Maiden Bride. Deborah Simmons

upon a soft fur on the great bed.

      “By all the saints, ‘tis no wonder you cannot breathe in this gown,” he snapped, and, turning her, he began to loosen the ties. Gillian felt his hand, warm even through her shift as he rubbed his palm across her back, and despite all his warnings and her own wariness, it was not unpleasant.

      Although his was not the gentlest of touches, neither was it threatening, and Gillian felt her terror ease at the rhythmic pressure. Indeed, to her surprise, she found the sound of his breathing, low and quick, and the sensation of his heavy hand against her, oddly soothing—until his callused fingers slid onto the bare skin above her shift.

      Abruptly her comfort fled, for his fingertips seemed to sear her flesh with their heat and incite in her an unwelcome excitement. Starting, she gasped again, and he moved away, muttering imprecations.

      When he returned, he pressed a cup of ale upon her, apparently from a flask he kept in the chamber. “Here, sit up and drink,” he said. Although gruff, his voice seemed different to her ears, as if stripped of its usual cool distance. Though conscious of her gown gaping behind her, Gillian let him help her up against the pillows and took a sip.

      “Are you all right?” he asked. Gillian nodded, acutely aware of how close he sat beside her, warm and solid and no longer fearsome. “Are you prone to these fits?” he asked, his tone harsher.

      “No,” Gillian answered softly. “Only when I am… Only rarely,” she said, catching herself just in time. She would not let him know how well he had terrorized her—or did he gloat in triumph already? Gillian stiffened and glanced up at him, but he avoided her gaze, surging to his feet, with his back toward her.

      “Good! Then I shall expect never to see you possessed by such demons again,” he snapped. As Gillian watched, he leaned forward and pressed a hand against his stomach before straightening swiftly to his full, impressive height. The movement was so subtle that she would not have noticed, had she not been eying him so closely. Did her invincible husband suffer some ailment?

      Gillian’s concern fled when he whirled back toward her, his handsome face once more composed and cruel. “Rest yourself,” he advised coldly, “for I will not have you die on me, as your traitorous uncle did. I will have my revenge!”

      He stalked to the door and slammed it behind him, the loud bang of the wood echoing into silence, and Gillian was aware of a sharp pain in her chest that had nothing to do with her loss of breath.

      Slowly she set the cup down upon a coffer and climbed from the bed. Easing the rest of the way from her outer garment, she folded it neatly and set it aside. Then she settled onto her pallet, still clad in her shift, and pulled a fur over herself. Accustomed to sleeping with a roomful of other women, Gillian found the quiet of the empty chamber strange.

      The fire glittered nearby, making Gillian realize that this nest was far softer and warmer than her cot at the convent had ever been. And she would not have to rise again at midnight to kneel upon cold stone for lengthy prayers.

      But Belvry held dangers that the nunnery did not. Perhaps this evening her husband would leave her alone and she might snatch some badly needed sleep, yet she could not count upon this respite. There were many long nights ahead, and Gilhan knew the mysterious Syrian would no longer whisper to her of safety.

      Suddenly, Gillian recalled the brush of warm fingers across her back, rhythmic and comforting and something more. An odd sensation that she had never known before had taken hold of her…