His Enemy's Daughter. Terri BrisbinЧитать онлайн книгу.
between the people and the dais to keep them from pushing forwards to her side.
He climbed the steps there and walked to her side, glaring at those who would argue his power to do as he would. Her quiet voice forestalled any orders before he could call them.
‘My lord?’ she said, turning her head to gauge his position and proximity. ‘My lord Soren?’ she said again.
A flash of heat pierced his body as he imagined the sound of her sultry voice in his bed. She would whisper it over and over, acknowledging his power over her body and soul as he pleasured her for hour on hour. She would cry out his name as he entered her, thrusting deep within her flesh, making her his and his alone.
Soren shook himself from such a vision and glared at her. Realising the futility of it, he walked to her.
‘Aye,’ was the only word he could force out.
‘Would you grant me a moment with a priest before.?’ Her voice faltered for a moment. Only a moment. ‘Before my death.’
He would have admired such bravery in anyone else, but he steeled himself against her. Angry at himself for even the fleeting thought of showing kindness, he turned away.
‘You will have need of a priest, Sybilla of Alston,’ he barked out, ‘but I do not intend to kill you this day.’
‘My lord?’ she asked. ‘Am I to be your prisoner, then?’ He watched as she tried to come closer and stumbled. Damn it! He fought the urge to reach out to help her.
‘Prisoner of a sort, lady,’ he said. ‘You will be my wife.’
The hall erupted again; the people surged forwards, trying to free her from what they thought would be a fate worse than death. The lady remained silent and then crumpled to the floor.
Chapter Four
His head pounded. His eye burned. His throat grew hoarse from shouting. His hands yet itched to twist the wench’s neck and end the line of Durward’s seed, but his words had put a stop to the possibility of killing her quickly. Soren raised his arm and rubbed his hand across his brow, trying to ease the pain there. A moment of weakness and he would now be responsible for her. A weakness he thought crushed out of him by the relentless suffering and pain of his ordeal and by the humiliation and torment of his condition and the loss of everything he valued in life.
The object of both his hatred and his newest pledge now sat silent and unmoving in a wooden chair he’d called for when she collapsed before him at the news of not her impending death, but her impending marriage to him. Soren only knew that her reaction was far less hysterical than if she could look upon his face and see him as he was now. Shaking off any regrets and trying to accept his path now that he’d stated it for all to hear, he searched the hall and the doorway out to the corridor for any sign of the priest. He yelled out the priest’s name once more, hoping that someone would find him and hasten his steps.
The silence that filled the chamber allowed him to hear the approach of a small number of people and he let out his breath as the portly priest and his clerk stumbled in through the doorway and blessed his way through the stunned mob that now awaited his word and deed. The cleric reached the dais just as Soren’s meagre stores of patience wore out. At least the horror did not show on his face when their gazes met, though he could see the narrowing of his eyes and the restraint the priest exerted on his reactions. All those hours on his knees in prayer and fasting had apparently taught the priest some measure of self-control. Soren crossed his arms over his chest and nodded at the pair as they climbed the few steps and approached him.
‘Tell her to ready herself for marriage,’ he growled to the priest with a nod at the wench. He needed to get this done before he changed his mind.
‘My lord …’ the priest began to stutter. ‘She is …’
‘I said to see to her now, Father.’
He watched as the priest started towards her and then stopped. After glancing between the two of them—his lord and his lord’s intended—Father Medwyn slowly turned from her and returned to stand before Soren.
‘My lord, she is blind,’ he whispered.
With malice aforethought, Soren exaggerated his motions and turned his good eye, his only eye, towards her. ‘Aye, Father, she is blinded.’ Narrowing his eye’s gaze on the defiant, hesitating priest, Soren waited for him to decide to defy or obey.
‘My lord, if you will allow,’ the priest petitioned, leaning closer to speak only to him. ‘This is a clear impediment to marriage. You can find another, mayhap?’
The priest did not realise the boon her blindness was, and of certain, he would never speak of it if he did, but Soren had in that instant of insight. Now, her blindness would cause her to live as his wife and breed him sons.
‘I need not her eyes for a true marriage, Father. I only have need of her womb to consummate the words spoken.’
Since everyone in the hall had stopped speaking at once, Soren heard his words echo into the air around them. He stood close enough to hear her gasp and see her body stiffen as the insult and sentence struck. In truth, he cared less for her than he did the last mount he had purchased, nay, earned, and had paid more attention to that horse’s physical qualities and potential. A wife would lie with him and give him children, sons who inherit that for which his flesh and blood had paid a steep price. And though it would pain him, the man once known as the ‘Beautiful Bastard’, Soren knew he would rather pay for comfort of the other sort when he needed it and keep it an honest exchange of coin for service rather than see the horror in a woman’s gaze.
In his wife’s eyes.
She cannot see me.
It was settled.
‘Bring her,’ he ordered and he waited for his word to be obeyed.
Though some of his men openly scowled, they did as they’d been told to and soon, with a man at each side, Durward’s daughter stood next to him as they faced the priest. She’d not spoken a word yet, but he could hear the sound of her shallow breathing as dead silence reigned once more. What she could not see, but her people could, was the soldier standing behind her with his sword drawn and aimed for the wench. Any disturbance, any outcry, they knew would be met with her death. He saw mutiny in some gazes, frank terror in others, but underlying it all was something more frightening to him in that moment—they loved their lady and would do anything, even acquiesce to him, in exchange for her safety.
He would later tell himself otherwise, but he nearly lost his nerve in the face of such devotion and pure affection. Watching her as she stood tall in spite of the hold laid on her by his men, he realised that she bore the same love for her people in return.
A sense of longing so strong that it almost took him out at the knees tore a path through him, tearing his heart and soul in two. Soren found it difficult, nigh to impossible, to breathe in that second. He shook his head as though to clear his thoughts, then the second emotion pierced him—the one that reminded him of his true purpose. The one that had sustained him through the pain and suffering since that September afternoon and every single, tortuous one that followed.
Anger.
Fury in its strongest form.
Righteous and purifying and fortifying.
It gave him the chance to regain his control and banish any mercy that might be creeping into his heart or soul for her. Straightening to his full height, he glared at those around them who might give any indication of arguing or disagreeing with his decision to proceed—both in marrying her and in marrying her now—and watched in satisfaction as they capitulated. Turning his gaze on the priest, Soren waited for him to begin.
The delay was hardly noticeable, but he noticed and he would hold the priest accountable for it later. Once he began, Father Medwyn accomplished the joining quickly,