Defiant (18 page)

Clanging sounded. Hot, sooty air swirled around them and she realized they had reached the blacksmith’s shop, which was several streets over. The smithy, a gray-bearded man who appeared to be about half a century old, stood beside the forge, banging out a horseshoe.

He was shirtless, had red skin and large biceps, and wore a leather apron. Pausing in his work, he put his hammer down beside the anvil.

She gave him her best smile, hoping to find a friend, but he did not so much as glance at her.

“Welcome, my lord,” he said as if she weren’t squirming furiously on Jared’s lap or his hand wasn’t clamped over her mouth. Foreboding clouded her mind like a dark, dangerous fog. “Is there aught you need?”

“Have you a scold’s bridle? My wife is in desperate need of one.”

A brank?
Coldness tingled down Gwyneth’s spine. “Nay—” She tried to speak, but Jared’s fingers tightened around her mouth.

The blacksmith’s eyes lit up. “I ‘ave one here, my lord. One of my best pieces. Took me hours to fashion it.” The leather apron rustled as he hurried over to one of the shelves. His chest seemed to puff out.

“Perfect. ”

Gwyneth felt her legs go liquid as Jared slid off the horse and dragged her with him. He surveyed the wooden shelves. Hammers, rasps, files, pincers, and various other instruments for making wire, armor, chain, nails, and swords littered the shop.

He turned and looked at her calmly. Too calmly. “I am going to release your mouth. If you make so much as a squeak, I will take you straight to the town’s stocks and leave you there instead of something as mild as a scold’s bridle.” He paused dramatically.

Sweat beaded in the small of her back. She wiggled, desperation sliding through her. Memories of being publicly humiliated by her father bit her thoughts. Her mind raced for a solution. Perhaps she could seduce him, get him to stop.

“Oft an untrained hawk needs a hood,” he said mildly.

Oh, God. She was in hell. Jared was a madman.

But he was not observing her with the light of insanity. His eyes were sharp, perceptive—as if he were noticing and measuring her every reaction so he could tailor his punishment, make it worse if he so desired. She was used to men looking at her, but none had ever scrutinized her as Jared did. It seemed that he could see past her skull and into her mind.

Nay. Into her soul. As if he knew of every bad thing she’d ever done, every flirtatious, manipulative deed she had ever made.

His eyes condemned her.

It was to rescue people who were hurting,
she wanted to proclaim in her defense. But, of course, he would never know about Elizabeth, Blythe, or Elfreda and the other women at the prison.

Her legs quivered, her fingers trembled—reactions she needed to hide from Jared’s keen eyes. If he knew such things, he would take pleasure in them, use them to control her.

She lifted her chin, determined not to let him see the panic she was fighting. Long ago, Irma had shown her how to stand proudly, to disallow the thoughts of others from affecting her.

She tried to catch the smithy’s eye, hoping to gain some sort of sympathy, but the man gazed lovingly at his own craftsmanship.

Sunlight gleamed off the brank as the blacksmith lifted it smugly into the air. It was a small metal cage with a collar, a nose hole, and a tongue depressor.

She blanched, looked away.

“Beautiful piece, I say. See ‘ere, four flat bars and a knot on top. Made it just so to fit o’er a woman’s head, I did. The piece here"—he pointed to the loop at the bottom—"goes right into ‘er mouth to hold down ‘er forward tongue. Ye won’t ‘ave to be aworrying about ‘er being a scold anymore, I tell you.”

The man’s voice had a weird high-pitched lilt that seemed at odds with his brawny arms and chest. He sounded practically gleeful.

Shuddering, she inched backward.

“Perfect,” said Jared, swiveling toward Gwyneth. His dark hair fell across one eye. “Let’s see how your hood fits.”

She shook her head, frantically looking for a place to run and hide, frantically trying to come up with a plan to persuade him from his purpose. She opened her mouth to speak.

“The stocks,” he said coldly.

She bit her tongue and pleaded with him with her eyes.

No sympathy shone in his face. His jaw was hard, set.

She turned to one side.

“There is no value in running, wife. You cannot hope to get far.”

A tremble ran through her. He was quick and agile on his feet. She had no chance of getting away. Her best defense lay in a complete pretense that the punishment he planned was ineffective because it did not bother her in the least. Then she would seduce him into believing that it was safe for him to trust her. Mayhap she could poison him.

Her heart pounded as Jared took her by the shoulders, steered her inside the blacksmith’s shop, and forced her to sit on a stool. Resolutely, she vowed not to show fear. Absolutely no fear. Somehow she would get through this and he would never know how her stomach felt sick and her palms clammy. She chewed the inside of her cheeks to keep herself from crying out, to keep from begging.

He motioned the smithy to him and took hold of the brank. “Let’s see how it fits. ”

Oh, heavens. Her body lurched, and a sharp pain shot under her shoulder blades. Sweat beaded her upper lip. Quickly, she licked it away, not wanting Jared to notice.

She craned her neck to see if Montgomery had followed them. Surely he would not have abandoned her if he had known Jared planned to display her in a scold’s bridle. Somehow she had to send a missive to her sisters, tell them how horrid her new husband was.

Several of the town’s inhabitants had gathered outside the blacksmith’s shop. A woman being paraded about in a brank was high amusement. They were whispering and craning their necks to discover who it was. She searched the crowd, determined to find someone to come to her aid.

To the left she saw Anna, a woman whose husband she had charmed out of a few pence. Gold she had used to rescue Theresa, a young silver-haired girl of about sixteen summers.

The woman looked positively gleeful.

Gwyneth stood. She did not deserve this.

Jared gently pushed her back down with one hand on her shoulder.

The metal cage sank onto her head, pulling at her hair. The flat iron pieces—one in the back, one in the front, and one on each side—encircled her head.

“Nay!” she cried, unable to contain herself, and the metal tongue loop slid into her mouth and shut off her cry. The lock snapped behind her head with a resounding click. She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to run, wanting to fight, but knowing any physical effort would be futile.

Anna gave a little titter, reached forward boldly, and gave her hair a yank.

Gwyneth felt her brain go fuzzy; the edges of darkness crept into her vision. She sucked in a deep breath to keep from fainting. That would be the ultimate humiliation.

The blacksmith puffed out his chest. “See. Perfect fit.”

“Aaaah,” she mumbled, unable to say anything else.

Nay.

Nay.

Nay.

She glowered at Jared.

What beasts men were!

His gaze fought with hers. He was monstrous! Horrible! She would poison him!

“Stand up. ”

The crowd gathered closer. One man elbowed another next to him. “Now there’s a good ‘usband, I say. Must keep a woman under control.”

“Oh, she’ll fight him,” answered a peasant maid from the crowd. “Look at her eyes.”

“He’ll win, no doubt.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Gwyneth ground her teeth against the metal tongue depressor. Through the bars of the head cage she could see them all staring at her, condemning her.

Mortification heated her cheeks.

Jared hoisted her to her feet. He took hold of the leather leash attached to the brank and tugged her forward.

The crowd parted for Jared as he led her from the blacksmith’s shop. One woman boldly reached up and touched the metal cage as she passed.

“'Tis Gwyneth of Windrose!” she exclaimed.

Another woman gasped. “Gwyneth?”

“Aye!” echoed Anna. “About time that someone gagged the bitch.”

“She’s pretty but evil.”

“A hellion.”

Bitch? Evil? Hellion? Gwyneth longed to cover her ears so she would not have to listen to the calls and jeers and comments that were even more horrible than the cage on her head. She had married Jared so she could take care of unfortunate and mistreated women—women not unlike some of the ones here! Disgusting. All of them.

As they walked, she searched the crowd, looking for someone with kind eyes, someone with sympathy to her cause. If only she could start a rebellion, rally people to her cause.

“The woman is a witch, I tell you. Once she looked at me son and from that day on, he was no longer interested in other women. He even writes her poetry though she pays no attention to him at all.”

Glaring at the woman, Gwyneth lifted her chin. How dare they judge her! They knew naught of her life! A curse on them all!

Defiantly, she threw back her shoulders, even knowing the effect was ruined with her head in a cage and her tongue held down. She glanced frantically around the crowd to catch the eye of a man who would champion her.

She would not let them see her crushed. Somehow she would find a way out of this and come out better in the end.

Somehow.

She cast a dark glare at Jared. The man would rue the day he had treated her thus. Her mind worked furiously. She would transform herself, make herself the most congenial, fantastic wife he’d ever known. She had the skills to make him fall in love with her if she set her mind to it. Once she had accomplished that, she would leave him cold and heartbroken, have him tossed into prison to rot for the rest of his miserable life.

He would be sorry he ever dared to cross her.

The instant Gwyneth lifted her chin in haughty indignation, guilt blew through Jared like a fierce north wind.

He gritted his teeth. How could she make him feel guilty when he was the one who had been wronged! A scold’s bridle was a minimal, non-painful punishment and far lighter than she deserved.

But guilt swirled round and round inside him, intensifying with each droplet of sweat beading on her skin, each throbbing pulse of her heart in her neck. ‘Twas clear it was taking all her courage to keep from panicking, to keep from falling onto the ground crying. The experience for her was far, far worse than he had intended.

His fingers flexed and released as he fought the urge to take the damn thing off of her.

But if he took the cage off so soon, she would undoubtedly go back to her old ways of trying to find a man to fight for her—a lifetime of that would be intolerable.

Damn. This was supposed to have been a simple display to assure his position, get her to cease all attempts of encouraging men to champion her. He did not wish to do any damage to her womanly sensitivity.

“Can you see her?” a woman tittered.

“Always been a bitch.”

Pearls of perspiration trickled down her neck.

His fingers itched to wipe them away.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Conflicted about what to do, he held on to the leash that was attached to the scold’s bridle.

A short woman in a linen cap shuffled forward and craned her neck to see around two stocky men who had axes slung at their hips. “Let me see,” she snickered.

“Evil vixen.”

“Stole me son’s ‘eart.”

“Ruined my marriage.”

Forcing himself to ignore all thoughts of sympathy for his wife, Jared passed through the crowd. So many had gathered. So many who might know him. He tried to imitate the demeanor of a wronged nobleman. He could not afford for anyone to recognize him as Jared the monk or Jared the prisoner. Clearing his name was imperative.

A woman from the crowd tittered.

“She deserves it, she does!”

He glowered at her, disliking the way she thrilled in Gwyneth’s humiliation.

Gwyneth’s brows were furrowed, her shoulders rigid. She shuddered stiffly and he resisted the instinct to put his arm around her shoulders and protect her.

Protect her from what?

From himself?

Bloody hell.

The woman did not deserve protection. She’d tried to murder him. She’d stabbed him. She’d nearly gotten both of them killed.

If he showed weakness about his decision to force her past the crowd wearing the bridle, Gwyneth would see him as weak-willed. She’d use his compassion and twist it to her advantage. A man would step forward to champion her, endangering his life and hers, and dooming her champion to certain death.

The brawny man at the edge of the crowd fingered the hilt of his axe. Light glinted off the blade.

Taking the horse by the reins and his wife by the leash, Jared led them away from the gawkers. He would release her as soon as they were away from the crowd.

Two women laughed aloud, clearly delighted.

One man swayed forward as if to step in the path.

He gave the man a quelling glare before she could look at him with pleading eyes. God willing, the iron brank would teach his wife a sharp lesson so that she would no longer attempt to manipulate young men into rebelling against him. Then he would never have to do this again. Ever.

The walk was too slow. Exceedingly slow. But he could not quicken his pace for fear that she might trip. With every step, guilt hammered his heart.

At last they made it through the city’s gates. As soon as he could, Jared led her off the road into the trees and away from the snickers and whispers. Privacy at last.

“Sit,” he said, indicating a fallen log.

She obeyed, flouncing down atop it like a queen despite the cage on her head. Clearly she had regained her composure despite her near panic earlier. Amazing. Her regality was so much a part of her that even when she’d been soundly defeated her shoulders didn’t slump. Her bravery made him feel small. As if he was the one who had been vanquished.

He forced himself to take a breath and not rush to take off the scold’s bridle—he did not want her to know of the guilt he was furiously tamping down. If he was a smart man, he’d leave it on her all night. He could not afford to be weak now, not when gaining any measure of peace between them relied on establishing dominance.