The Lord's Bride Page 8

  Mary moved away with haste. Lucia was usually bound by the rules of discipline, which stated a punishment must only be given in response to misbehavior. It had never occurred to Mary that Lucia might break that rule.

  “Why do you run, postulant?”

  “Because you will strike me,” Mary said, putting more distance between her and Lucia.

  “No more than you deserve.”

  Mary moved further away, but found to her dismay that Lucia intended on following.

  “Shall we play ring around the roses?” Lucia asked, her lip curling in something like a sneer. “I do not mind if you tire yourself out. It will make the beating easier.”

  “I will go to the abbess. I will tell her that you are beating me out of your lust for cruelty.”

  “Go to Mother Tudor,” Lucia said. “Go tell her that you called me a peasant.”

  “I spoke in jest,” Mary said, taking a backwards leap over a lavender bush. “Do you not know the meaning of humor?”

  “I know the meaning of cheek and irreverence,” Sister Lucia said, taking a more dignified path around the bush. “And I know that you will be well punished when I lay my vengeance upon you. Now, come here and let me lash you.”

  Mary had no intention of going there. Mary intended on running as far and as fast as her legs could take her, which was farther and faster than Lucia’s legs could take her, she was certain of that.

  * * *

  Having escaped into the forest, Mary took on her costume and emerged thereafter as Richard de Vere. As Richard, she made her way into Staffordshire and took herself to the favorite local watering hole, The Badgered Bear.

  The Badgered Bear did not generally cater to those of noble blood, though a few young bucks around Mary’s age were in evidence. In general, it was patronized by the merchant classes, all of whom Mary despised as rather a point of principle. Still, when drinking, one could afford to have a few foes about. Kept one on one’s toes.

  With a pocket full of ill-gotten gold, Mary ordered herself a tankard of the finest mead and worked her way into a dark corner to drink it. Eventually she would have to return to the convent. Lucia would be waiting with her sticks and her vicious intent. But that would happen at a time of Mary’s choosing, not at Sister Lucia’s bidding.

  Swigging her brew, Mary cast her mind forward into the future. She hoped that the abbess would soon allow her to join the convent as a nun. From there she could begin to climb the ranks of the church. Perhaps one day she would be an abbess herself. An abbess and an extensive landowner, for she had it in mind to purchase not only the de Vere lands, but all the estates that had fallen into greedy merchant hands. Land did not belong in the hands of those who dealt in goods and gold. It belonged in the hands of those who would be squires of it, who would ensure that the peasants could grow their crops and raise their animals, and who would protect the deer and fish and fowl.

  Mary drank little, but long, nursing her mead until late in the evening. Darkness had long fallen when she returned to the convent, thinking Sister Lucia would have taken herself to bed. She hid her disguise under a rock at the forest’s edge and once more donned her postulant’s smock. It was much less comfortable than the breeches and doublet that had adorned her that evening, and her lip and chin felt quite bare without the warming fur.

  Lights in the chapel piqued Mary’s interest. The chapel should have been as dark as the rest of the convent, but it was lit up with softly moving lights. Someone was in there. Thinking she had better investigate lest there be a robber at work, Mary instead found herself confronted by Sister Lucia.

  “Come hither, Mary, I would speak with you.”

  Mary went forward, for the drink had made her brave. If Lucia thought she would whip her again, Mary had a good mind to slap her in return. As she drew closer, she saw that Sister Lucia’s smile was cold and triumphant.

  “Postulant,” Sister Lucia said, “your wickedness has long afflicted this place. Now I have the evidence I need to ensure you are cast out.”

  “What evidence do you have, Lucia?”

  “When you ran, I went to your cell and looked therein for evidence of your ill deeds. I have a letter,” Lucia said, withdrawing a parchment from her robes. “Not so much a letter as a map, which lead to an embarrassment of riches.”

  Mary’s blood seemed to turn to ice in her veins. She recognized the parchment in Lucia’s hands. It was a key, written in case of injury or event which sent her away from the area. It detailed her hiding places, her stashes of gold and jewels. She had hidden it most effectively, she thought, in a hollowed out statue in her cell.

  “Do not think to deny it. I know this is your hand,” Sister Lucia said. “You have always had such fine script. I have called the sheriff. He is coming to claim you for the king’s justice.”

  Panic seized Mary’s heart. All her plans were undone, crushed in Sister Lucia’s claw. The gold she had so painstakingly saved for the past year was gone. The hope for the purchase of familiar lands also gone. The leering woman had taken her dearest dreams and set them ablaze.

  She wanted to threaten Sister Lucia, but the time for threats had passed. The sheriff had been called; her very liberty was in peril. She did not have the breath to waste on Lucia. Every bit of air in her body was necessary for the making of a swift and complete escape.

  Taking to her heels, Mary ran. She ran out of the chapel and through the convent gardens, hurdling hedges and making short work of bushes. She soon gained the lands beyond the convent’s borders, but she could not stop yet.

  Somewhere in the distance, a dog began to bay. Mary’s heart pounded in her chest as she heard a second dog echo the call, and then another. The sheriff had brought his dogs. He must have anticipated her escape. She cursed Martin de Stafford with all her heart as she made for the cover of the forest and for the river. Dogs could not follow scent in a river. If she could toss herself into the water’s flow, she would have an excellent chance of escape.

  The night was dark, but she could hear the babbling of the river hence. She began to feel hopeful that she might make an escape after all, but before she could reach the safety of the waters, a figure stepped out from behind a tree. A very familiar figure, and the last one Mary wanted to see. It was Martin de Stafford and before she knew what she was doing, she was running right into his arms. All the flailing and fighting in the world did not help, for he held her fast.

  “You are caught, Mary,” he said, his breath hot in her ear. His arm wrapped securely around her waist, pulling her obscenely close to his body so she could feel every clenched muscle in his strong frame. “The only question now is shall I subject you to the king’s justice, or to mine? Would you rather go to the stocks and gallows? Or will you consent to be my wife?”

  Shocked by his forwardness and by the desperation of her situation, Mary felt nothing but anger. “I once thought you a hero,” she hissed through pale lips, “but any man who would demand marriage this way can only be a villain.”

  “I have no choice, dear Mary. You are guilty of crimes too multiplicitous to count. As my wife, I can shield you. As an outcast and criminal, you will surely be captured and put to justice, even if I am not the one to do it myself. Our marriage will be your sanctuary.”

  “Unhand me!”

  “I will not.” Martin’s hands gripped her wrists more tightly as she struggled against him. “I have let you loose for far too long. I should have come to you after my wife’s death and taken your hand. Instead, I respected your choice to dedicate yourself to the Lord. And what did you do? You took to crime, dear Mary. You besmirched your name and your soul with deeds unworthy of a peasant. Now, you will be mine.”

  Mary found herself hefted over Martin’s shoulder. Even in the midst of desperation and anger, she found a moment’s appreciation for his strength. He held her as if she weighed nothing at all, his large, long fingers wrapped about her lower thighs in a manner that was most inappropriate but entirely practical.

 
“I will take you to de Stafford manor,” Martin declared after loading her into his waiting carriage, where she sat in the farthest corner, curled up on herself. “There you will prepare for our wedding, which will take place in three days.”

  “Three days? Why not this very evening? Why not this very moment?” She spat the words at him, her voice filled with venom.

  Martin seemed not to be affected by her anger. “You need time to compose yourself. I will not have an unwilling bride at the altar.”

  “Oh, but you will, for I will never willingly bind my soul to yours.”

  “You once bound it to a man more than twice your age.” Martin lifted the corner of his lip. “Am I so much more despicable than a gout-ridden, syphilitic old man?”

  “I was given no choice in the matter,” she spat. “It was a business arrangement.”

  “Yes, I am sure he would have found frequent business with you.”

  “You disgust me.”

  “Do I?” Martin smiled, and his visage became quite charming. “Or do you feel the need to spit such sentiments because the opposite is true? Because, even now, you are moistening for me, your petals preparing for the visit of the bee’s barb?”

  “Disgusting!” Mary scowled the word at him, but underneath her skirts, her thighs were pressed close together, for the words he spoke were not entirely untrue. Her body was turning traitor, spurred by the memory of the touch of his hand so close to the delicate parts he had made reference to.

  A confusion of thoughts and feelings quite overwhelmed her. For the second time in three short years, the life she had built for herself was stripped away. Once she had been a lady, then a postulant, now she was the sheriff’s captive bride to be.

  Numbness began to set in as they traveled along the road where she had once made her coin. She could feel her life slipping away from her, all her plans, the possibility of perhaps one day becoming an abbess. They were gone now, for she had been unmasked and should she show her face anywhere in public without the sheriff’s permission, she would surely be arrested.

  There was only one small glimmer of hope, that being the disguise of Richard de Vere. Sister Lucia had made no mention of her alias, nor had the sheriff. They knew she had been stealing, but they did not know how. That sliver of a secret allowed her to maintain her composure and sanity as they drew up to de Stafford manor.

  Once upon a time, the prospect of becoming lady of such a fine house would have filled Mary with joy, but now she knew that the lady of a house had less claim to it than the rats that skittered about in the basement. There was no point in becoming attached to it or proud of it, for should something happen to Martin, it would all be ripped away.

  Martin spoke little as he guided her out of the carriage and into the great house. It had been a long time since Mary had set foot inside the place she had once frequented. She found it largely unchanged. The great staircase still wound up from the foyer, curling in two separate directions to the west and east wings of the house.

  “You will have the rooms that once belonged to my mother,” Martin said. “I think you will find them comfortable.”

  Indeed, the rooms he lead her into were many times the size of the cell she had slept in at the convent and much grander. The main bedroom contained a bed large enough to sleep several people and a wardrobe in which a small tea party could be held if one were so inclined. All about her were the trinkets and trappings of a noble lifestyle, gilt-edged bowls, fine statuettes, a polished mirror in which she saw herself, pale and large eyed, dark circles about her gaze. She looked like something the cat had thrice dragged in.

  The de Staffords were possessed of undeniable abundance and yet none of it felt familiar or right. This was not her home. These were not her fine things. Her fine things were scattered across the country, sold into the hands of common folk who could not understand nor appreciate them beyond their shine.

  “There is warm water in the hand basin and towels upon which to dry yourself,” Martin said. “Please, ready yourself for bed.”

  “Rather ready myself for the gallows,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Mary.” His strong fingers took her chin and directed her gaze toward him. She found herself looking into calm and balanced eyes. “I know you are not happy. I know you have not been happy for a very long time. But this can be a new beginning for you. For us. Do not let three years of hardship spoil our lives together.” He pressed a kiss to her dirty forehead, then spoke tenderly once more. “Clean yourself and make ready for bed. I will return soon.”

  He left her in peace to perform her ablutions, but Mary felt more like crying out and dashing the water to the floor than cleaning herself. She refrained from such activity only because the grime was working its way into very uncomfortable crevices, and she was tired of having filthy, sticky hands.

  She cleaned herself, marveling at the nigh porcelain hue that emerged out from the layer of dirt. The nuns did not often bathe. Indeed, many of them believed that bathing could lead to colds and other maladies. It was a belief widely shared in society, though Mary herself was not convinced. The feeling of freshness after the grime was eased away and the dark color of the water left after her wash were two pieces of evidence which pointed toward the benefits of bathing.

  Not wishing to tarry long without her clothing, Mary chose the first nightgown which came to hand. It was beautiful, of course, and had once belonged to Martin’s mother. Mary had only the vaguest memories of the woman, for she had passed early in Martin’s childhood, but portraits showed her to be a rather beautiful woman, with dark hair and dark eyes, much like Martin himself. Wearing the woman’s dress made Mary feel rather inadequate. Yes, she had been raised as a lady, but three years of deprivation and the humiliation of common life had stripped her of her aristocratic illusions.

  Dressed, she posed before the mirror and saw quite a different woman looking back. The dark circles and wide, hunted eyes were still there, but they were tempered with the elegance of the dress.

  “What am I to become now?” She murmured the question to her reflection. “Do I disappear into the lady of the manor?”

  A knock at the door interrupted her discussion with herself. She made no reply, but after a moment, Martin entered regardless. He was still in his black sheriff’s leathers, though he had removed his gloves and his hat. Upon seeing her, he stopped and stared for a moment.

  “Mary, you look lovely.”

  Far from appreciating the compliment, she drew back as he approached, wishing the lace gown was not so sheer. His eyes were hungry, lit with a lust she recognized and feared.

  “Stay away,” she said. “I am not yours yet.”

  * * *

  It was as the abbess had promised him, Martin realized. A little patience and a little time, and Mary had been delivered into his arms. The Lord must have heard his prayers.

  He wished the circumstances were otherwise. Martin adored Mary and wished for her happiness, but there was not even the slightest hint of pleasure in her gaze. She looked like a lost fawn in the grand room, and the way she stared at him with mistrust and even a little fear made his heart break.

  “I will not take you without your consent, sweet Mary.” He stroked her cheek and watched her shiver prettily. It was not cold, but her fear was evident. He wanted to kiss it away, to console her with his body, but that would certainly send her from panic to outright hysteria. “But you are mine. You were always my intended. And now the Lord has delivered you to me.”

  “Sister Lucia delivered me to you,” Mary disagreed. “And she will pay for it.”

  “What will you do? Fill her bed with the dead? Sneak to the convent and steal all her clothes? Salt her dishes with dirt?”

  “Those are all fine ideas.”

  “They are all silly pranks worthy perhaps of a postulant, but not of the woman who will be my wife. You will put your concerns regarding Sister Lucia aside.”

  He saw in her gaze that she was not listening to him. She h
eard him, certainly, but she saw no reason to obey him. Mary had been so lost in a world of her own making for so long that she’d forgotten what it was like to truly answer to an authority.

  “Mary,” he said softly. “I will not be disobeyed.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” she said, dropping into a curtsey of such sarcasm he wondered at her nerve.

  “Come here.”

  He took her by the arm and drew her close, settling his free hand on the curve of her hip. “If you are willful with me or disobedient or even too rude for my tastes, I will whip your hide until you see the error of your ways.”

  “Brute.”

  “It is not brutal. It is necessary. Order is essential, Mary, and I maintain order in my household. Each of my servants knows it, and you will know it the same.”

  A rolling flicker of her eyes indicated her disinterest in his warnings. Martin realized that words were meaningless where Mary was concerned. She was so used to slipping through the cracks, making her way through the world through trickery and diversion.

  He sat upon the bed and pulled her over his lap without further warning. Her shouts of indignation were ignored. He slapped his palm across her lace clad cheeks, noting that she had shed her underclothing and was quite naked under the lace gown. Each slap imprinted the lace onto her cheeks, leaving pink imprints on her skin.

  “Pax!” she cried after just a few slaps. “Leave me be, Martin!”

  “Will you obey me?”

  There was a disgruntled silence, which he punctuated with a sound slap to her bottom. Her reaction was a quiet squeak and yet more silence. He could almost feel her thinking, her agile mind whirring about in an effort to find the out. Mary could always find the out, but this time there wasn’t one. He slapped her bottom again, quick, sharp slaps designed not to beat her into submission but to urge her toward the conclusion that there was no option besides obedience.