Lord Of Danger by Stuart, Anne (free ebook reader for android txt) 📗

a choice—Richard would do with her as he wished, dispose of her as it pleased him. Whether she refused or accepted, it had all been preordained.

Simon stood a little apart from the others, tall, aloof, even forbidding, his right hand hidden beneath the folds of his black robe, his face expressionless, his mouth unsmiling. His mouth, that had kissed her and taunted her. His mouth.

“I will marry Simon of Navarre,” she said in a clear calm voice belied by the tremor in her hands.

Simon looked neither gratified nor disappointed. He merely nodded, his golden eyes cool and distant. “Let it be done, then,” he said. And coming up to her, he took her icy cold hand in his left one, taking her away from Richard’s possessive grasp.

What am I doing? she thought in sudden panic. Why in heaven’s name did I agree? Torture, Hedwiga said. Blood, pain and despair at the hands of a monster…

He pressed her hand, tearing her attention away from her panicked thoughts, and she looked up at him in swift surprise. His hand was warm, strong, holding hers, and there was an odd expression in his face. One might almost have thought it was reassurance, except that Simon of Navarre wouldn’t care if she were frightened.

“Brother Jerome,” Richard said, his voice rich with satisfaction, “marry them.”

And the words were like a death knell.

Chapter Seventeen

She sat by his side, small and still and frozen. His little bride, a virgin sacrifice to the monster Grendel, eating little of her wedding banquet, drinking less as she awaited her doom. It should have amused him, but Simon wasn’t in the mood to be amused.

The rest of the castle seemed inclined to celebrate the wedding despite the fate of the innocent bride. Richard was roaring drunk, grasping at every female within reach; both his sisters were kept well out of his way. The only person who looked more miserable than the bride was her younger sister, who watched the proceedings with real fear in her admittedly beautiful green eyes. Sir Thomas stood behind her, a glowering protector, and not even Richard dared approach. At least Lady Alys could be assured her sister was safe as she faced her own ruination. A virgin sacrifice indeed.

He hadn’t been surprised when the summons had come. He knew Richard too well, had played chess with him too many times not to know when Richard would decide to use his bishop. He was fully prepared to be wed to the quiet little woman by his side, and she had accepted him, when he had done his best to make it clear there was no need.

Of course, Lady Alys was wise enough to know that all the promises in the world were no protection against fate. She’d barely met his eyes, though she’d let her hand rest in his without pulling away. He wondered how badly he’d wounded her the previous night. Quite badly indeed probably. He wondered if she had some stray notion of punishing him.

It would take more than a woman’s tears and displeasure to punish Simon of Navarre. And the soft, sweet little wren that he’d married was singularly unversed in feminine wiles. She would be no match for him if it came to a battle.

They shared a trencher, but she made no move to offer him some of the choicest bits of food, nor did she eat much herself. And he watched her, like a peregrine falcon eyeing a tender white rabbit, wondering when he would choose to pounce.

He rose, abruptly, and the Great Hall fell into silence. Without a word he held out his left hand for his lady, looking down at her, daring her to ignore him, to show her panic, to try to escape.

She did none of those things. Her eyes met his, and for a moment he was shocked. There was fear in her eyes, yet there was a surprising tenderness. She placed her hand on his arm and rose, managing a tremulous smile.

“If you need some help ploughing the field I’m sure any number of my knights can oblige you!” Richard called out drunkenly. “Sir Emrick, what say you?”

Richard had overestimated the courage of his knights.

They might face a horde of Saracens without flinching, but none was willing to risk Simon of Navarre’s anger.

Simon smiled faintly. He could feel the tremor in Alys’s hand, and he wanted to lift his scarred right hand and cover hers, comforting her. He did no such thing. Comfort was an illusion, only delaying the painful truth. The truth that life was a bad business at best, full of pain and treachery, and the only reward was money and power.

Money and power he would claim with his bride. Richard’s settlement had been generous, but Simon had no illusions that he was expected to enjoy it for long. Richard would take what he needed from Simon and then dispense with him. If he could find another tool like Aidan of Montrose, one who was a little more deft.

And if Simon were fool enough to relax his vigilance once he gave Richard what he wanted.

He took her arm and led her away from the hall. No chattering horde of women tried to accompany them. She was left to face the marriage bed alone, unprepared. Out of the corner of his eye he’d seen his sister-in-law struggle to her feet, but Sir Thomas had quickly subdued her. A wise move on his part. Alys had made her decision, but her sister’s distress would distract her.

The halls were still and deserted as they climbed the stairs with stately grace, the torchlight flickering wickedly across her pale face. She was lovely, but then, he’d always known that, despite her ugly clothes and her tightly plaited hair, her downcast eyes and her demure behavior. She was lovely, and he wanted her with a need so fierce it frightened him. So fierce that he had no choice but to deny it.

The women hadn’t even come to his room