LITMIR.BIZ

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      Gillian rushed to the dormitory in which she slept, frantically wondering how much time she had. Soon it would be time for vespers, and her absence from prayers would be noticed. Oh, why her? And why now, when she had finally resigned herself to the convent? Suddenly the existence she had viewed as stifling and regimented seemed wholly satisfying.

      It was her own fault. She had become complacent and bored with her lot, forgetting that the very same walls that hemmed her in kept the outside world at bay. She had never fit in here, lacking the patience and commitment that was needed to answer a holy calling, but she had been clothed and fed and, most of all, kept safe.

      Too late, she remembered that a life outside the convent was fraught with dangers. Poverty, starvation, degradation and horrors too evil to contemplate lay but a short walk down the road. And Gillian knew most of them well. Swiftly she considered her choices while she gathered together her bedding—small payment for her years of service.

      Already she could feel the breathlessness that took her when she was frightened. How long had it been since she had been forced to struggle for air? It all came back to her now: the hunger that had gnawed at her belly too often, the cold that had chilled her to the bone, the grimy smell of a body too long between baths and the frustration that had never found surcease.

      Gillian’s hand stilled as she sucked in a harsh breath. It did not have to be like that again! She was older and wiser now, with many skills to her name. Surely she could become a servant in a respectable home. No, she thought, with a shudder, it would have to be something else. Although the guilds kept a stranglehold on most of the trades, the city must have other jobs that would keep her out of harm’s way.

      Tossing in her meager belongings, Gillian yanked the linens into a knot, then slipped out of her room. Although she knew she ought to take food with her, she could hardly dare the kitchens. Obviously, several of the nuns were aware of her situation, and they might expect her to bolt. Unfortunately, she was not known for her cool head, and now she rued her reputation.

      Deciding that the doorways might be watched, Gillian snuck toward a window. It was a good drop to the ground, but there was no help for it, she thought, gazing down at the grass below. She had no time to dither; she had to get away before he came after her.

      Long ago, she had dreamed of a family of her own, of a husband who did not waste his coins, as her father had. A shopkeeper, a knight… Gillian smiled humorlessly. Even then, she had not aspired as high as the de Lacis, famous throughout the country for their wealth!

      Gillian could still hardly believe that she, lowly daughter to an unsuccessful second son, was betrothed to the owner of Belvry. Although she had long since changed her mind about marriage, still Gillian might have been tempted, if the man had been kind and gentle and patient. A man who would not frighten her with his brute strength, or…

      Gillian shuddered again, for he was none of those things. One look at that face—so handsome, yet so implacable-and those strange eyes filled with hatred had settled her mind. She had no idea why he despised her. Perhaps he did not want to wed her, or harbored some grudge against her uncle; the reason mattered not. She knew only that his icy gray gaze frightened her far more than a flight into the unknown. She had managed once before on her own, and she would do it again, rather than face a life with that one! Tossing her bundle to the ground, she swung a leg over the stone and jumped.

      The fall knocked the breath from her, and Gillian lay on her back, gasping for air. Luckily, the grass was soft beneath her, but she gingerly wiggled her fingers and toes, just to make sure that she had suffered nothing more than a few bruises. She was sprawled in an unladylike pose, her legs apart, her gown hiked up to her knees, her wimple askew, yet it hardly mattered. Her days of strict decorum were over, she thought, smiling slightly.

      That was when she saw him.

      He was standing a few feet from the top of her head, so that he looked upside down to her, and so close that she could have reached out to touch his boots, below the rich material of his long tunic. The thought startled her, and she jerked her eyes upward. His hands were fisted against his slim hips, and above his wide shoulders, his face was dark with contempt, those silver eyes like the points of twin daggers.

      “If you were trying to kill yourself, you should have picked a higher window,” he commented. For a moment, Gillian could only lie there, staring up at him, so stunned was she by his words. What kind of monster was he to make such a twisted jest?

      “I will make sure that the ones in your room at Belvry are barred,” he said, the low purr of promise in his voice making the threat sound serious. Gillian sat up abruptly then, tugging at her skirts and twisting around—the better to see her enemy. His lips were curved into the ghost of a smile, as if her discomfiture pleased him well, and Gillian’s blood ran cold.

      “Resign yourself to your fate,” he said softly, “for tomorrow we wed.”

      

      He had not locked her in, for there was no need. No woman, not even Gillian Hexham, could get by his men, Nicholas thought with grim satisfaction. He lay with his arms crossed behind his head on a hard pallet in one of the small cells reserved for visitors, content that on the morrow she would be his.

      But what a strange creature she was! Nicholas could not understand why she would flee the convent with nothing but a change of clothing rather than marry him. And to jump out a window! The stupid wench could have broken her neck, and then where would he be? She would not rob him of his revenge, as Hexham had done!

      Nay, he would see to it that she did not endanger herself again, foolish chit. She obviously needed a firm hand to keep her from such escapades, Nicholas thought, clearly remembering the absurd picture she had made sprawled upon the ground. Some of her hair had escaped, spilling like molten fire from her wimple. Red it was, bright and clean, and Nicholas wondered what it would look like loose. He had yet to really see her, although she had given him a glimpse of shapely calves, the way she had displayed herself on the grass, her legs wide open like a whore’s…

      Taking a slow breath, Nicholas shifted, bringing his arms down to his sides and firmly crushing such thoughts. What mattered to him the color of her locks or the manner of her form? She was nothing to him but a tool for his revenge.

      Yes, Gillian Hexham would soon be his wife, but Nicholas wanted no part of her body. Although he had seen many a man fall prey to that feminine trap, slave to their own desires, he had never let passion rule him. Hexham’s niece would not gain mastery over him in any way.

      She might as well have taken her final vows, Nicholas thought, his lips curling at the irony, for she would never know his touch, nor any other man’s. And that small deprivation would be just the beginning…

      “My lord?”

      The voice broke into his thoughts, seemingly out of nowhere, and Nicholas could have cursed his own inattention. Without a sound, his fingers closed over the dagger at his hip. Although he had removed his tunic, he had left his girdle in place, and now he was glad, for even a convent held its dangers, it would seem. As he had learned long ago, nowhere was safe, and no one—not even a nun, apparently-could be trusted.

      Nicholas glanced toward the low opening, which had no door or covering, but he could see nothing in the darkness except the vague shape of a bent figure. He moved swiftly into a low crouch.

      “No! Please, stay where you are. It is I, Abbess Wright.” The old woman’s voice came low and oddly breathless as she stepped back behind the entrance, cold, thick stone separating her from his sight. “I wanted to have a word with you privately.”

      At this hour? Despite her vows, Nicholas might have suspected her of seeking out his male flesh, but the abbess was far too old for such sport. “What is it?” he whispered.

      “‘Tis a most delicate matter, my lord, that I could not easily say to your face.”

      Better to sneak up on him in the middle of the night and risk a knife in her gullet? Nicholas wondered at her reasoning, but did not send her away, for her office allowed her some respect—and

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