Defiant (23 page)

His fingers closed around her wrist. “The truth, Gwyneth.”

She did not answer. Nor did she fight his hold. Her legs tensed.

“'Tis too late for leaving. You are my wife now.”

“But you do not really wish to be married.”

“Nevertheless. ‘Tis clear you are incapable of taking care of yourself.”

“Incapable!”

“Someone has to feed you and your people. You were nearly killed last night.”

“But I was not.”

“Because of me.”

She clamped her lips tightly, resenting that she owed him thanks.

“The keep also bears proof that you need a master.”

“I am not a slave!”

He waved his hand dismissively at her hot words. “Lord of the keep then.”

“You are a peasant, not a nobleman!”

He shrugged. “But a man. Not a woman.” The moonlight danced across his wide shoulders. “And you need a man to care for the lands.”

“Men are the reason the keep looks thus. ”

“I doubt that. ‘Tis your lands after all.""I have not been here!”

“Exactly.”

“Come back to bed.” He tugged her toward the mattress, forcing her to take a step.

She wiggled her fingers, trying to get away.

His fingers tightened, pressing against the pulse that was pounding at her wrist, and he gave a small tug toward the bed.

In her mind she felt herself being pulled over to the mattress. She remembered how he had pushed her down before.

Terror streaked through her, banding her chest in a tight squeeze.

The wrinkled linen sheet blurred before her eyes and in her mind she saw the cot in the chamber with its bloodstains. A battlefield. One where she was the vanquished.

She grimaced, anticipating the feel of his large hands scrunching up her dress, of the way he would grasp her beneath the stomach, force her knees—

“Nay!” Her foot connected with his shin and he gripped her all the tighter, squeezing her in a crushing grip.

He didn’t lift her skirts and for a moment she was confused.

She squirmed, frantic to get away.

“Be still, wench. ”

Something in his voice caused her to stop struggling. It was lower than it had been earlier, more dangerous.

Panting, she looked at him. They had not moved toward the bed at all, but were still in the midst of the chamber.

She blinked.

His hair that had been so silky and smooth earlier stuck out around his head as if rats had run through it. Likely her own matched it in form.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” His shoulders looked hard with tension, as if it was by sheer force of will that he didn’t rope her legs together and beat her senseless. “But I’m not going to let you go either. Submit to your new lot in life as my wife and ‘twill be easier for you. ”

Submit? The very word brought a lurch of anger into her chest. Never would she submit. She’d seen what submission brought to women. The stench of the prison came to mind. Submitting to a man could bring about the worst possible life.

“Relax, Gwyneth.” His hands on her shoulders were warm, comforting. The fingers made gentle little circles on her skin.

Unbidden, a tendril of heat formed low in her belly.

“You are safe here with me, Gwyneth.”

“Safe!” The word came out a half-choked cry. “You have taken my freedom from me. “ She glanced at the wrinkles marring her gown—it seemed that her entire life had been wadded up.

“Nay, wife, I have only taken my rightful place as your lord.”

“Rightful place! ‘Tis my castle, not yours.”

“You forced the marriage, not I. Let us talk about this, lady wife. Mayhap we can find some common ground betwixt us.” His arms closed around her Panic rose in her throat, but his arms were comforting, not harsh. His scent was that of musk and sandalwood. Interesting and masculine. If he was embarrassed about being naked, he did not show it.

Inwardly, she wanted to scream. She should not find him interesting! He was annoying. Frustrating.

“You are frightened.” He leaned down, further invading her space, and brushed a gentle kiss against her neck.

A kiss!

She shivered, pulled back, not wanting to respond, but the heat that had formed in her belly flamed higher. As if her body had a mind that was not hers at all.

She whimpered, caught between wanting to press forward into his heat and wanting to run from the room.

“Shhh,” he whispered soothingly. His calm, controlled demeanor gave her confidence that whatever he had in mind, it would not be a repeat of their horrendous wedding night.

Gently, he reached down. His hand slid down her leg to beneath her knees. As if she weighed no more than one of her embroidery hoops, he picked her up and carried her to the bed.

She stiffened, her body as unyielding as a rock.

Moonlight set the plane of his face in patterns of shadow and light. Interest mixed with concern shone in his green eyes.

One hair on his goatee was ruffled and she resisted the urge to smooth it down and put it back in place.

The mattress sank beneath her body and the bedropes creaked as they sat on the bed. Maneuvering her as he willed, he turned her until her back faced him.

Gently, his hand buried in her hair.

“Wha—”

“Shhh,” he admonished. “When we returned last night you fell asleep in yonder chair by the hearth and I carried you to bed. Your hair looks a fright and still has leaves in it.”

Her hair? He was concerned about how her
hair
looked?

“Let me …” Gently he pulled out a few twigs and started his hand through her hair. His fingers caught in a tangle.

She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting his large male hands to pull her hair in a smarting sting or pull out a knife and hack out the knot. Instead, he stopped, held the strand of hair carefully, and unwound the delicate strands one by one.

Her mouth felt dry. Too dry. For an instant she understood why Aeliana trusted him, why he was different than other hawkers. Despite all that had occurred between them, there was a deep kindness in him. He had fed her people, been kind to a tired horse, carried her to bed, saved her life …

A curl of panic swelled in her belly. Trusting a man was dangerous. She glanced at the latch on the oaken door.

“Shh,” he soothed. “There has been enough strife between us. Perhaps we could have a new beginning.”

The mattress wiggled as she twisted on the bed so that she could look directly at him. His bare torso—wide and muscled—came into view. “I do not want a beginning, but to end this relationship!”

“In time you will come to trust me and enjoy my ownership of you.”

“Ownership! “ she cried, outraged, and glared at him.

His green eyes sparkled and he grinned.

“You are teasing me,” she accused.

Winking at her, he kissed her knuckles.

Before she could stop herself, she snatched one of the pillows and smacked him across the chest with it. Feathers flew.

A deep line formed on his forehead and his eyes widened.

Oh, sweet Mother Mary! She tensed her legs, intending to jump from the bed and run to the door.

Then he laughed. A rich, dark sound that filled the chamber. It was the most musical sound she’d ever heard. Such a far cry from the serious, brooding man she knew he was.

Startled, she hit him again. Feathers flew around the chamber.

He laughed harder and wiggled his brows up and down. “Peace, girl. I surrender! No need to attack me with pillows.”

A giggle of laughter rose in her throat. She clamped her lips tightly closed against it. He was the enemy, not someone to share a moment of joviality with.

Taking her by the shoulders, he slowly guided her body back around so that her back was to him. “Now be still and I will dress your hair.”

Dress her hair?

Shoulders stiff, chin lifted, she remained perfectly still, silently vowing to herself that she would not be seduced by his laughter, not by his gentleness. She knew how strong he was, how dominant, how much he intended to control her and her lands. She would not be taken in as Irma had been by his façade.

For long, slow moments, neither of them spoke. But in her mind she could still hear his laughter echoing around the chamber. The sound was so dark, so rich, so intoxicating that a girl could get lost in it. Lose all sense of responsibility. Resisting the urge to cover her ears with her hands, she gripped the linen bedsheet and twisted it back and forth.

His fingers twined in and out through her hair.

She took a deep breath and forced her eyes to remain straight ahead on the swinging bed curtain in front of her. It only brought her more into awareness of the sensation of his hands against her scalp. He touched her hair with the care of handling fine silk. Many maids had dressed and combed her hair, but none had ever done so with the reverence and concern he had. Not once did he pull her scalp or snap a strand.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the thick muscles of his naked thigh. A whiff of soap—lavender scented—touched her nostrils. He must have used it when he had bathed himself. The soft floral scent contrasted with his hard masculinity.

A quiver went through her body as she felt herself sinking down into his enchanting ministrations. The chamber around them, all the issues between them seemed to fade until she could see and hear and smell and sense only Jared.

One strand at a time, he untangled the mass, then took a comb and ran it down the length as if he were handling the king’s treasure. With deft fingers, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he divided it into three sections and braided down the length.

She closed her eyes, wishing somehow she could block him out, but the sensations only intensified.

This was all wrong.

This was all right.

Long rays of morning light streamed across the dusty chamber. Gwyneth squinted at Jared’s long body stretched across the bed. He had combed and braided her hair last night! He had
only
combed and braided her hair last night. Of all the vexing things.

His eyes opened and locked with hers.

Disconcerted, she blinked, unsure what to say. The future was never safe for women, but it seemed more dangerous than ever now.

“Get dressed,” he said without preamble. “We go hunting.”

“We just went hunting yestereve.”

“'Tis something to be done daily.”

Surely he wasn’t expecting her to go tramping through the woods with him and the bird every single day. “There is no reason for me to go with you. ”

Jared swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leisurely made his way across the chamber. “Ha. You will remain by my side.”

“But I need to see to the kitchens, the larders, the repairs, and the castle’s accounting.”

“Do not play coy with me, Gwyneth. If I leave you here, you will gather every able-bodied male you can gather, form a rebellion, and I’ll never get any peace.”

“I will no—”

“You will.” He stooped beside a trunk beneath one of the windows, opened it, and rooted around inside.

Gwyneth cringed, feeling invaded, the same as she had last night when his hands had intimately touched her hair and scalp.

He lifted a worn kirtle from the trunk and tossed it onto the bed beside her. “You will have no more need for fancy houppelandes. Put this on.”

So, already back to ordering her around. She tapped her fingers on the bedsheet.

Likely politeness and charm would gain her more ground than sourness until she was able to reach Irma and her sisters. If she could soften him, then she would at least be able to move about the castle unhindered.

She painted a smile on her face. “Yes, my lord.”

He looked at her as if he could see right through her pretense.

Quickly, she quit the bed and yanked on a plain homespun kirtle without complaint. “Ready, my lord.”

He quirked a brow.

She smiled her best smile and fluffed her hair. Since she was stuck with him for the time being, today she would convince him that she needed to take her rightful place as lady of the keep.

She would charm him into trusting her. With luck, she would be able to leave the keep freely at night within the week so that she could get to Irma. She busied herself with her morning routine of washing her face and combing her hair.

He sat on one of the chairs by the hearth and pulled on his boots. For a moment, she could not stop staring at his lips and thinking of the way he had kissed her neck last night. They had been generous and soft against her neck, she had not fought him, and she wondered why he had not required anything more of her.

Instead he had braided her hair.

She looked at him carefully, her mind ticking with ideas about the best way to go about winning him over to trusting her.

He latched the boots’ buckles and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee.

She would seduce him. Make him believe she was the most congenial, interesting, wifeliest of women. Then she could go about her duties unhindered and not have to clomp about the woods pinned to his side.

She ran her hand over her braid, feeling the even plaits that he had made. “Nearly ready, my lord.”

He gave her a quick nod of approval and set both feet on the ground. One victory.

Tilting her head to the side, she peered into the looking glass. The kirtle, homespun and brown, was shapeless and unattractive. It did not show her curves the way her fancy gowns did at all. She considered this for a moment.

‘Twas freeing to not be wearing a fancy houppelande—to not have her breasts hanging out or her lacing so tight that she could not breathe. But, on the other hand, it would be more difficult to win Jared’s affection and trust dressed so plainly.

It felt odd to not have the book tucked into her bosom, but it made no sense for her to miss it.

Aeliana ruffled as Jared approached her and turned her yellow eyes on both of them.

Gwyneth smoothed down her skirts. She needed to know more about the hawk so that the bird would not alert Jared when she left the chamber at night.

Satisfied that she could make some progress this day, she smiled at her husband.