting softly on the wooden floor. Still, she said nothing.

  Gilliam crooked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head so he could look at her. He still had trouble reconciling this pretty girl with the angry virago who had attacked him at the abbey. She was watching him. The blankness that clung to her expression reflected her battle to subdue whatever it was that hurt her so. He ran his thumb over the soft curve of her cheek.

  "Will you tell me what happened?"

  Nicola shook her head nay, but her arms came around his waist and her head leaned on his shoulder. He rocked her gently. When she shifted slightly, it was to touch her lips against his neck. He started. She moved her mouth from just above his collar to below his ear.

  He shuddered in reaction. "Nay, Colette. It’s tears you need, not this."

  Her hand came up his back to his nape, her fingers toying with his hair. "I cannot." It was a whispered cry. "Make me feel what only you can."

  Gilliam caught his breath then clenched his teeth against his own need. He released her and eased away. Her hand came to rest on his thigh. Even through his clothing, his flesh burned where it lay. "Nay. You don’t know what you are asking."

  She only slid her fingers across the thick smooth material of his gown until her hand lay atop that part of him that most wanted her. Gilliam groaned and grabbed her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. "Nay," he said, shaking his head.

  Dear God, but he wanted to run his fingers through her hair and bring her mouth to his.

  Her free hand came to touch his face. She traced the line of his brow, the tip of her finger leaving a trail of heat in its wake as her hand descended over his cheek. A breath shuddered from him. There was not enough strength in him to stop her.

  "Cease," he breathed against her hand when her finger outlined his lips.

  She again shook her head to refuse his command, then leaned toward him to place her mouth on his. It was the reflection of how he had kissed her yesterday. She teased and plied his mouth with small touches of flesh to flesh. He caught her about the waist and willed his hands to force her from him. Instead, as she struggled to draw her knees up onto the bed, he helped her. Somewhere deep inside him a hunger started. His hands trembled with it.

  She knelt on the bed, bracing her hands on his chest. It took only her gentle push, and he eased back into the bolsters. With his hands yet clasped to her waist, he drew her down beside him. She lay half atop him, her leg between his. His body reacted to the thought of what it would be like if there were not so many layers of cloth separating them.

  Still her mouth toyed with his. His need for her made him ache so badly he had trouble catching his breath. Gilliam willed his hands not to leave her waist, just as one drifted down to the curve of her hip, his fingers burying into the softness of her flesh.

  Her teeth nipped gently at his lower lip. "Jesu," he breathed against her mouth. "You will regret this, Colette."

  "I need you," she murmured as she kissed his ear. Each word was torment, and his spine melted.

  She touched her tongue into the cup of his ear, and he was done for. His hands went to his belt, his fingers trembling as he tried to work the tongue from its clasp. Between drink and desire, he was hopelessly clumsy. When he groaned softly in frustration, his wife's hands came over his, strong and sure.

  Gilliam let his hands fall to his sides as she opened his belt. He was gasping like a fish out of water, unable to catch his breath. The best he could do was lift his hips when she eased his belt from beneath him. It hit the floor with a rattling clunk.

  She eased from the bed and stood at its side. Her belt followed his an instant later, her gowns the moment after. The waning light touched her pale skin, showing him the gentle curve of her hips and the small roundness of her breasts, their nipples as hard with need as he was.

  The sight of her slaughtered what little sense remained in him. Gilliam groaned and stood to tear off both gown and shirt as one, rending seams. He tossed them carelessly aside. Her hands were already at the ties of his chausses. He growled and pushed her away, falling back onto the bed to rip off both stockings and shoes. They had barely hit the floor before he caught her to him and fell back onto the bed with her beside him.

  Gilliam jerked the bedclothes over the both of them and rolled onto his back, gathering her atop him. His mouth took hers, and she matched his need with her own. He could feel the pounding of her heart against his chest. There was a fire where her breasts touched him, but there was an inferno where her hip lay against his shaft.

  He smoothed his hands down the long line of her waist, then caught her hips and moved her until he felt the soft curls covering her woman's flesh against him. She shifted slightly in reaction to this new sensation, her mouth slashing across his as she buried her fingers in his hair. Leaving one hand to hold her hips to his, the other crept between them to cover her breast. She lifted slightly to let him touch her. He brushed his thumb across its tip until she tore her mouth from his, panting at what he did to her. It was the sign he wanted. He released her breast, letting his hand slide down between them until he felt her nether lips.

  She cried out, arching and lifting above him to let him ease a finger into her. Gilliam shuddered at the warmth and wetness he felt. When she moved against his hand, he groaned in reaction.

  Suddenly, she was rolling off of him, her grasp on his shoulders begging him to come atop her. Somewhere deep inside he knew he shouldn’t do this, but she owned him now. He did as she wished and settled atop her, his thighs between hers, his shaft at the entrance to her womb.

  She took his mouth, kissing him with the same desire he knew for her. He eased himself into her, just a tiny bit, and felt the barricade of her maidenhead. His hands caught her at the waist as he fought to move carefully, rather than with the brutal thrust his shaft demanded.

  She wrapped her hands around his neck, her fingers combing through his hair. When she drew a soft line down his nape, a great shudder wracked him. He tore his mouth from hers to kiss her cheek, her brow, her ear. Once again, she caressed his nape, this time using her nails. Gilliam cried out as a shock of pure feeling shot through him, demanding that he enter her, right this instant.

  "Cease, Colette." It was a breathless whisper.

  Again, her nails drew lines on his sensitive nape. "Oh, Jesu, I cannot—Jesu."

  It was too late to stop himself. He drove past the constriction until he filled her. Her body closed so tightly around him he moaned, incapable of the gentleness he intended. He thrust, and she lifted her hips in reaction, urging him to move again. As if he could have stopped.

  Gilliam lost himself to the incredible sensations she stirred in him. Her hands left his nape to clutch him around the back, her legs twined over his. He reached back to lift one of her legs until her calf lay across his hips. She brought the other to join it, her heels goading him into driving even deeper into her. When he did, she cried out, arching beneath him.

  He thought he heard himself moaning, but pleasure rendered him deaf and blind. Somewhere, in a deep corner of his mind, he worried he was hurting her, but she made him feel impossibly good. Again she arched beneath him. He grabbed her by the hips to hold her still and drove himself into her as he filled her with a lifetime’s passion.

  The release was so great he was beyond feeling. When it finally ebbed, he lay trembling atop her, every muscle spent. With satisfaction came the return of sanity. Gilliam flinched at the sort of damage, either physical or emotional, he'd done to her.

  He lifted himself onto his elbows, meaning to gauge her mood, and N
icola shoved angrily at him. When he rolled onto his back, she leapt from the bed with a cry that was pure rage. His heart breaking, Gilliam stared at the bed's ceiling. May the devil take his soul, but he'd killed all hope for their future.

  With a scream of rage at herself Nicola threw herself off the bed. The room's frigid air drove all heat from her. She turned to look at Gilliam. Her husband lay still in the bed's center, staring up at the cloth ceiling above him.

  What had she done?

  Used him to ease her horror of Alice's death and the demise of her hope to be free of Ashby's destruction, that's what.

  Nay, that was only the excuse she'd made, so she could lie with him. Christus! Damn her betraying body!

  She stared at the fine line of his profile, working desperately to create some defense against the softness he made in her. Instead, she found herself cherishing the way the corner of his mouth always lifted, as if preparing to smile. Her gaze drifted downward to the powerful lines of his chest.

  Dear God, but it had felt wondrous to hold him atop her. Her gaze drifted even lower. It had felt even better to hold him inside her. With every move he made into her, pleasure flowed through her. Even remembering caused the embers of her lust to explode into sudden and potent life. She wanted him again.

  "Nay," she whispered, turning her back to him. She would not desire the man who had murdered her father. Closing her eyes tightly, Nicola retrieved her memory of that moment, seeking strength in it. The image came to her with greater clarity than ever before. She heard again the fire's roaring breath as the stink of burning thatch and wood filled her lungs. Gilliam's demand that her father lift his weapon rang in her.

  As if she once again lay on the floor watching, Nicola saw the way Papa had strained to raise the heavy blade's tip. This time she saw how her father had worked to expose his neck to Gilliam's sword, begging for Gilliam's blade to end his life. Her husband had spared her father a far worse death with that single stroke.