Defiant (8 page)

“Why not?”

“It just… it just isn’t done.”

“Well, not yet. But we give ‘im a pitcher with herbs then we can just walk ‘im out of ‘ere nice an’ easy. ‘e ain’t got no friends, leastwise, I ain’t never seen ‘im with any, so it’s no’ like ‘e’ll go a-missin'. We’ll take ‘im to the church on the other side of the bridge and ‘e’ll be as docile as a lamb, happy to wed you and do your bidding for the rest o’ your life.”

Gwyneth lifted her hand to chew on one of her fingernails, then put her hand back down on the table. She’d been broken of that particular habit years ago—had been made to scrub the walls until her fingers bled as punishment—and had no intention of going back to it again.

“Do you really think he might?”

“O’ course, luv! Wot could be easier?”

Gwyneth looked from the man to Irma and back again. “He’s awfully large.”

“e’s lame! ‘is legs are all scarred up like Satan got ahold of ‘em.”

Without waiting for further comment, Irma stood. Her curly hair fanned around her face. “Come with me,” she instructed. She strong-armed Gwyneth to her feet and forced her toward the back of the brothel where the kitchens and pantries were.

They passed the man in question and she could practically feel him watching her. She spared a glance at him, this time able to see farther into the shadow beneath his cowl.

His eyes were darker than anything she’d ever seen before. Darker than midnight.

Instinctively, she drew her hood farther over her face, hoping he had not caught a glimpse of her hair. Too many troubadours sang about that particular feature of hers and ‘twas best to keep it covered or she’d be recognized for certes.

Once they were in the kitchens, Irma busied herself gathering dried herbs and dumping them into freshly poured ale.

Kiera ran up to her mother, hugged her legs, then turned to Gwyneth. “Lady Gwyn.”

Gwyneth picked her up. The scent of the brothel, of ale and sweat and fornication, permeated the child’s smock even though Irma kept her sheltered here in the back room as best she could. Gwyneth’s heart squeezed. It wasn’t right for children to grow up in brothels.

“Here,” Irma said, taking Kiera and handing the tankard to Gwyneth. “Take this to ‘is table and give ‘im a smile. ‘e’ll be grogged up afore you know it.”

“I cannot do that! “ Gwyneth said, but she was looking into Kiera’s large brown eyes, as innocent as a doe’s.

The dower lands could provide shelter for this child and many others. Like the dark-haired one who never spoke.

“Sure you can. Easy as pie. Then you’ll marry ‘im and your worries will be done with.”

Her fingers whitened on the ale. Was it possible?

“Go on!” urged Irma. “You’ll be getting married one way or another; might as well be to a man of your own choosing.”

A shot of boldness coursed through Gwyneth. Why should she not choose a man of her own? Make her own way in life? Not be so bound by duty and honor? Have a sanctuary for women.

Her sister and brother-in-law would be furious.

That thought made her take a step forward. What fun to see Brenna’s face, to tell her she had taken care of the situation herself. It would serve Montgomery right to have to make excuses to the man he had arranged for her to marry. Likely it would even cost him to get out of the betrothal. Too damn bad.

“Out with you, then.” Irma opened the door that led back into the main room of the brothel.

“Why me? Why can’t
you
take him the herbed ale?”

“Because you’re the one going to marry ‘im. Might as well get a good look at ‘im up close.”

Gwyneth considered for a moment. “I need a disguise.”

“Fine.”

Moments later, Gwyneth wore a low-cut bright red dress, had her hair tucked under a red feathered headdress, and wore a cowl. Irma smeared white powder on her face while one of the other women painted her eyes with kohl. A patch was applied to her cheek along with two red spots of rouge.

Irma clucked her tongue. “Just right. You look stunning and not at all like the fresh-scrubbed lady you were when you came in. No’ a customer in the place will recognize you.”

Gathering her courage, Gwyneth rose and tried to imitate the way Irma walked. With measured steps, she sauntered, hips swaying, out the brothel’s kitchen doors and over to Jared’s table. How hard could this be? Go to the table, set the ale in front of him, then flee back to the kitchen to wait until he drank it. She was used to charming men into doing her bidding—not dressed as a harlot, but surely it would not be so difficult.

His head raised and he looked sharply at her. His eyes looked familiar, but she could not place his face. She filed quickly through her memories. He was not a nobleman, of this she was certain. Likely someone she had seen on one of her trips into the town.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Her legs turned to water, but she forced a smile.
Your bride.
“I’m new.”

His dark brows drew together and he touched a finger to his goatee. “I’ve been waiting for Irma. Where is she?”

Irma? He was asking for Irma?

“I thought you might like a tankard of ale.” She made her voice sound flirtatious, slightly shy, just as Irma taught her.

He didn’t reach for the cup. “I just want Irma and a bath.”

Perhaps she should take the ale back to the kitchen. Nay, that would make her look dim-witted. She set the tankard on the table in front of him.

“Irma’s coming,” she assured him, changing her tactic slightly. “She was the one who wanted me to bring this to you because of the delay in her coming to you.” There. That should set his mind at ease. “There is no charge for this tankard tonight. ”

His gaze flitted from her eyes to the patch on her cheek to her hood and back again. “Do I know you?”

Panic shot through her. If he had seen her before, recognized her, she could be ruined. “Of course not. I have just arrived.” Too late, she realized that she’d let aristocratic haughtiness creep into her voice.

She turned her face away, thinking to head back into the kitchen.

He reached up as if to flip her hood down.

She gasped, jumping back and barely checking the urge to slap him for his impertinence. How dare he! But of course he would dare. He thought she was a harlot.

“I like to see who is serving me.”

“It is unnecessary to remove my cowl.” Gwyneth drew her hood even farther over her head.

He stared at her suspiciously. “Are you truly a whore? The way you speak …”

Fluttering nerves clustered in Gwyneth’s stomach. Surely if he knew who she was, he would have said something by now. She licked her lips, determined to bravado through their encounter.

His eyes went wide at her motion. They were not black at all, she realized. Green. Moss green. An interesting green. The familiar male reaction brought her a measure of satisfaction, and she felt her confidence grow.

“I’ll jes take this one,” she said boldly, plucking the mostly empty tankard from his grip, “and go see about Irma.” Careful to keep her hair covered, she let her cape slide open at the neck and stuck out her bosom in the manner she’d seen other girls do.

He released the tankard easily and relief poured through her.

Victory.

With what she hoped was a disarming look, she turned, gazed at him over her shoulder, and sauntered back toward Irma, who was standing, holding Kiera, and waiting for her near the door of the back room, only slightly out of sight.

He lifted the herb-laced tankard.

“Perfect,” Irma cooed when Gwyneth reached her. “Give ‘im some time and ‘e’ll be passed out cold.”

Sheer giddiness settled on Gwyneth. Even with all her ploys at the jail, she had never done something so utterly shameful or bold. A lofty sense of female power flowed through her.

The abbess walked by and gave them both a good hard glare. Gwyneth pulled her hood back up so that her face was again in shadows and mulled over the possibility of marriage to a man she could control. She would be mistress of her own properties. She would have a place to take Kiera and Irma and Elizabeth and others as well. She would have gold of her own. She would have freedom.

At long last, the man’s head began to droop.

Irma scrambled to her feet, pulling Gwyneth from her thoughts. She sent Kiera over to play in a corner with two other children.

The abbess looked in his direction, a severe frown on her pinched face. Men were not allowed to sleep here; it was against brothel rules, bad for business.

They rounded on Jared, who let out a loud sigh.

“You’ll ‘ave to go,” Irma coaxed him, “on yer feet.” She swung her arm around his shoulders and tried to lift him.

He didn’t budge.

With her eyes, Irma guided Gwyneth to take the other side of his large body.

Nervously, Gwyneth wrapped her arm around his waist and they lifted. The movement felt vaguely reminiscent of the last man they had carried together.

Jared was heavy, and her shoulders sagged under his weight. He smelled faintly of leather and the outdoors, an altogether masculine scent, one she was totally unused to. It was almost heady.

She shook off the silly thought. She did not wish to be attracted to him. Their relationship would be a business transaction—like buying a loaf of bread. Or a meat pie. She would marry him, give him a bit of gold, and send him on his way.

He lurched, his legs shaky with drug. “Huh? Oh. I dishn’t mean to shrinks show—”

“Just come on, dearie. We’ll show you to a nice bed to sleep it off, we will,” Irma said, tugging him farther upright.

They dragged him, stumbling, through the kitchen. He kept moving one foot in front of the other in an artless stupor, half in, half out of slumber. He muttered unintelligible words. At last they got him, swaying this way and that as he went, to the back door.

Freedom was just one husband away.

A pox on women!

Jared St. John, bound and gagged, knelt on the hard stone floor of a small church not far from the brothel and vowed that when he got free, the whore holding a dagger to his back would get her comeuppance.

He’d see her begging for a mercy that would not be forthcoming.

He’d have her thrown into prison.

He’d have her tried as a witch and burned at the stake.

“Move forward,” she demanded. “Toward the altar. It’s only a little farther.”

His pride, a fierce barbarian that hammered war drums in his chest, yowled in outrage as the point of her dagger pricked him betwixt his shoulder blades and prompted him to shuffle in the direction she wished. The small pinprick of pain, intensified by the spinning of his head, nearly sent him toppling to the floor.

She’d tricked him.

She’d drugged him.

She’d kidnapped him.

Not alone, but with the help of that fuzzy-headed Irma to whom he’d been kind for weeks—overpaying her for naught more than bathing and gossiping.

“You are too large to carry,” Irma explained in that raspy voice Jared had come to associate with her quick and gentle hands whilst she washed him each week at the brothel. “Move forward, ah say, so we can close the doors. The ceremony will be over soon, and you can be on yer way.”

There will be no ceremony,
he wanted to shout. Saliva oozed around the gag and leaked off his chin.

His vision swam, and the woman—the one holding the dagger to his back—kept going in and out of focus. She seemed more well kept than the other harlots—downright attractive, to tell the truth.

He tried to make out her features, but his vision bounced and blurred, disallowing him to discern her features.

His hatred burned hotter, coming up in his throat. He would have spit on her if his mouth had not been stuffed with wool.

The spinning in his head made it difficult to remain upright, and he had to concentrate to keep from falling over.

The doors slammed behind him, an ominous sound in the midst of the church. His bound arms burned and he strained against the ropes until they cut into his wrists.

Forcing a breath in through his nostrils, he blinked to keep himself upright. What had they drugged him with? His tongue felt thick and heavy as he pushed it against the woolen gag stuffed inside his mouth.

“Who are you?” he mumbled, but his question sounded like garbled muck, unintelligible.

The comely one looked nervously at her companion. “Irma, this is—”

Irma shrugged. “Right. So ‘e’s not so docile as I expected. We’ll jes finish the marriage and get you both free. ‘e’ll be all right then after we explains t’all. ‘e’s ‘armless, ah tell you.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Oh, jes ‘urry up and marry ‘im. See ‘ere, Brother Giffard is ready. ‘es even got a Bible, ‘e does.”

Raising his head, Jared stared at the tall, loose-limbed man clothed in a monk’s brown robe. He stood barefoot by the altar, a few yards in front of Jared. He had hideously furry feet, tonsured hair, and brows that pulled in tight between his eyes so that long lines ran up his forehead.

“Mayhap we should not—” the monk started, but Irma cut him off with a snap of her fingers.

The dagger eased from Jared’s back, and the pretty whore pointed it at the monk. Her arm was as straight and stable as royalty pronouncing judgment on a traitor. Haughty and imperious. “Begin.”

Damn princess. Her dress was whore red, but of all things he was sure she was not some common harlot. But who?

It did not matter. Whoever she was, he’d take pleasure in ripping her pride from her, hold her down and force her to eat like a cur off the floor. He pumped his hands to stave off the numbness that crept into his fingers; he needed presence of body as well as mind to get free from the shrew’s clutches.

The monk cleared his throat. “This is not quite orthodo—”

“Do it now, Giffard. I have no patience tonight,” Princess Harlot said. “For certes, you can smooth over any issues we might have with the church. You know the bishop.”

“But I’m unsure if this is legal—”

Irma stepped forward and whispered something in his ear. A blush crept from the neckline of his robe and trailed up his cheeks until even his earlobes glowed bright red.