Defiant (19 page)

His hope of them building a life together lay in her understanding that he would tolerate no more insolence. Once that was established, he could allow her more freedom.

Slowly, he traced his finger around the collar of the brank. A slight redness marred her skin, but there were no cuts or indentures. She would have no marks or bruises. Good.

He had so many questions about her. Why had she been at the brothel? How had she met Irma? Why had she forced the marriage? Such a gulf between them. Circling her with measured steps, he contemplated exactly where to start with his questions, where to start with her training. Like a hawk, she needed to understand that life would be better with him than without.

“It will do you no good to scream or run. There is no one here. Do you understand?”

The pulse at her throat pounded in hard, quick bursts as he reached behind her, making him want to gather her in his arms and soothe away her fears and worries.

She stared past him into the trees, and he wondered if she was trying not to quiver or if she was searching for someone to help her.

“I will unlock the brank on the condition that you answer all my questions.”

Slowly, she nodded, but her eyes gleamed with indignation.

Good. He wanted to tame her, not break her spirit.

Watching her closely to verify that she did not intend to leap from the log and run into the forest, he reached behind her neck to unlock the brank. The metal slid against her hair. Strands of her long, shiny locks were caught in two of the rivets. He stopped and carefully unwound them so that they would not pull against her scalp, then he dropped the apparatus into her lap.

Judging from the reactions she had just shown, fear would be a better deterrent than any actual force against her.

She rubbed her face and worked her jaw back and forth but said naught. Her shoulders were square, her chin lifted. Her hammering pulse and fidgety fingers belied her bravado.

The sunlight filtering through the canopy caught her hair, making it shimmer. Glorious. Despite it all, she was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. Her alabaster skin, clear blue eyes, and striking features were like those of an angel. Feylike and ethereal. Her hair cascaded from her scalp to her hips as if it were a waterfall made of a mixture of sunshine and moonlight. A man could drown there.

“Tempting other men to challenge my authority was foolish,” he said, trailing a finger along the edge of her neck to press on the beating artery.

“I—”

“You will not speak without permission.” He made his tone sharp, harsh. It would likely do him a world of good to never allow her to speak again, but he was too curious to give such an order. “Because you used your voice to tempt a man to challenge me, you will be required to remain silent save to answer my questions. Consider it part of your new duty.”

Her fingers tightened into fists, evidence that she was bursting to speak, to rant at him.

“If you find this too difficult on your own …” He picked the scold’s bridle from off of her lap, and twirled it in his hands as if to refasten it on her head.

Alarm replaced anger in her eyes.

He hated this. But he had no choice but to establish the line of authority between them.

She glared at him but snapped her mouth closed.

Good. He noticed her knuckles were white. Fright? Outrage?

Likely both.

“Look at me.”

Her eyes flicked to his. The blue had darkened to the color of storm clouds, and her jaw hardened. The moments stretched as he waited to test her, to see what her reaction would be to his instructions that she remain silent.

She opened her mouth as if to speak.

He quirked a brow.

Slowly this time, she closed her lips; whatever words she intended remained unspoken.

“Very good.”

Her eyes flashed with haughty resentment. That she was not defeated and had regained some of her arrogance inexplicably pleased him.

She lowered her eyes and chin before looking back up at him, a gesture of salute that she had given over to his authority. He wondered what that mild act must have cost her. He knew the action was merely a ploy; she did not feel subdued at all and would soon be up to her old ways of manipulation and charm, but at least she was a decent actress.

“Very, very good.” He ran his hand around her ear and across her cheek. She flinched but did not resist his touch.

“Why were you at the brothel?”

She stared at the ground.

Holding the metal cage with one hand and taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger with the other, he tilted her face up to his.

“I did not give you permission to take your gaze off of me,” he said evenly.

Anger flashed in the blue depths of her eyes. Good. Anger he could deal with.

She licked her lips, her little pink tongue darting out against the luscious pad of her lower lip.

Unbidden, his groin tightened. He released her chin quickly. He did not want to feel any emotion for her at all except that of victory. Not guilt and certainly not lust. Guilt made commanders weak and sexual relationships complicated matters.

He had no choice but to act with levelheaded mastery. She was a hawk to train.

Gwyneth glared at the man in front of her, resisting the urge to leap from the log and yank patches of hair from his goatee. Pain shot through her palms as her fingernails dug into her flesh. Her emotions mixed together in a slurry of outrage, indignation, and fear.

The comments of those who had gathered to watch her humiliation jumbled one after the other in her brain.

Useless bitch.

Horrible woman.

Evil vixen.

They aren’t true, they aren’t true,
she tried to soothe herself, but in her mind, she was fifteen again and running from the snide girls at the feast.
You are smart, brave, useful, a grand lady, your mother would be proud,
she told herself, using the words that Irma had told her hundreds of times, but she wanted to crawl under the log rather than sit upon it. Crawl beneath it and curl into a ball and hide her face from the world.

“I was at the brothel because I went to visit my friend Irma,” she said simply. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded defeated. Dulled.

She smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt and flitted her hand through her hair, trying to find some sense of normality, some part of herself that was still Gwyneth of Windrose, the prized beauty of the land, the girl who stared men down at prisons, charmed people into doing her bidding, and felt no fear, the persona that she and Irma had so carefully constructed.

She tried to think of something intellectual to say that would lay a foundation for Jared to be ensnared in her web, but the jeers of the crowd had ripped away her façade and she felt shaken and vulnerable.

“How is it that you and Irma became friends?”

Those women depend on you, luv, she heard Irma say. No feeling sorry for yourself. Chin up.

No feeling sorry for yourself.

No feeling sorry for yourself.

“I know our friendship is unusual,” she hedged.

Jared tucked a thumb into his belt. “Quite.”

A throbbing headache pounded in her temples and exhaustion numbed her limbs. Life had become so complicated. She could not run, she could not fight. Since Montgomery had blessed the marriage and Jared had caused such a display in front of the townsfolk, an annulment was impossible.

In her mind, she could see Elizabeth’s form slumped against the dirty prison wall. Her eyes, a dark mossy green, always looked so mournful and hollow.

Gwyneth clutched her chest. As troublesome as it was to admit, her extraordinary looks and position as heiress set her apart—made her uniquely suited for her purpose. She would not abandon what she had started. She alone had been able to do what Irma and the other wenches at the whorehouse had been unable to accomplish.

She
would
find a solution—find some way to manipulate Jared into behaving according to her wishes. Perhaps if she could comb her hair and change her clothing she would feel stronger, less self-conscious.

“Tell me,” Jared pressed. His midnight hair fell across his forehead and his tall body loomed over her. “Clearly your family did not know of the friendship. ”

She shivered at the dark tone in his voice.

He had small wrinkles around his eyes as if at one point he had lived a life of joy but all such thought of such was gone now. He was simply dark, mysterious.

Think, girl, think.

Chin up. No feeling sorry for yourself.

If he learned of how she went weekly to the brothel, how she bribed the guards at the prison, or how she had murdered a man, he would do more than lead her through the town wearing a scold’s bridle.

He could have her thrown into prison or tried as a witch or cast into an asylum. His winged brows took on a demonic tilt and she could imagine metal prods of the brank pushing into her mouth, holding down her tongue as he carted her off to jail. Sweat trickled from her brow.

“Why did you not become a monk?” she asked, wanting to change the subject.

His shoulders tensed. “God had other plans. Why are you friends with Irma?”

She scrutinized his face, trying to discern the best way to appease his questions.

Why, why, why had she ever believed Irma knew anything about men? She would never trust her friend’s judgment again.

“What do you plan to do with me?”

“I suppose that depends on you,” he said mildly. Reaching upward, he snapped a twig off a low-hanging branch.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you will cease running from me, stop changing the subject, and answer my questions.” “Right.”

Never in her life had a man had so much power over her. Usually men fell worshipfully at her feet. Jared seemed to analyze her every move. Of all the things she had ever imagined, this marriage was the worst possible nightmare.

No feeling sorry for yourself, no feeling sorry for yourself,
she chanted silently. What was done was done. She would work with the present rather than the past. She would find a way to control him.

“As you wish, my lord,” she said steadily, taking a breath.

In the brothel, she had been able to talk him into drinking drugged ale. She saw the looks he gave her. He was not immune to her, and she could use that to her advantage. If only she had a haircomb and could put herself in order!

“Your respect is welcomed, but I do not like repeating my questions.” Jared’s mustache emphasized his frown. He rubbed his hands on his breeks in a slow motion, as if he were trying to do something, anything to hang onto his patience.

The question? The man vexed her! Gwyneth’s mind raced in a tumble of words and events and images as she tried to figure out what he had asked her last—the last thing she wanted was to further incite his fury. First he had asked why she was in the brothel, then—

“I met Irma when I was a girl,” she said, suddenly remembering what they had been discussing. “We have been friends ever since.” She would give him as much information as she could without telling about the murder.

“How does a whore become friends with the noble Gwyneth of Windrose, who is also known as the beauty of the land, the maid with the glittering hair?”

Squirming under his disapproving gaze, she soothed her hair self-consciously, wishing she could hide it under a wimple.

He was the image of austere masculine beauty—angular features and wide shoulders. In contrast with her tangled hair, his straight, dark locks were smooth and unruffled. He wore a black tunic of homespun fabric and plain brown leather boots. His clothing was common, but the man was not. His countenance bespoke intellect and contained power—a man very different from the ones who fell mindlessly at her feet.

Perhaps if she could bathe, untangle her hair, change her garments, and get some sleep she could find some of her confidence again.

“I met Irma while I was out walking one day.” She lowered her voice, adopted a low, husky tone.

Jared worked his jaw back and forth. He watched her so keenly she thought her skin might burn under his gaze.

“You are hiding something.”

She ran her hand through her hair again. “Of course I am not. ”

If only she could rise, walk about. What was it about this man that made her feel so on edge—as if her skin wasn’t quite large enough for her body and she could hide nothing from him?

“You are. Tell me.”

The murder she had committed flooded into her mind in a rush. Desperately, she tried to push the memory aside afore the guilt and horror of the act was written on her face. But the earthy scent of the forest, the copper stench of blood, and the freshness of the river were as clear to her senses as if she were back in the forest near her home and holding a limb to bash in a man’s head. In her mind, she could see her victim swirling down into the depths of the water.

Her fingers curled around the brank’s bars, her knuckles turning white. The cage was heavy in her lap and the metal dented the fabric of her gown. Surely it was better to wear it than to tell the story of murdering a man.

“I, uh, need privacy,” she said.

Strong male hands landed on the log with a loud whomp.

She jumped. Puffs of dust sprang into the air. Terror streaked through her.

Jared lowered his face until their noses nearly touched.

That she had ever thought him capable of any tenderness seemed foolish now. The brank pressed between them, hard and heavy against her lap.

“Do not toy with me, Gwyneth.”

Her bladder cramped.

“I-I-I wasn’t.” At least not anymore. She really did need to make water now.

“Do. Not. Test. My. Patience. Wife.” Every word was punctuated as if it were a declaration all to itself. Worse, he spoke softly, which made his polite, clipped tone even more intense. Her father shouted and ranted, but this man had no need to do such.

Heart pounding, she stared at him, at his passionate green eyes, and waited for him to strike her across the face with one of his huge paws.

She wouldn’t plead, she wouldn’t beg.