Книга - The Mercenary’s Bride

The Mercenary's Bride
Terri Brisbin


SHE WILL BE NO MAN’S PRIZE Brice Fitzwilliam is finally paid his due: awarded the title and lands of Thaxted, the warrior waits to claim his promised virgin bride! Gillian of Thaxted will not submit to the conquering knight’s powerful physique, or the bold way his arm drapes protectively over her at night…Brice thought he would pleasure his new wife out of duty – but it’s become a nightly pleasure! Now he risks exposing a chink in his armour if he succumbs totally to his new bride…The Knights of Brittany Born to conquer…and seduce!










Brice had removed his chainmail and the other accoutrements of fighting and war and stood there as just a man. Yet now he seemed even more dangerous than before.

He was tall and large, with broad shoulders that spoke of years of training in his craft. She swallowed deeply as she realised he watched her perusal of him. Gillian lowered her gaze to her clasped hands and waited quietly. Without even lifting her head, she could see him moving closer to her.

‘Do you need something to drink or eat?’

‘My lord,’ she said quietly as she rose to her feet and stood before him, ‘I need nothing from you save your grant of safe passage to the convent.’

The tension between and around them grew as she waited on his word. His brown eyes darkened even more as the intensity and heat of his gaze moved over her.

‘You have asked for one of the two things I could not grant you, lady, even if I wished it to be so.’

Her heart began to pound in her chest as he reached out and took her hand in his, tugging her even closer.

‘What is the other?’ She held her breath as he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist. He allowed his lips to rest there for a moment longer than necessary before looking back at her.

‘I could not let you greet the morning as a maiden still.’




Author Note







Although the 1066 invasion of Duke William of Normandy brought about huge changes in the politics and society of England, some of those changes were already underway. Normans had become an integral part of England during Edward the Confessor’s reign; many gaining lands and titles long before the Conqueror set foot there. So, the Saxons had some experience with Norman ways before this major invasion force landed in Pevensey in October, 1066.

Many Saxons held their lands after William’s arrival—those who pledged their loyalty to the new ruler were permitted to retain them, but many were supplanted by those who’d fought for William. Important Norman nobles gained more property and often Saxon heiresses.

Thought ruthless and not hesitant about using force to implement his rule, William did not employ it fully after the Battle of Hastings until the revolt three years later in the north of England. Then, he unleashed his anger on those in what’s still called ‘the Harrowing of the North’, destroying everything in his path and effectively wiping out what was left of the Saxon way of life.

In my story, one of Harold’s sons, Edmund, appears as a leader of the rebels. ‘My’ Edmund is really a composite of several real people who lived in the aftermath of the Battle of Hastings and continued to fight the Normans as they moved from the southeast of England northward and westward to take control of the whole country.

It is believed that at least two of Harold’s sons did survive (or avoid) the battle that killed their father and that they and their mother joined in the efforts of some of the others opposing the Normans. The earls of Mercia and Northumbria, Harold’s brothers-by-marriage, switched sides several times during this conflict, were even taken to Normandy along with the designated Saxon heir-apparent, Edgar Atheling, and were later part of this struggle that led to William’s Harrowing of the North.

So, any resemblance of ‘my’ Edmund to the real protagonists of history is intentional!




About the Author


TERRI BRISBIN is wife to one, mother of three and dental hygienist to hundreds when not living the life of a glamorous romance author. She was born, raised, and is still living in the southern New Jersey suburbs. Terri’s love of history led her to write time-travel romances and historical romances set in Scotland and England. Readers are invited to visit her website for more information at www.terribrisbin.com, or contact her at PO Box 41, Berlin, NJ 08009-0041, USA.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE DUMONT BRIDE

LOVE AT FIRST STEP

(short story in The Christmas Visit)

THE NORMAN’S BRIDE

THE COUNTESS BRIDE

THE EARL’S SECRET

TAMING THE HIGHLANDER

SURRENDER TO THE HIGHLANDER

POSSESSED BY THE HIGHLANDER

BLAME IT ON THE MISTLETOE

(short story in One Candlelit Christmas)

THE MAID OF LORNE

THE CONQUEROR’S LADY*

and in Mills & Boon® HistoricalUndone!eBooks:

A NIGHT FOR HER PLEASURE*

*The Knights of Brittany

Soren’s story is next in Terri Brisbin’s

The Knights of Brittany Look for HIS ENEMY’S DAUGHTER coming soon in Mills & Boon


Historical




THE

MERCENARY’S

BRIDE


Terri Brisbin






















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Prologue







Taerford Manor, Wessex, England December 1066

Bishop Obert summoned a meeting with the second of the knights on the list he’d prepared months before of those who were to benefit from the king’s generosity. He carried the papers with him that would turn the knight into a baron and make a penniless bastard into a rich lord—if he could take the lands granted him from the Saxon rebels who still held them.

Obert paced along the length of the table, waiting for Brice Fitzwilliam, bastard knight from Brittany, to arrive. If he was to make it back to London before the king’s coronation he must leave on the morrow, and this was his last duty here in Taerford. Regardless of the winter closing in around them, regardless of the yet unsettled lands and regardless of his own wants or needs, he was Duke William’s loyal servant. After God, of course, he mused as he turned towards the group of men now approaching.

As seemed to be their custom, the new lord of Taerford, Giles Fitzhenry, walked side by side with the man for whom Obert waited. Thinking back to his weeks here, he rarely saw one without the other, whether in the hall or yards, in any task needed to be done here in Taerford. They strode in, followed by more of Giles’s men, fresh from practising their fighting skills in the yard. They became quieter with every step closer and bowed as one to him.

‘My lord,’ he said to Giles first, and then, wishing to proceed with his task, he turned to the other. ‘My lord,’ he said as he nodded to Fitzwilliam.

The implications were not lost on anyone listening and the hall grew silent as they waited on Obert’s words. The surprise filled the warrior’s face until he laughed aloud with joy. If it was inappropriate, Obert could understand it—as one bastard pleased by the success of another who shared his status. The ripples of cheering and shouting ebbed quickly as the entire hall watched and waited on the declaration.

Obert motioned the knight forwards to kneel in front of him. Although this should have been more ceremonial and formal, and before the duke himself, the dangers of the times and place gave way to expediency. Lord Giles stood, once more, at his friend’s side, placing his hand on Brice’s shoulder as Obert continued.

‘In the Duke’s name, I declare you, Brice Fitzwilliam, now Baron and Lord of Thaxted, and vassal to the Duke himself,’ Obert intoned. The pledging of loyalty directly to the duke, who was soon to be king, ensured a network of warriors who owed their lands and titles and wealth to only him, with no other liege lords between them. Obert could not fight the smile that threatened, for it had been his idea to do so. ‘As such, you have the right to lay claim to all the lands, the livestock, the villeins and other properties owned or held by the traitor Eoforwic of Thaxted before his death.’

Although the Normans and Bretons present cheered, the peasants who’d lived on this land and claimed Saxon heritage did not. He understood that the victors in any engagement deserved everything they fought so hard to gain, but the compassionate part of him also understood the shame of being the defeated. However, this day belonged to the victorious Breton knight before him.

‘The Duke declares that you should marry the daughter of Eoforwic, if possible, or seek another appropriate bride from the surrounding lands and loyal vassals if not.’

Obert handed the new lord the package of folded parchments that carried the grant of lands and titles. Holding out his hands, he waited for Brice to offer his pledge. In a deep voice that shook from the power of this promise, Brice repeated the words as Obert’s clerk whispered them.

‘By the Lord before whom I, Brice Fitzwilliam, now of Thaxted, swear this oath and in the name of all that is holy, I will pledge to William of Normandy, Duke and now King of all England, to be true and faithful, and to love all which he loves and to shun all which he shuns, according to the laws of God and the order of the world. I swear that I will not ever, with will or action, through word or deed or omission, do anything which is unpleasing to him, on condition that he will hold to me as I shall deserve it, and that he will perform everything as it was in our agreement when I first submitted myself to him and his mercy and chose his will over mine. I offer this unconditionally, with no expectations other than his faith and favour as my liege lord.’

Obert raised his voice so that all could hear.

‘I, Obert of Caen, speaking in the name and with the authority of William, Duke of Normandy and King of England, do accept this oath of fealty as sworn here before these witnesses and before God and do promise that William, as lord and king, will protect and defend the person and properties of Brice Fitzwilliam of Thaxted who here pledges on his honour that he will be ruled by the king’s will and his word. In the king’s name, I agree to the promises contained herein this oath unconditionally, with no expectations other than his faith and service as loyal vassal to the king.’

Obert allowed the words to echo through the hall and then released the new lord of Thaxted to stand before him. ‘To Lord Thaxted,’ he called out. ‘Thaxted!’

The men joined in his cheer then, stamping their feet and clapping their hands and he permitted it to go on for several minutes. Lord Giles pounded his friend on the back and then pulled him into a hug that spoke of years of toil and triumph together. Only when Obert spied Lady Fayth entering the hall did he realise he must speak to Brice about the woman involved. As he watched the expression on the lady’s face change several times on her approach after hearing the news of Brice’s grant, he knew that the weaker sex had a way of making things difficult for the men chosen or designated to oversee them as lords or husbands.

Obert noticed the hesitation in the lady’s greeting and in her congratulatory words even if no one else did. Ah, the soft feelings of women did ever make things more difficult for men. As Lord Giles took her hand and stood by her side, Obert comprehended the biggest difference between the two knights now made lords by their king.

Lord Giles had not had to hunt for his wife once he’d fought his way to his lands.

He could not say the same for Lord Brice.




Chapter One







Thaxted Forest, northeastern England March 1067

The ground beneath her feet began to shake and Gillian searched for a cause. It was a fair day, considering that winter still claimed the land, but no clouds marred the sky’s bright blue expanse. Looking up, she could see no sign of a coming storm that would cause the thunderous noise that covered the area.

Pushing her hood back, Gillian stepped into the road and glanced both ahead and behind. With only a moment to spare, she realised the reason for such a clamour and jumped back into the tangle of brush and bush at the road’s edge. With a prayer of thanks offered that she’d stolen a dark brown cloak on her escape, she tugged it around her and lay still as the large group of mounted knights and warriors thundered past her hiding place. When they pulled up a short distance from where she lay motionless and silent, she dared not even breathe for the fear of being detected and captured by these unknown marauders.

Too far away to hear and too low to understand, their words were a jumble of Norman French and some English, as well. Keeping her face down, Gillian waited for them to move on their way. When she heard the sounds of men dismounting and walking along the road, her body began to tremble. Being caught out alone during these dangerous times was an invitation to death or worse and something Gillian had taken pains to avoid.

Her decision to leave her home and flee to the convent was not made in haste or without considering the consequences, but her alternatives were limited and not attractive: the marriage her brother Oremund had arranged to a poxed old man or one the invading duke had made to a vicious Norman warrior on his way to destroy all she held dear. All she could do was stay out of sight and pray this troop of soldiers would move on and her quest to reach the convent would continue.

Gillian waited as the men discussed something and held her breath once more, trying not to gain their attention as their voices grew nearer to the place where she hid. She recognised the name of her home and her brother’s, as well. If only they would speak in her tongue or at the least speak slower so that she could try to understand more of their words!

After a few seemingly endless minutes, the men began to walk away from her, calling out to the others that they saw nothing. She raised her head with care as slowly as she could and watched their retreat. But one knight remained in the road, not more than several yards from where she lay. Instead of following the others, he reached up and tugged at his helm, pulling it free and tucking it under his arm as he turned.

The gasp escaped before she could stop it.

He was tall and muscular and the most attractive man she’d ever beheld, even considering her cousin who was accounted to be every woman’s dream. He did not wear his blond hair in the short, shorn Norman-style; instead it hung loosely around his face. She could not tell the colour of his eyes at this distance, but his face was all masculine angles and intriguing in spite of his being a Norman.

A Norman! And a Norman in full battle armour.

Holy Mother of God, protect her!

And he was staring into the trees in her direction. She dared not move, even to seek the cover of the snarls of branches beneath her for he cocked his head, narrowed his eyes and waited. She knew he listened for another sign that someone was hiding and she barely let out her breath as she remained motionless there.

Gillian thought he might come into the thicket to search, but instead he turned to the others before placing his helm on and striding with those long legs back to them. He rained down curses as he walked, some so loud and rude that she felt the heat of a blush creeping up her cheeks. He could not be the lord who the Conqueror had given Thaxted to, for no nobleman would act in such a common way, using words as he had and comparing one of his men to a beast of burden, and a feeble, useless one at that.

So, who was he and what was his mission here?

One of the other men called out orders to move on and she prayed that they would indeed do so. Gillian did not move until the dust settled back on to the road’s dry surface and no sounds could be heard. Even then, she dragged herself to sit up and pulled her cloak around her. She would not move from this spot until she was certain that there was a safe and adequate distance between herself and the warriors.

Pulling the skin of watered ale from beneath her cloak, she drank deeply and eased the dryness in her throat. The exertion of walking many miles, the dustiness of the road and the fear that yet pounded in her veins all caused her parched throat and the ale soothed it. Tempted to partake of the food she carried wrapped in cloth, Gillian decided to wait, for she had taken only enough to last her for two days of journeying from the keep to the convent and she had few coins to buy more.

If any at all was available for sale along the way.

The winter had come early and the last harvest was a meagre one, disturbed by plans of wars and their aftermath. Any surplus, even some of that required to feed the number of souls who lived on her father’s lands, had gone to feed King Harold’s army as it passed close by. They had been first on their way north to face the forces of Harald Hardrada, and then on their way south to battle with the usurper William of Normandy.

King Harold’s forces had little chance to regroup after battling the Norse before heading south to meet the Norman forces near the coast. In one short day in mid-September, England’s hopes were dashed as her king and many of his closest allies were killed.

Worse, in the months since that battle near Hastings, outlaws and rebels traversed the length of the land seeking what they could take to fuel their efforts against the conquering Norman army. Gillian sighed, her stomach more upset by the memories of these last months and now unable to think about eating. Enough time had passed, she thought, so she stood, brushed the damp soil and leaves from her gown and cloak and made her way to the edge of the road.

Peering up at the sun, she realised she’d most likely lost an hour of precious daylight during this encounter. Stepping on to the road, she increased her previous pace and began her journey anew. She had to reach the convent by sunset or she would spend another night alone in the woods—a thought that scared her more now that she knew these Normans were sharing the road with her.



An hour passed, and then another, and Gillian continued to walk, always with an eye ahead and an ear listening for the sounds of danger, travelling in the same direction as the men while trying to stay far enough behind so that she would never catch up to their pace. As the sun dropped lower in the western sky, she realised she would not make it to the convent before the sisters closed their gates for the night. Surely, she hoped as she wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve, sleeping in the shadows of their walls would be nearly as safe as sleeping within them?

She hurried then, deciding to eat the chunk of bread and piece of cheese in her bag and doing so in some haste, slowing only when she reached the rise in the road that signalled she was nearing her destination. Only a few miles separated her from safety. Her breathing grew laboured as she climbed the rising road to its peak and she paused to catch her breath a few times before reaching the summit.

Then she lost the ability to breathe completely as she beheld a terrifying sight—the same troop of warriors, and more now, camped on the side of the road. Gillian glanced ahead and wondered if she could simply continue on her way as though a simple peasant woman on a task. Mayhap they would pay her no mind? Fighting the urge to run, for running now would be nothing less than an invitation to follow her, she decided that a steady pace was her best choice.

Tugging her hood closer over her brow, she lowered her head and put one foot in front of the other, forcing slow, measured steps along the road. Gillian carefully peeked over at the soldiers out of the corner of her eye and hastened her pace past them. Although many approached the road, none stopped her. A quickening of hope beat in her chest as she made her way. She was nearly beyond the camp when a huge man stepped in front of her, blocking her way forwards.

She side-stepped him, or tried to, but he moved as she did. His large size and muscular form spoke of his strength, and Gillian considered her choices. She turned, thinking to go back in the direction from where she’d come, and faced another warrior there. Then a third and fourth man blocked her sides so that she had nowhere to go. Taking and releasing a deep breath, she waited for them to act.

‘Mistress, why are you on these roads alone?’ one asked in heavily accented English. ‘What is your business?’

Although she’d hoped never to need it, Gillian had prepared a story to answer just that question. Without meeting his gaze, she turned to the one who had spoken.

‘My lady sends me to the convent, my lord,’ she said, hoping that referring to these common soldiers as ‘lords’ would flatter them and ease her way. She bowed her head lower as she said it.

‘The night is almost upon us,’ the one at her back said. ‘Come, you will be safer in our camp this night.’

Was a sheep safe when guarded by a wolf? She thought not, almost hearing them salivating over her. Shaking her head, she begged off such an invitation. ‘The good sisters are expecting me, my lord. I must hasten there now. My lady will be angered if I do not arrive there.’

She pushed against the one in front of her, but he barely moved. Gillian tried once more without success. Before she could try again, two of them grabbed her by her arms and pulled her with them as they walked towards the others. No amount of struggling loosened their iron grips and her heart began to pound in her chest, making her blood pulse and her head spin.

Before she realised it, they were in the middle of the camp, far enough that she could not make an easy escape. She did not make it easy for them, but it neither slowed nor impeded their progress. They simply dragged her between them. Her arms ached from it and she knew her skin would show bruises by morning—if she lived until then.

By their fast and furious whispering amongst themselves, she knew something was wrong. She decided to take advantage of it. Stomping her foot down with all her weight, Gillian pounded on the instep of the one behind her and pushed at him with her hips, trying to force him off balance.

It did not work.

Instead, her own foot now ached from it and she was forced to limp along as they continued forwards. Finally, they stopped and she took advantage of that moment to pull free and run. One soldier grabbed her cloak, which gave way when the laces snapped. Gillian had not taken two steps, two painful steps, before a mail-covered arm wrapped around her waist and dragged her up against the hardest surface she’d ever felt. So hard was it that it knocked the very breath from her lungs and nearly rendered her senseless as her head collided with the top of the chest plate.

‘Where are you going now, mistress? Have you decided not to favour us with your presence this night after all?’

When she recognised the voice of the warrior who now held her firmly against him, terror began to tease her senses. With no chance for escape and suspecting that these men were planning all manner of illicit and immoral acts against her, she listened to the laughter of those watching the scene and wished she could faint. Instead, she gasped as the giant behind her wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her into an indecent embrace against his chest. Then he leaned his head closer to hers until she could feel his hot breath against the skin of her neck.

‘Tell me what you seek, sweetling,’ he whispered in English words flavoured with his exotic foreign accent, ‘and I will try to oblige you in any way I can.’




Chapter Two







Though the circumstances and sometimes miserable history of his existence as a bastard among noble-born should have taught him the lesson, Brice Fitzwilliam had never learned the one about patience being a virtue. It had always seemed overrated and a necessary nuisance, and this situation simply confirmed his opinion about it.

After being patient as the king required, and waiting while the winter passed for his letters granting him the lands and titles of Baron and Lord of Thaxted to arrive, he’d made his way here only to find the keep firmly closed against him. Three weeks of waiting for reinforcements from his friend Giles’s forces to arrive found him no closer to conquering the keep or the people inside. Now, after capturing a few escaping peasants, he discovered that his bride, who’d run away on several other occasions, had also just escaped under his watch—and that she sought refuge away from his control in a convent. Luckily Stephen le Chasseur accompanied him and nothing and no one escaped him when he set out to hunt.

Though she squirmed in his arms, Brice knew she had no idea of his identity or that she was his. His anger grew for her blithe ignorance of the dangers on the road. If he had not found her, the thought of what could have befallen her terrified him for many reasons. She needed to be taught a lesson and he would be the one to do it.

At least she was alive for him to make her consider her actions.

‘So, what is your price for the night, mistress?’ he asked, sliding his hand across her body and feeling her shudder beneath his caress. ‘Many of my men have saved up their coins or trinkets and could make it worth your while to stay with us.’

‘I am not a wh-wh …’ she stuttered. ‘I do not sell my favours.’

Brice released her and spun her to face him, nearly losing his wits along with it, for he finally got his first clear look at his bride. She was a beauty and she belonged to him.

Wide, luminous eyes, a colour between blue and green, shimmered from a heart-shaped face. Long, dark brown curls escaped from under her veil and tumbled over her shoulders. Though she was dressed in the loose Saxon style, he could see that her body was wonderfully curved and fell into the feminine shape he desired in his lovers—full soft breasts and hips. From the strength of her resistance, he knew that her legs and arms were strong.

His body reacted before his perusal was complete, that part of him flaring to life and readying him for all the things he’d shamelessly threatened her with. Only when one of his men coughed loudly did he speak.

‘If not a whore, then what?’

‘I told these men that my lady sent me to seek the convent and I am on my way there now.’

‘Alone, mistress? When marauders and outlaws of all types roam the woods and control roads here? Surely your lady would have sent along guards to keep you safe?’ he asked, stepping closer again.

She backed up, but his men did not and she remained trapped between them. He recognised the growing fear in her gaze and knew her brave front was in danger of crumbling. Then, as he watched, she pulled her confidence together, squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin at him.

‘My lady has other things to worry over, sir. She knows that I am self-reliant and could make my own way to the convent.’

Self-reliant? Too much so, for here she was, miles from safety, alone and not for the first time. Foolhardy was more accurate a description, was what he thought right now.

‘Foolish?’ he asked. ‘Seeking trouble?’ He let his gaze follow the curves of her body and did not hide his appreciation then. ‘Surely, any lady who sends her servant out onto these roads during these … dangerous … times understands the message she is sending.’

Brice could almost hear her trying to swallow her fear. Her eyes shimmered with a hint of tears and her lip, the full lower one that tempted him so much, trembled then. Ah, mayhap she was finally realising the foolishness of her plan?

‘A nobleman would honour a lady’s promise to her maid and grant her safe passage to the convent. A true nobleman would not take advantage of a woman without protection. A true nobleman would—’ She began to list another trait, but he stopped her with a shake of his head.

‘I never claimed to be a nobleman, mistress,’ he whispered as the anger grew from deep within him. ‘If your lady believes that noblemen are to be trusted and would pass up such a temptation as the one you present here, she is more foolish than I first thought.’

His men laughed then, knowing that neither he nor they were of noble or even legitimate birth, and he recognised the confusion in her expression. Most men would have been flattered by her, but not these who had made their way in the world by the work of their labours and the sweat of their bodies.

Lady Gillian looked as though she wanted to argue, but had not the words to do it, so she lowered her head and turned away. His attempts to humiliate her did not give him the satisfaction he’d hoped. Glancing at his men, he knew that nightfall was coming and there were many things that needed to be done now that his bride had walked into his possession.

‘Take her to my tent and make sure she stays there,’ he ordered.

‘You cannot!’ she cried out. He stepped closer, forcing her to look up to see his face. ‘The good sisters—’

‘The good sisters will eat their meal, offer their prayers and seek their beds as they do each night, mistress. Your lady should have thought out her plan before launching it.’

She pushed against him. ‘They are expecting me. My lady sent them a message to expect me.’

‘I can assure you that no message arrived at the convent. We have been camped here for the last several weeks and no one from Thaxted has crossed our path … until you did this day.’

Her confidence did crumble then and he felt the fight go out of her. She glanced around the camp and for the first time seemed to realise their number and the dangers they presented to her. If there had been a messenger, Brice’s men had not seen him. There was every possibility that such a messenger would have fled in the other direction if he’d spied their camp and knew he could not get through. Apparently, that messenger did not report his failure to his lady.

‘Take her,’ he repeated softly and he stepped aside so that Stephen could carry out his order.

The lady looked as though she would offer resistance, but she simply nodded and walked off with his men. At least, praise God, she was safe now and it was one less thing he needed to worry over in this volatile situation. By morning she would be his, as would Thaxted Manor and all the lands entailed to it and to him as Lord of Thaxted.

And with the support of Giles’s men from Taerford and some of the king’s forces, Brice would take over the keep, expel the rebels and those who would not pledge to King William, and begin his life as one of the high and mighty instead of remaining a low-born soldier. Taking in a deep breath and exhaling it, Brice knew he looked forwards to much of what yet faced him in the challenging days ahead.

Facing the lady’s fury at his deception was not one of those things.



Hours passed as he saw to preparations for his final assault against the keep as well as more personal ones involving the Lady Gillian. He sent word to the convent to let them know that she was safe and would be returning to her home in due course. A generous donation accompanied the message, smoothing, he hoped, the way that future dealings with the holy sisters would go. He’d watched as many others made the mistake of not respecting the clergy and he was determined not to fall into that error himself.

Finally, several hours after the sun dropped into the west and when night was full upon them, he decided it was time to take the first step towards taking control of his lands … and his wife. Calling out to those closest to him, he walked to his tent. Four men stood guard there, one at each corner, and none looked happy.

‘Problems, Ansel?’ he asked as he approached. All seemed quiet, but their expressions and the very number of them said otherwise. Though this was Ansel’s first battle campaign, he trusted the young man to carry out whatever task he so ordered.

‘Aye,’ Ansel answered in their dialect. ‘She is … the lady is … determined.’ He shook his head as though he had failed and Brice noticed the beginnings of a bruise on the man’s chin.

Brice took hold of the flap of the tent and paused. ‘So long as no harm came to her, I do not question your actions.’

Ansel nodded, but there was still a problem that Brice could not identify. Then Stephen approached.

‘She nearly escaped three times, Brice,’ he explained. ‘Once she got as far as the south perimeter of the camp without being seen.’ Brice glanced at each of the men guarding the tent, seeing then that several sported new scratches or bruises, and then back at Stephen, who let out a breath and shrugged. ‘Blame this on me if you must, but it was the only way to secure her.’

Brice winced at both the words and tone and wondered how they had done it. He nodded to them. ‘Bring something for the lady to eat and then seek out your meal. We will proceed once she’s eaten.’

The men walked away and Brice lifted the tent flap to one side so he could enter. Bending down to avoid knocking into the top of the tent, he stepped inside and stopped. In spite of only one lantern lighting the darkness, he could see her clearly and his mouth dropped open even as he hardened at the sight before him.

The men had driven big wooden stakes into the ground and tied her to them, wrists and ankles bound together and then to the posts. Her head covering gathered around her neck and a gag sealed her mouth. From her struggles against the bindings, her gown twisted high on her legs, exposing their shapeliness to his gaze. Due to the position of her arms and the shifting of the top of her gown, her breasts thrust against the material, their tightened peaks visible through the soft gown.

Brice swallowed, and then again, his mouth suddenly dry. He stepped farther into the tent and dropped the flap behind him. She began to struggle anew as he approached and her efforts caused her gown to shift more, gifting him with a clear view of her thighs and her hips as she turned and tried to pull away. He found himself clenching and releasing his fists as they ached to slide up the expanse of white, soft skin and cup her bottom. Heat pulsed through him then and he thought of all the places he would caress and kiss before the morn.

She mumbled something against the cloth in her mouth and he realised he could not leave her so. Crouching down beside her, he took out his dagger and slit the side of the gag. ‘Easy now, mistress,’ he soothed. With a gentle touch, he smoothed her hair from her face and wiped her cheeks.

Tears. She’d been crying. From what little he’d learned of his betrothed, he knew that this sign of weakness would humiliate her and he had little stomach for that now. He went to the small table and poured some wine from the jug into a metal cup and brought it to her.

‘Here now, drink this.’ He lifted her head and helped her sip until she drank the small amount of wine. After she’d finished, he filled the cup once more and drank it down quickly.

Kneeling at her side, he began to straighten her gown. But when his hand touched her ankle, he could not stop himself from enjoying just a small touch. He slid his hand up to her knee before grasping the hem of the gown. His body urged him to push it higher, to slide up her thigh and between her legs to that place that he could make weep at his caress. Brice fought the desire to explore her body and only her soft words brought him to his senses.

‘I pray thee, my lord. Please do not …’ she whispered.

She did not move at all, and it was a good thing, for the battle of doing the right thing or following his body’s urgings was a near one just then. After a moment that lingered too long, he tugged the length of the gown down to cover her legs and backed away.

The awkwardness between them was broken when Ansel called to him from outside. Brice turned and stepped out, coming back in with a wooden plate for the lady. He placed it on the table and took his dagger once more, sliding it carefully into the knot around her wrists. She gasped as he twisted it, most likely more surprised than anything else, for he took great care not to nick her skin in doing so. It was only when he held out his hand to her that he realised he was still in his hauberk of chainmail and wore his thick leather gloves.

Regardless of the soft look in his gaze at this moment, Gillian did not trust him. Oh, his men had not hurt her yet, but being tied up and gagged and then left for hours on end had tested her patience and courage. Though a virgin, she’d recognised the lust in this man’s gaze when he touched her leg and looked at the way her gown had shifted to expose places better left covered. How long she would remain untouched or unused she did not know and dared not ask.

Still, if she was untied, there was a better chance of escape than if she remained trussed like a goose. Gillian accepted his hand and let him pull her up to sit. When she reached for the ropes that bound her legs together and to the other spike, he stopped her.

‘Leave them,’ he said gruffly, the deep voice and accented words affecting her more than she wished they would. She pulled the edges of her gown as far over her feet as she could and tugged the laces at her neckline tighter, too.

He reached over and dipped a linen square in a bucket by the tent’s entrance and then handed it to her to use. Wiping it over her face and neck, she removed the dirt from her struggles and the tears that she’d shed against all of her attempts not to cry. Then, she cleaned her hands and held the cloth out to him. ‘Merci,’ she whispered, using one of the few words in his tongue she knew.

He started as she said it, and she realised her error. A poor English maid would not know his French. A poor English woman would know only her English words … or Saxon or Danish ones, but not French. When he replied in his own language, she blinked and shook her head as though she knew none of it. Truly, she could follow most of it when he spoke slowly, but she did not want him or his men to know that. Better to gain what information she could while here and share it with her brother when she got back to Thaxted Keep.

If she returned to her brother.

Gillian shivered then as she realised she might not survive the coming night. After all, these men did not believe her story and thought her a prostitute. If made to … service them … against her will, she might not even be alive in the morn to try to escape once more. Her body shuddered then, from her head down to her now shoeless feet.

The knight reacted quickly but in an unexpected way, for he called out to the other one, Stephen, and demanded something. Robe? Cloak? Soon, her missing cloak and shoes were handed into the tent. He shook out her cloak and draped it over her shoulders. She grabbed it and pulled it tight around her, taking what protection it could offer her. Soon, after hours spent on the cold ground with little protection from it, her body began to warm under the thick layer of wool. Then, his gentle touch in placing her shoes back on her feet surprised her again. His men had taken them the last time she’d got past them, knowing that she could not go far on the cold ground without them.

When he held the plate in front of her, her stomach growled loudly, giving her no chance to refuse his offer. She took the food—some cooked fowl, a chunk of cheese and another of bread—and ate it. No matter what challenges faced her, she needed to be at her strongest and she continued to tear apart the roasted hen and break apart the cheese and bread until every bit of it was gone. Gillian looked up to find him watching her every move. When he filled a cup for her, she drank it down.

Knowing that this was simply a respite before whatever else he’d planned for her, she knew she should have slowed down and taken her time, but an empty stomach and all the exertions of the day proved her match.

She had barely finished the food and drink when she heard movement outside the tent and the sound of many voices growing closer. Had her brother discovered her missing and followed? Did he now attack to recover her? When the soldier took the plate from her, she gave up all pretence and began to work the ropes around her ankles. Either he ignored her or did not think she could do it, for he left the tent then and she increased her efforts.

If only she had a dagger or her small knife, or something sharp to loosen the knot or cut the ropes! Gillian continued until she heard the words spoken by Stephen to her captor.

‘The men are ready.’

Her mind emptied of all thought then and the only thing she could do was struggle against the ropes. Pulling on one, then another, she shook as the thought of what lay ahead pierced her. They would take their pleasure of her now. All of them? Saints in heaven, protect her!

Fighting off the panic that assailed her, Gillian knew she must be in control and seek out a moment when she could escape. To do that, she must be alive. Taking several deep breaths and trying to let out the terror that threatened to control her, she knew what she must do. When the leader entered the tent and approached her, she knew the only way to live through this was through him.

He’d removed his chainmail hauberk and wore only a thick, quilted tunic in its place. His leather gloves were gone, as well. Instead of easing her fears, for she knew that men could tup women in armour or out of it, it increased them for he looked no less the dangerous warrior than before in his battle dress. He crouched near her once more and used his deadly dagger on the ropes until they gave way. Helping her to her feet, he wrapped an arm around her waist when she began to stumble.

‘My lord,’ she whispered, turning to face him. He did not release her; nay, if truth be told he held her more closely than before. ‘I would … see to your needs willingly if you promised not to share me with the others.’

Shocked that she could speak such damning words aloud, she knew she must seem honest in her intentions or all was lost. Gillian reached up and clutched the neckline of his tunic as she promised anything to keep herself alive. ‘I wish to warm your bed only, my lord.’

The warrior released her so quickly she nearly fell to the ground. She’d angered him in some way, not pacified him with her promise of pleasure. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to the entrance of the tent.

‘Nay, my lord,’ she cried out, both in pain from his tight grasp and in fear of being given to the others. ‘I beg you not to share me with your men!’

In but a few moments, she stood outside the tent, in front of what seemed to be hundreds of men. Though night-time, the full moon’s light alone would have made it possible to see their numbers, but the burning torches spread around the camp made it seem like day. He held her wrist in his iron grasp and pulled her to face him.

‘Oui, my Lady Gillian, you will warm my bed this night,’ he growled through clenched teeth. He knew! He knew who she was! Before she could explain, he tugged her closer until only she could hear his words. ‘And I will share my wife with no other man.’




Chapter Three







Gillian searched his face for answers she did not find. He was angry, aye, for it poured off him in waves. She understood now that he’d known her identity the whole while, even as she dissembled and lied. How?

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

Her brother had told her of the usurper’s nobleman on his way to claim their lands as well as herself, but this man who stood before her swore he was not noble. She’d heard his common cursing and seen the way the others called him by name—Brice—and not with the respect due a lord of the realm, even that of the Norman pigs who now infested their lands.

‘Brice Fitzwilliam, newly named Lord of Thaxted and baron to his Highness Duke William of Normandy and King of England,’ he said loud enough for all his men to hear. ‘And your husband,’ he said as he offered a slight bow to her.

Their answering cheers shook the night and terrified her. This was the man who would tear her world apart, kill her brother, take her lands and people and conquer her as surely as his bastard duke had ravaged the south of England already.

Fitzwilliam? He was a bastard himself. Now she understood his anger, for her earlier words about noblemen were an insult to his new honour.

‘You are not my husband,’ she said, refusing to believe that such a thing could be accomplished without her participation or consent.

He laughed then, surprising her and showing a different side to him from what she’d witnessed thus far. His eyes gleamed in merriment and the way his mouth curved into a smile made her body fill with heat. When he turned that smile in her direction, she lost her breath.

‘But that can be managed so easily, my lady,’ he said, motioning to someone across the clearing. ‘At your command.’

An old man, a priest, came forwards from the crowd, followed by a younger man not in priestly garb, but who carried a number of parchments. They stopped in front of her and bowed.

‘Lady Gillian,’ the older man said respectfully. ‘I am Father Henry, late of Taerford.’ Turning to the Norman warrior, he spoke softly. ‘My lord, Selwyn will read out the marriage contract and disposition of properties and titles.’

So shocked was she by this turn of events, she had not noticed when his tight grasp had loosened or when his hand had clasped hers or when their fingers had entwined. She’d gone from prisoner to betrothed wife in moments and could not comprehend the change. As the young man Selwyn read out the honours and lands bestowed on this Lord Brice Fitzwilliam, who was from Brittany, not Normandy, she tried to think of a way out. A way back to Thaxted Keep; to her brother’s protection; to her life as she knew it just months ago.

Instead, she stood with a complete stranger, a foreign knight raised high by his king, a man who would—if she consented—control her lands, her people, her person and body as his own. Gillian knew she must do something, but as she began to pull from his grasp, he whispered the words to her that would chill her blood and ensure her co-operation.

‘Honoured wife or exiled peasant. Which do you wish to be this night, Gillian?’

His gaze showed neither gloating nor persuasion when she met it and she knew he would make certain that her choice became the reality of her life. Selwyn finished reading out the contract approved by his king and all eyes watched as she hesitated.

Something deep inside urged her to be brave and denounce this enemy, fight off his attempts to take her against her will and defy her brother’s intentions. Surely the priest would not stand by while she was forced into this marriage or while his men ravaged her.

Another part of her wanted to stand up and do whatever she could, put up with what she must in order to protect the people who lived on their lands against this conqueror. The noble blood in her veins, though tainted by the circumstances of her birth, ran back countless generations through her father and it strengthened her resolve not to stand by while her people were made to suffer more. If marriage to this warrior would bring peace to their land, then she would endure it.

‘Do you consent to this marriage?’ the Breton asked once more, this time in that voice so tempting that Eve herself would have fallen again from Paradise to say yes to him.

Though she wished that just once she could be considered only for her own worth and not as some valued commodity, Gillian understood the truth of her situation and the responsibility she bore. Mayhap at another time, she could do something just because she wanted to or could refuse something she objected to, but this was not that time and she had not the luxury of such a choice.

And so, wearing the dirt of the road from her travels and from her attempts to escape, covered in a servant’s cloak and standing before hundreds of men she knew not, Gillian surrendered her will and consented to the sham of a marriage. Worse, as she heard that sultry voice of his, pledging himself to her and promising to protect her and honour her, heat poured through every part of her body and sinful images of lying with him filled her thoughts.

When the words were finished and he leaned towards her to seal their agreement with a kiss, she knew exactly how Eve had felt that day when confronted by the devil.



He caught her surprised gasp when he touched his mouth to hers. She stood lost in her thoughts as they said their vows, but he wanted her to understand what she had agreed to. The ease with which she’d bartered herself to him in the tent had filled him with anger, but he tasted her innocence and fear as his lips slid across hers now. Stepping closer, he slipped his arm around her shoulders, both pulling her closer and keeping her from falling.

She did not fight him, but did not participate in the kiss, and Brice felt a small measure of disappointment that the spirit she’d displayed earlier had disappeared now. He wanted to taste her fire and her strength, but all he felt was her fear. Her body trembled in his embrace, so he kissed her lightly and quickly and lifted his head.

Her turquoise eyes stared back at him and he watched as curiosity, fear and surprise warred within her gaze. She reached up and touched her mouth as though she’d never been kissed. Regardless of her innocence or lack of participation, his body responded to the taste of her soft lips and to the promise of holding her close to him in his bed. He would slide his hands beneath her gown and caress every part of her before the sun’s light touched the camp once more.

Whether she understood it or not, her body did, for she shuddered as Brice stared into her eyes, wanting her naked and writhing at his every caress. She would warm his bed this night and every other one from this time forwards and he would show her such pleasure that she would never regret giving her consent. He tore his gaze from hers and examined her from the top of her head to her feet.

Her lush hips promised healthy babes and once he removed her brother from their lands and secured this area for William, he intended to breed many with her. All of them would bear his name, unlike his own father, for Brice had married the woman who would give him children. Now that she was in his possession, everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d laboured for and worked for was within his reach.

Taking her hand and turning her towards his men, he held their joined hands up and claimed her.

‘Lady Gillian of Thaxted,’ he called out loudly. ‘My wife!’ The cheering began slowly and spread out through the camp as one and all acknowledged his marriage and saluted his wife. He nodded to Stephen, who stepped forwards and bowed to Gillian. ‘Take the lady to my tent and guard her until I arrive,’ he ordered.

Brice had no doubt that the words spoken by her or promises made would fade as soon as she realised what she’d done. Therefore only consummation would make her understand she was now his and prevent any claim that could nullify their vows. Until that was accomplished and their marriage was acknowledged by all parties, he would protect her as the treasure she was.

Stephen approached and he felt her body tense. His man bowed to her and held out his arm to escort her as befit a lady and his wife. ‘My lady?’

Brice held his breath as he waited for her to bolt, but she placed her hand on Stephen’s arm and walked at his side towards his tent. Brice had to see to many tasks before he could retire for the night and if he appeared to hurry none of his men mentioned it.



An hour or two later, after messages had been sent and more guards set to watch around their camp, he stood in front of his tent and wondered which woman—the honoured wife or the escaping peasant—he would find within. Reaching out, he lifted the flap and entered.



Though she heard his approach and entrance into the tent, Gillian did not rise or look up to meet his gaze. As yet uncertain of the situation and the man involved, she’d pondered her options for the last hour or two. And that was after spending a while in complete shock over her new circumstances. Instead of becoming used to the ever-present changes in her life, she was truly tired of it.

Her plan to escape her half-brother’s control and to avoid this marriage and seek refuge in the convent had failed. Oh, it was ill advised at best from the beginning, but it was a better plan than the first three times she’d tried it. Both her brother’s threats of repeating the punishments he’d already applied for any future attempts and her need to flee his machinations had brought her to this.

She dared not seek Oremund’s help now. She could not make it to the convent. She had not. Sighing, Gillian knew she was out of choices.

‘Lady?’ His deep voice broke into her reverie and forced her gaze up to his.

How had she ever mistaken him for anything other than the leader he was? Even if she discounted his lack of a banner proclaiming his insignia, even if she ignored the uncouth and foul language she’d heard him use, even believing Oremund’s stories about the Norman—nay, Breton—and his plans, there was no way to ignore the inherent nobility of the man standing before her now.

He’d removed his chainmail and other accoutrements of fighting and war and stood there as just a man. Yet now he seemed even more dangerous than before.

He was tall, tall enough that he had to crouch down to walk farther into the tent and not hit the top of it with his head. He was large, with broad shoulders that bespoke years of training in his craft. He was. waiting. She swallowed deeply then as she realised he watched her perusal of him and allowed it. Gillian lowered her gaze to her clasped hands and waited quietly.

‘Did they bring you fresh water and see to your comforts?’ he asked softly. Without even lifting her head, she could see him moving closer to her. ‘Do you need something to drink or eat?’

With the time before he consummated their marriage running out, she decided to try one last time to dissuade him from his purpose.

‘My lord,’ she said quietly as she rose to her feet and stood before him, ‘I need nothing from you save your grant of safe passage to the convent.’

The tension between and around them grew as she waited on his word. When silence was her only answer, she lifted her head and looked at him. His brown eyes darkened even more as the intensity and heat of his gaze moved over her.

‘You have asked for one of the two things I could not grant you, lady, even if I wished it to be so.’

Had he done it a-purpose? He’d phrased his words so that she had to ask about the other. Did he know of her unseemly curiosity, something her brother and their father had decried as a flaw in her character? Her heart began to pound in her chest as he reached out and took her hand in his, tugging her even closer. Try as she might, Gillian could not stop the words from spilling out.

‘What is the other?’ She held her breath as he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist. He allowed his lips to rest there for a moment longer than necessary before looking back at her.

‘I could not let you greet the morning as a maiden still,’ he said.

Shaking her head, she pulled her hand from his grasp. Or tried to, for his fingers held tight and did not allow her to free herself. ‘My lord …’

‘My lady,’ he replied.

‘I beg you …’ Her voice caught as he slid the sleeve of her gown down her arm and followed it with his mouth, placing heated kiss after heated kiss along the exposed skin there. Flames seemed to grow within her and she could not find the thoughts and arguments that seemed so coherent just moments before. Her body trembled at his intimate touch and she reached her free hand up to pry loose his hold.

‘Nay, my lady,’ he whispered against her skin, not even pausing in his attentions as he caught her hand and placed it on his chest. ‘I could not allow it.’

With her hands held so, she was forced to lean closer to him. She searched his face for any sign that he would relent, but there was none. And when he turned to look at her and she recognised the glint of desire in his eyes, she knew she had no chance of escaping his intentions. Even when he released her hands, it was only for a moment and only to untie her veil and remove it. He tossed the linen aside and took her into his embrace, drawing her even nearer. When his mouth descended and touched hers, she lost her wits completely and every attempt to focus on her plan, a plan, any plan, failed as her body fell under his spell.

This kiss began much as his first had, but then it changed quickly into something seeking, something demanding, something seducing. She lost her breath as he turned his face and took control of her mouth and her body. Gillian felt his hands slide up onto her shoulders and then into her hair as she gave herself over to the kiss. Opening to him as his tongue touched her lips, she allowed him his way and felt the shivers pulse through her body. The thought that she’d never been kissed in such a bold and possessive manner flitted through her mind for a moment.

When he relinquished his hold of her hair and slid one hand slowly down her body, touching and caressing her neck and then her breasts and stopping to rest splayed over her belly, she pulled away from his kiss and tried to breathe. A kiss was one thing, but to touch her in such an intimate way was.

Decadent.

Forbidden.

Scandalous.

He did not force her to accept his touch, but he did not remove his hand from its place too close to the junction of her thighs. A place she’d not truly thought much about before, but that now ached for something unknown. And that ache spread as she saw the desire burning in his gaze as he waited on her.

‘This is ill advised, my lord,’ she forced out. ‘We know nothing of each other and yet you would bed me here, now?’

His hand remained in place, making it impossible to cool the heat that poured through her. But she must, if she was to avoid this next step.

‘The king has granted me these lands, this title and you, lady. In spite of your efforts and those of your brother—’ he began quietly.

‘Half,’ she interrupted. His brows gathered in a frown. ‘My half-brother,’ she explained.

‘Half or full matters not to me or the king,’ he said and then he shook his head. ‘In spite of the efforts to keep me from said lands and wife, I have found you and I will not risk any more delays or disappearances. I need to know nothing more than that you are my legally wedded …’ before she could think of another tack to take, he leaned down and kissed her again and continued ‘.and soon-to-be-bedded wife.’

Something finally sparked inside her, whether foolishness or bravery she knew not, and she pulled away once more.

‘And if you lay dead after the coming battle, I will know nothing of you save your name. Does that not worry you?’ From the entirely confident look on his face, she knew what his answer would be.

‘I will not lose the coming battle, lady. If anyone is dead after it, it will be your brother.’

His words startled her, for she’d not truly thought about the whole process enough. Oh, aye, she knew there would be a fight to gain control of Thaxted and she knew some would be injured or perish. God forgive her, she even knew of several names she hoped would be on one or the other of those lists, but so would others—others innocent of this game played between kings and nobles. Always the innocents paid the price.

‘Forgive me for those words, Gillian,’ he said, taking her by her shoulders. ‘War is not easy for any of those who fight and I ask your pardon for taunting you with words of your brother’s death.’

He’d shocked her again, he knew, for her turquoise eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open. He was not a fool when it came to seducing women and yet all of his skills seemed to have deserted him when he needed them most. He must claim her this night. He must make her his wife in truth so that, no matter what happened in the coming battles, she would have the protection of his friends and even the king. Brice began once more to seduce her into his bed.

‘We will have many days to come to know each other better, Gillian. Let us take this first step now,’ he whispered, lifting the long curls off her shoulders and smoothing them down her back.

She shivered under his touch, whether she knew it or not, as her body readied itself for him. Brice leaned down and kissed her, not waiting for any questions or protests. At first she remained still, but when he probed gently with his tongue and began to tease and touch hers, Gillian closed her eyes and accepted the intimate invasion once more. He plied her with one kiss after another until he could hear her breathing deeply. But it was the breathy sigh that nearly made him lose control.

Although he was the one thinking his way through this encounter, his body reacted to the sounds of her innocent excitement and each sigh sent more blood rushing to his groin, hardening him until he felt as though he would explode.

Sliding one arm behind her shoulders and then scooping her up into his embrace, Brice kissed her again as he carried her to his pallet and knelt down to place her on its surface. Although clean, he knew it lacked the level of comfort and luxury she was used to having. The thought that he was taking her on a thin pallet in a tent in the middle of an armed camp struck him as he eased his arm out from beneath her legs.

A lady deserved better than to be tupped like a camp follower. A lady should be wooed and willing to give up her virginity. A lady wife should be honoured and taken gently in comfort and privacy.

Allowing only a moment of regret at the circumstances and surroundings, Brice guided Gillian down onto the pallet and stretched out at her side, his arm still holding her around her shoulders. When he was forced to relinquish her mouth, he kissed the soft skin along her jaw and her ear. Pleased when her body trembled in his embrace, he traced the outline of her lips with a finger. Brice followed the contours of her jaw, down to her neck and then across the swell of her breasts until he reached the laces on her gown. She gasped when he tugged them loose and then grabbed his hand to halt his progress.

‘Someone might come in,’ she whispered.

Though he knew no one would dare interrupt him, he tried to soothe her fear. ‘Unless this tent is on fire, no one will enter.’

Brice leaned down once more and kissed the skin on her neck, easing the ties loose as he did so. His fingers grazed the swells of her breasts as he slipped them inside the gown. Gillian arched into his hand when he touched the tips of her breasts, sucking in a breath as he continued to caress there. He felt himself surge then, ready to finish the act in spite of his efforts to follow a leisurely path and ensure the lady’s—his wife’s—pleasure.

He glanced at her face and saw that she lay with her eyes closed tightly. Only her mouth gave any sign that his attempts to ease her way were working. As he watched, she worried her lower lip with the edges of her teeth and then licked them with her tongue. Every movement and sound she made sent chills through his body and caused the blood in his veins to thunder through him. Though he wanted to tear off her garments and claim her, he settled for something more subtle.

Still watching her face, he slid his hand down, using the back of it to touch her breasts, stomach and then her thighs. She squirmed in his arms, her innocent body responding to his caresses even though she most likely understood it not. Then, when his hand slid over the tops of her legs and touched the place he craved to see, she gasped loudly and tried to sit up.

‘Nay, sweetling,’ he whispered, placing his hand over her and holding her still. ‘Let me show you the pleasure that can be between man and woman,’ he said, moving his hand ever so slightly and meeting her gaze as he did. ‘Between a husband and wife,’ he continued as he paused to gather the length of her gown in his hand. Her skin, as he touched it, was soft and smooth and her legs, exposed now to his gaze, were shapely and long. He almost had the gown out of his way when she grabbed his wrist.

‘They can hear us, my lord. They can hear every sound we make.’

This was one of the reasons he never took virgins to his bed or sought them out—their shyness interfered with the level of pleasure they could reach. And a bastard such as he was never good enough to have access to a virgin, especially a well-or high-born one like his wife was.

‘I assure you they have orders not to disturb our privacy, lady. Any sounds you or I make will be ignored, if heard at all over the din of the camp. Worry not on this.’

Brice placed his hand on the bare skin of her thigh and began to reach to touch the curls still hidden by her gown when she started again. This time she managed to push back out of his embrace.

‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered. ‘Someone is just outside the tent.’ Her eyes flitted from one side of the tent to the other and then to the entrance.

He listened, but heard nothing. If it would ease her in this, Brice decided he would make certain his orders were being followed. He doubted any of his men would have come close to his tent, but he nodded to her and stood up, tugging his braes so that they covered the proof of his arousal. Stepping to the flap of the tent, he lifted it and looked outside.

The guards stood in their positions some distance away. He could detect no movements or sounds adjacent to the tent or in the immediate area. As he turned back to tell her, he hoped that this would give her the reassurance she needed to yield to him.

He never saw the weapon hurtling at him from the shadows of the tent until it struck. Then it was too late.




Chapter Four







Gillian grabbed his tunic as he fell, making certain he landed inside the tent. Unable to believe her luck, she threw the heavy sword in its scabbard into the corner and looked for her cloak. She stepped over the unconscious knight and prepared to escape once more. Then she realised he’d not moved since landing face down on the ground there.

Had she killed him? That was never her intent, but she had swung the hilt of the sword as hard as she could at his head to stop him. Crouching down next to him, she lifted his shoulder up and slid her hand down near his mouth and nose. The heat of his breath touched her skin and she sighed in relief. Murder was never her intent.

She released his shoulder and let him lie as he fell, for there was not time and she had not the strength to move or secure him. Gillian did reach down and take the dagger from its sheath inside the cross-garters on his leg where she’d watched him place it. At least it would give her some protection as she made her escape. Peeking out of the tent, she saw that his men, as he’d said, stood some distance away.

Good. If the rest of his words about not paying attention to the goings-on in their leader’s tent were true, she could sneak away and get to the convent, less than a mile or so from here. Kneeling down, she crept on hands and knees away from the tent until she reached the edge of the forest, and then she ran. At the river she turned and ran along it, knowing that it flowed next to the convent’s walls.

Gillian never looked back, never paused, and never slowed as she followed the water to her goal. When she broke through the last copse of trees between her and safety, she skidded to a stop, unable to breathe and unable to believe her eyes. A line of knights, all of them mounted, sat between her and the convent walls.

Her eyes burned with tears of frustration as she realised that she would never outrun these men. Bending over, she drew in deep breaths, trying to calm her racing pulse and the fear that now filled her. If these men were here, their leader would have known where she would flee. He had known all along!

The men said nothing, only waiting as though it was their custom to chase down their lord’s wife in the middle of the night. When she could breathe evenly again, she stood and adjusted her cloak and veil and prepared to be dragged or escorted back to the camp … and to her husband. She shivered then, knowing that he would probably react as her brother had when she’d thwarted his plans—with anger and punishment. The Breton had new ways to punish her wilfulness and her assault on him, and she feared the coming night more now than she had before.

The sound of something breaking through the undergrowth behind and the way the men turned to look made her skin turn to gooseflesh. Gillian slid the dagger into her palm and pivoted towards the trees. It was not the size of the horse that terrified her, nor the length of the sword brandished in her direction. Nay, not those things, but the hardened expression of pure rage that filled the Breton warrior’s face as he beheld her standing there.

He’d not taken time to don his mail or even his helm, and indeed she could see blood streaming down the side of his face along the line of his hair and down his neck from the wound on his head. She swallowed deeply and offered up a quick plea for the forgiveness of her sins to the Almighty, for Gillian did not doubt that her death was imminent. It took every bit of courage and strength she had not to back away when he leapt down from the horse and approached her in slow, measured steps. She wiped her shaking, sweaty palms against her cloak and waited to meet her fate.

He stopped a few paces from her and seemed to realise then that he still threatened her with the sword in his hand. Without taking his eyes from hers, he slid the deadly steel blade back into its scabbard. She startled at his first step nearer.

‘Give me the dagger,’ he whispered harshly, holding his hand out to her.

She’d forgotten she held it, still frightened by the rage in his eyes, and, for a moment, she thought of the possibility of using it against him. But what would it gain her other than a swift death and the damnation of her eternal soul? Even now gazing into his angry face, Gillian knew that his death would help nothing … and it was not something she wished for even at her weakest moments.

Letting out the breath she’d held in for all those moments, Gillian turned the dagger and handed it, hilt first, to the Breton. So quickly that she nearly missed it, a flash of relief brightened the stark, masculine angles of his face, softening it for one fleeting moment. Then, the anger was back as he slipped the dagger back from where she’d stolen it.

Borrowed it.

One of the warriors called out something from behind her and she tried to translate his words, but he spoke too quickly. The Breton answered him in the same tongue, but whether he did it a-purpose or because of fear clouding her mind, she did not understand him, either. Finally, after an exchange of words that lasted several minutes, he looked back at her and shook his head.

Gillian searched her thoughts for something to say. Something that could explain or at least mitigate what she’d done to him. But, truly, how did one explain away knocking another person out? She knew what she’d done; he knew it, as well. All that was left was for him to apply whatever punishment he’d decided upon. Since she knew he wanted her alive, Gillian prepared herself. She’d already survived beatings and whippings by her half-brother, so she believed she could survive whatever this man would deal out to her.

So when, with a nod at his men behind her, he mounted his horse, ordered them to bring her with them and then rode off towards his camp, she could do nothing but stare. That was until a horse’s nose butted her on the shoulder from behind and she stumbled.

‘Go, lady,’ the knight on the horse ordered.

At first, she did not understand and she looked around to see the knights still on their horses, some closer to her, some still nearer to the convent walls.

‘Go,’ he said, nodding at the forest, ‘follow the same path back to camp.’

It was not that she could not understand his words then, she just could not comprehend his orders. She was to walk back to the camp? Alone? Where had their leader gone?

‘Lord Brice said to walk back to the camp and think on your sins as you do so,’ the one named Stephen said. The other men laughed then, apparently knowing more about her sins than she’d have liked. ‘He awaits you there.’

Her stomach gripped then as she realised that this was not his punishment, this was but the prelude to whatever he planned. And she must walk back to face it. She shook her head until the knight called out to her once more.

‘Now, lady,’ he said. ‘Or he ordered me to tie you to my horse and drag you back.’ His voice lowered then and Gillian thought she recognised a touch of regret in his tone. ‘It is not that far and I am certain you would rather arrive there on your feet and not trussed up like some slave.’

He was offering her dignity. Outmanned and outmanoeuvred, certainly for the moment, Gillian decided to acquiesce. She nodded at him and began walking. It would give her time to think of another plan.

The cold air quickly seeped through her cloak as she traced her path back to the river’s edge and then along it. Four knights, two before and two behind, escorted her. Though their pace was slow for men on horseback, it was fast enough that she struggled after only a few minutes. Most likely, two days of walking and the events of the night so far were the cause of her growing exhaustion. And the recent run from the camp here added to the pain in her legs and the weariness that spread through her.

Tugging her cloak closer and pulling the hood of it forwards to cover her head, she focused her thoughts on placing one foot in front of the other. After some time, more than Gillian remembered it taking to cover the distance, they reached the turn in the path that took them towards the road, and a while later the camp. More than once, a horse nudged her along. More than once, she waved them off to stop and catch her breath. And more than once, she wished she could think of a way to evade them and their lord.

But all she could do was walk and think.

And worry.

Oh, not over any sins she might have committed as their lord had ordered, but about the rest of the coming night. And the coming day which would see his forces pitted against her half-brother and his allies. When the fires of the camp came into view, Gillian found that most everything disappeared from her list of things to worry over, except the one about the coming night. The knights led her back to his tent, which was now surrounded by guards, and called out to their lord. At his word, Stephen motioned her forwards.

After a deep breath, Gillian walked up to the tent and lifted the flap to enter.



Brice sat waiting for her arrival and pondered all the mistakes he’d made in dealing with Lady Gillian of Thaxted. Once his anger cooled, even he could see the resemblance to the wedding-night farce experienced by his friend Giles, now Lord of Taerford. And that did not please him at all, for it only served to remind him of his own boast that he would not have those kinds of problems when he claimed his bride.

Now, with his head still pounding from being hit with his own sword and with his runaway bride standing outside his tent, he hoped word of this debacle would not reach Giles or his lady Fayth for some time. And hopefully he could recover from the disastrous start and get his marriage, and the invasion of his keep, underway in a more successful manner. Taking a mouthful of the ale from his cup, he touched the egg-sized lump on his head to see if it had stopped bleeding yet. Bringing away nothing on his fingers, he drank again, hoping the ale would ease the anger and the pain.

He heard Stephen’s call from outside and waited for her to enter. Brice had chosen to get away from her when his fury about her attack and her disobedience nearly overwhelmed his better judgement, for he was not a man to take his anger out on others and he did not wish to do so now. Well, he might wish to do it, but he would not.

Gillian stepped into the tent, and it suddenly felt much smaller than it had. He watched as she moved a few paces in and let the flap drop back into place. From the corner where he sat on a stool he waited for her to see him. Her reaction, when she did, was not a good one, for she gasped and backed up towards the entrance. He looked in the direction of her gaze and realised that the bloodied rags he’d used in cleaning the gash on his head lay on the ground at his feet.

‘I … I …’ she began to stutter.

‘Do not make some false claim of regret, lady,’ he warned, kicking the rags out of his way and standing before her. ‘You wanted to escape, I was in your way, and you removed me.’ He crossed his arms over his chest and allowed himself a moment of enjoyment at her discomfort. He knew, though, that the way she reacted to his accusation was important in coming to know her better.

Gillian let out a loud sigh and pushed her loosened hair back out of her face. Her bedraggled appearance in no way marred her beauty; instead, it made him want to wrap her in his arms and kiss away the worries that caused the crease to deepen between her brows.

‘You are correct, my lord,’ she said softly. ‘My only intention was to escape. You were in my way.’

‘Why?’ he asked. The word surprised him until he realised that he did want to know her reasons for running from him. ‘Did you run from me in particular? From this marriage?’ She looked as though she sought a way out of answering, so he asked again. ‘You spoke the vows in front of the priest and witnesses. You pledged yourself to me. So, lady, why did you run?’

‘I ran from you. I ran from this marriage. I just ran,’ she said in a voice so low he nearly missed it. She looked away from him, too, not meeting his gaze, but staring down at her hands while she spoke. Hands that twisted the cloth of her cloak in a tight spiral.

He suspected that she knew he would intercept any of her attempts to get to the convent, but why had she not run back to her brother’s protection?

‘Why the convent?’ He took a step towards her, but paused when she backed away. Likely she feared his anger even now.

‘I would be welcome there. The reverend mother said I would be welcomed into their community.’

‘And your brother would not welcome your return to him?’ he asked.

The stricken expression at his words told him more than he ever expected to learn, for her face paled and her eyes filled with pain and fear. Brice reached out for her, but she moved farther away from him. Filled with uncertainty about how to proceed with her, he could tell by watching the lady that exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her even now.

It had been his plan—having her walk back to the camp would tire her out and make another attempt to escape this night nearly impossible. Now, as he watched her struggle to remain standing even while trying to appear strong, he understood the strength of her pride and her determination.

She was a worthy opponent, but would be a better lady to their people and a wife to him—if he could gain her trust and co-operation. Swiving her in this tent now would not accomplish that. Not consummating the marriage was not a choice, for if she did reach the convent it would cause a complicated mess that would take months or years to sort through. And he knew to the marrow of his bones that she would try again. Still, he shook his head and surrendered to the inevitable.

‘Seek your rest, lady,’ he said, pointing to the pallet.

She started and glanced between him and the pile of blankets they’d occupied not long ago. ‘I do not understand.’

‘It is nearly the middle of the night,’ he began. ‘Many new challenges face us in the morn, so seek your rest.’

Brice turned away and began to pick up the rags from the ground. She remained still where she stood, not yet moving to the pallet. So, he went over, lifted up several of the blankets and motioned for her to lie down. As though prepared for him to attack her at any moment, Lady Gillian crept to the pallet and sat down without ever taking her gaze from him. She started to untie her cloak, but then wrapped its length around her and lay down.

Brice layered several blankets over her and tried not to think about her presence in his tent. He tried not to think about the lovely, feminine body under those blankets. He especially tried not to remember the way she sounded, the way she gasped so softly as he slid his hand nearer to her womanly flesh. But when she loosened her veil and her hair spread around her head, he hardened in immediate response to her innocent actions and he nearly lost that battle.

Realising that his body had readied for taking her and distraction was necessary, he walked over to finish his tasks. He should call Ernaut to see to cleaning and arranging things, but that could wait until morning. After securing his sword where she could not reach it easily, he gathered the soiled rags and tossed them out of the tent flap. He busied himself with other menial tasks, all to keep himself from tearing off the blankets, freeing her from her cloak and garments and ploughing her as deeply and fervently as he wanted to do.

A short while later, the sound of clattering teeth filled the small space. Brice turned and walked closer to her. Now he could see that her whole body shivered beneath her cloak and the blankets. His own breath floated in front of him in the cold night’s air, making him realise that she must be chilled to the bone from both her run to escape, her walk back to the camp and the absence of any fire or hearth to warm her in the tent.

It was exactly the discomfort he’d wanted her to feel when he gave the orders, but now, watching it, he found he did not like the results. He secured the flap of the tent and after removing his dagger and slipping it under the edge of the pallet, he lifted the blankets and slid in behind the lady.

Since she lay on her side facing away from him, he shifted closer until her back touched his chest and wrapped his arms around her to hold her close. She reacted immediately, her body rigid as she ceased all movements. So still did she lie that he could not even feel her taking breath into her lungs.

‘Be at ease, lady,’ he whispered to her. ‘I seek but to warm you so that your teeth stop making those infernal noises when they clatter from the cold and I can get some rest.’

Gathering the folds of her cloak in his hand, he tucked them tightly around her and moved one leg against hers to give her some warmth. Brice waited on her protests, but none came. After a few minutes, her teeth did indeed stop their clattering. It was another little while before her shivering stopped.

‘Though I meant for you to suffer after what you did, I did not intend for the punishment to be so severe,’ he whispered as he felt her body relax against his.

He expected no reply, for his words were as close to an explanation as he would go, as close to an apology as he would permit himself to offer. But, as she had in most things since he’d first heard of Lady Gillian of Thaxted, she surprised him once more.

‘And though I meant to knock you out of your senses, I did not mean to wound you so deeply,’ she whispered back.

Brice could not stop his laughter then, releasing her for a moment and falling on to his back as he did. Then, he rolled against her once more, gathering her into his arms and settling back into their comfortable position.

‘Just so, lady. I suspect we may be well suited for each other after all.’

He listened for another reply, but none came, and soon he was met only by the deep, even breaths that spoke of sleep. Now that her shivering had ceased and the warmth of their bodies together increased, Brice could feel the pull of sleep lulling him to it. He might as well get a few hours of rest, before taking the next step with his new wife.

Oh, he knew she thought herself safe from his attentions, but his delay would only last until morning. Though she might have fallen asleep a virgin this night, he planned that she would not be one by the next. Or by the time they rose to face the challenges on the morrow.




Chapter Five







After the dampness of the evening had allowed the cold to seep into the very marrow of her bones, Gillian enjoyed the heat that pulsed through her. As she shifted around within the tight cocoon formed by her cloak and the blankets on the pallet, she realised she was also encircled by the source of the heat. As the sounds of a camp stirring to life began around her, she opened her eyes to find him, her husband, draped over her.

And staring right back at her.

It took but a moment for her to comprehend his intent before he leaned even closer and touched his lips to hers. With the blankets and her cloak and his arms holding her so tight, she could not move away. Or so she told herself that was the reason, but once his mouth took hers, she could think of nothing else but him.

He held her cradled with one arm under her back as he moved the other across her stomach to rest on her hip. The same feelings, the same heat that had rippled through her the last time he touched her like this did so again and her body shivered under his hands.

‘Are you cold?’ he asked softly, lifting back from the kiss just enough to see her face.

‘Nay.’ Gillian shook her head though another shudder shook her body even as she spoke. ‘I think not,’ she admitted. Then as his gentle, exploring touch ignited a path of fire across her stomach and down towards her legs, she said again, ‘Nay.’

He smiled then and her heart seemed to beat faster. He moved his hand along her hip and down her leg, and breathing became difficult as her lungs gasped and strained for even breath. But when he gathered the edge of her gown and tunic in his large hand and began to slide it up her legs, her body became a thing she could not recognise.

The skin of her thighs shivered beneath her gown as his hand glided over her and the blood and heat rushed through her veins to pool between her legs. For the ten-and-nine years of her life, she’d rarely had cause to take notice of the sensitive nature of that area, but now, with his attentions last night and this morn, it ached in a way that seemed almost pleasurable.

Without waiting for her permission and certainly not waiting for her to object, he held her closer and kissed her again—this time until she lost her breath and he felt her body press against his. He chuckled against her mouth, continuing to touch and taste her with his tongue even as he stroked closer and closer to that intimate place.

She knew his intent. She knew he would join with her and make her his wife in reality, but all the arguments she’d convinced herself of evaporated in the heat of his onslaught. Having sampled it last night before she tried to escape, she wondered now if fear of this unknown but provocative man and the feelings he made her body experience were what had driven her to run. When his fingers slipped between her legs, Gillian’s body arched and tightened, renewing and escalating those feelings and that same fear and need to escape.

Drawing back, she tried to move away from his touch, but the blankets and his arm held her to him. In spite of her movements, he never stopped his advance, his fingers dipping and stroking against the sensitive folds there, making her centre tighten and throb. She lifted her mouth from his and took in a breath, preparing to argue or fight her way out, when his expression stopped her.





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