The Pleasures of Sin (25 page)

But her work came out flat and dull, the colors muddy and lifeless.

She didn’t want to paint halos and saints. She wanted to paint—

A sharp pain banded her chest. She took a breath, inhaling the scent of spike lavender oil. Nay, she could not think of him.

Thrusting the brush into the blue pigment, she swabbed forcefully at the canvas, wanting to force the portrait to life and her emotions to death, to never again think of the husband she’d left behind.

A broken vase appeared.

Bloody hell!

Irritated, she threw her paintbrush onto the table. She thought she would stop inadvertently painting broken vases as soon as she had gotten away from Montgomery. But whenever her mind wandered even for an instant, another one appeared—as if conjured by the fey.

What did they mean? Why did they appear? Questions. Questions. She’d tried to fathom it out, but no answers came.

Three broken vases had been painted yesterday.

Four others the day before.

And countless numbers in the weeks she had been here at the abbey.

The blue color seemed familiar, as if she should know what it meant. Her temple throbbed and she rubbed it, her hand grazing over the scar that marred her cheek.

“Signora?” One of the novices, a timid girl named Alma appeared at the door of the studio. She had a sweet moon-shaped face and eyebrows so pale they disappeared into her skin. “Be ye well?”

“Yea, Alma.” Not bothering to correct the painting, Brenna rinsed her brushes and folded her rags. She would paint no more today. Mayhap a walk in the sunshine would enlighten her soul.

“You are unhappy.”

“Nay, not unhappy. Only—” Numb. As dead to the world as that lifeless body her brother had planted in the tower. As dead as her paintings.

“But you have everything here, paint and tutors and—”

“Clean these for me, Alma.” Indicating the pots of paint scattered on the table, Brenna cut the girl off sharply.

Blinking, the novice bobbed a curtsy. “Si, signora.”

Gathering her shawl, Brenna walked out of the chamber and followed a path that led into the abbey’s vineyard. She would apologize for her testiness later. For now she wanted to be alone.

Birds chirped. Bees buzzed. Globes of grapes hung heavily from the vines.

But all of it seemed gray and drab. Not even the bright Italian sunshine could make up for the darkness that haunted her soul.

The passion of that broken vase had swiped her numbness away, and she felt peevish, incomplete, un-whole.

She missed James. Wanted him. Longed to lie with him and feel his manhood inside her, his muscular arms around her body. Reaching down, she rubbed her belly. Her flux was late and her stomach seemed a little swollen. She had told no one, but inside she felt a rumbling, a changing.

The thought of pregnancy sent an icy chill trickling through her veins. This past while, she had blocked the growing sensations in the womb, just as she had blocked the growing emotions in her mind. Was she breeding?

Her stomach rumbled and she turned her thoughts away from the prospect.

Where was he? Did he miss her too?

Feeling lost and disconcerted, she wandered farther through the rows of vines until she reached a back path that led out of the abbey’s holy grounds. Her fingers touched the iron handle. She would walk to the sleepy nearby village, allow the exercise to banish him from her mind. The abbey was secluded and quiet and the road safe in these parts even for a woman alone. Later she would return and paint.

With quick steps, Alma slid behind Brenna and laid her arm on her shoulder.

Impertinent wench!

Brenna turned, opening her mouth to order her back to the painting chamber, to clean the brushes before the paint crusted and ruined the bristles.

Instead, her mouth dropped open.

Not Alma.

Her father was there, dressed in a splendid surcoat and hose. The Italian sun had darkened his skin and bleached his hair. He would have been handsome except anger shone in his eyes.

“Nathan told me that you had sheltered here, disobedient wench that you are,” he spat out.

Ache formed in her chest. Why did her father hate her so that every discussion between them was ripe with strife?

“I know you never wanted me to be a nun,” she said softly.

“You will not be content at the abbey.” He drew himself up to full height as a diabolical gleam formed in his eyes.

She touched her belly again, concern over the possibility of breeding nibbling at her mind.

“But you cannot leave,” he continued. “I came to tell you that your husband has broken free from his dungeon cell and it is unsafe for you to leave the abbey.”

“Dungeon?” Her heart stopped beating for a moment, then began again in a fast, thrumming rhythm.

“Aye.” He shook his fist in the air in victory. “I heard he was tortured, his bones broken, his pretty face bruised and battered.”

The vineyard swam in front of her eyes as if she’d drunk the grape’s wine already. “M–Montgomery is not in a dungeon.”

The gleam in her father’s gaze brightened. He plucked one of the fat three-fingered leaves and shredded it. “Bah. Stupid chit.”

She took her father’s arm, fear pounding through her veins. This was not right, could not be right. “What are you talking about? My husband is at Windrose.”

Her father laughed. “Your
husband
”—he spoke the word as if it were a curse—“has been found to be a traitor. Nathan has been restored to our lands.”

Her knees buckled and she had to grab one of the vine’s posts for support. “W–what? H–how?”

“Montgomery was accused of painting a set of revolting portraits entitled
The King’s Mistresses
.”

Her jaw dropped open and a flood of guilt coursed through her veins. “Nay!”

Her father sneered at her. “Gwyneth took the miniatures from your room and turned them in for the reward. It was not difficult to build suspicion in the mind of the king.”

Brenna could scarcely catch her breath.

Victory gleamed in her father’s eyes. “Leave here and it is certain death for you. Montgomery will be looking for you.”

“He thinks I am dead.”

“Mayhap. But a woman of your ugliness is not so easily forgotten. Your scar makes you memorable. Word may leak out.”

Straightening, she stared at her father, the old anger and pain leaking into her numbed heart. “Why did you come to warn me if you hate me so much?”

She could have sworn a deep hurt crossed over his face before it was covered once again by cruelty and fury. “Because you deserve this fate. Just as your mother did.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Brenna glowered at her father’s back, torn between wanting to beg him for information and wanting to crugal him over the head with the nearest limb. How heinous that she had ever even tried to win his love or go along with any of his plans against Montgomery.

Her father’s heart was black as the devil’s. His boots crushed the sprigs of grass as he walked away from her. He was mad, driven to insanity by his own rage. If she ever had any doubt about that before, it was wiped away.

She blew out a breath, aching with the realization that she had chosen her family over James. A family that had carelessly burned her paintings.

Every discussion with her father ended with her emotions in turmoil and feeling as downtrodden as the lawn he walked on. Why, of all her siblings, was she singled out for his spite?

Just forget him. You can paint away the pain, she chided herself.

Only—her paintings brought her no pleasure anymore. She could not replace the ones she had lost. There was only numbness when she lifted brush to canvas. Pain laced her heart, too deep to deny.

Her mind whirled as she thought over her father’s words: Montgomery branded a traitor, thrown into a dungeon. Why was she not told? Did they think of her as a complete puppet?

Squeezing her eyes against the sting of tears, she determined to go directly to Mother Isabella to see what she knew of the matter. Mayhap she could bring some light to this confusion. The abbess always had welcoming arms and a generous heart for hurting souls. During her first weeks here, she had shown such great love that Brenna thought she might be able to heal the loss she felt from leaving James. But—what if Mother Isabella was in on the deception.

Blind to the beautiful serenity of the abbey’s courtyard with its flowing vineyard, Brenna wandered across the grounds, and made her way down the hallway of the sleeping quarters to the abbess’s chamber.

She raised her hand to knock and heard voices within. Someone talking with Mother Isabella. A man. Her father.

Frowning, she leaned closer and set her ear against the wood.

“Montgomery is missing,” her father said. “We need the baby to ferret him out.”

Baby?

An icy streak slid up Brenna’s spine. There were no babies here in the abbey except—she gazed down at her rounding stomach—hers.

The full weight of breeding sank into her like a stone on water. Starting at her toes, a shudder ran up her legs and spine and ended with a quake across her shoulders.

Somehow she had ignored the sensations growing inside her womb—numbed them out as she had all her other feelings these past weeks. Her breasts were more tender than usual. Her stomach was thickening. Every time those things had bothered her, she’d fled to the studio and numbed her thoughts with dull painting.

But ignoring them did not make them go away. She had had no flux since before she had been married.

She had experienced some queasiness, but it did not come in the mornings, so she had discounted it as unhappiness, on her longing for Montgomery.

Leaning against the door, she closed her eyes and let the feelings wash over her.

Zwounds. A baby inside her. Montgomery’s child.

A pregnancy would explain what her father was really doing here at the abbey. Reaching down, she cradled her belly as she racked her brain, trying to decide what she should do next. Another shudder ran across her shoulders and her mind swirled like paint being rinsed from a bucket.

A part of her wanted to find her husband, to throw herself on his mercy. A part of her wanted to run further way—from both her father and Montgomery.

“I cannot give you the babe,” the abbess said.

Her father snorted and Brenna could see the sneer on his face as clearly in her mind as if the wooden door was not between them. “You can. And you will. You had no trouble giving me Brenna to protect your own place.”

A gasp welled in Brenna’s throat, and she stuffed the side of her index finger in her mouth to quell it. Confused, she peered through the crack between the door and its frame, trying to fathom out what they meant. She could make out her father’s torso and legs and a portion of the abbess’s habit.

“Prithee,” the abbess pleaded. “I was young. Too young.”

Horror began to trickle into Brenna’s mind and the world seemed strange and dreamlike as if evil spirits had whisked away all that she knew was real.

“Bah!” her father said. “You tossed me aside like a piece of offal, then came running back for help when you found yourself pregnant. Brenna has been naught but trouble, but I raised her, just as I promised.”

Brenna’s legs felt liquid and unsteady. Her heart thrummed and she wanted to cover her ears and not hear what else her father would say. But she could not turn away.

“You cannot have the babe,” Mother Isabella insisted. “I will not give away another child.”

Her world turned upside down and sickness churned in her stomach. Her father and the abbess? It wasn’t possible, couldn’t be possible. Her mother was dead, drained of life from the grinding pace of being caretaker to a busy household—not living here in Italy as an abbess.

But, it would explain the strange animosity her father seemed to have for her alone.

From the crack in the door, she saw her father take a vase from a nearby table. A blue vase. His large hand closed around it. With a violent fling, he hurled it into the hearth.

The shattering sound moved through Brenna as if she’d been shot in the eye with a dollop of paint. A sharp pain sliced through her cheek, through the scar that marred her face. Her hand snapped to touch her skin. No blood was there, but her face burned with pain.

Her body began to tremble as an unchecked memory flooded through her mind. Her father. A broken face. The scar on her cheek.

Devil take it!

He and the abbess had argued on that day all those years ago. He’d thrown a vase.

Disconcerted, she blinked a few times and the pain receded to a dull throb.

Surely it was not possible for her to remember such an event. She would have been only a babe, a small child still crawling around on the floor. Mayhap she was imagining things.

But all the paintings, the broken vases?

Confusion swelled in her mind.

Inside her heart she knew, and did not know how she knew, that what she had been painting were memories of her own past. Her cheek pulsed as if caught by the memory, as if the scar was a witness to the truth.

She closed her eyes, wanting to straighten and run back to her cell, wanting to deny it all. Sweat beaded on her hairline and ran down her temples.

“I won’t let you harm Brenna’s babe,” the abbess said, her voice brittle.

Brenna clutched her stomach, wanting to rock the child within her in a way she had never been rocked. She bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering.

There was a silence. Through the slit in the door, Brenna saw her father, tall and angry with his fists balled and a sneer on his lips.

Her heart skipped frantically in her chest. It felt as if the world she knew was being savaged by hungry wolves. The skin on her cheek ached as she pressed her ear as close as she could. Should she open the door? Confront them? Run away?

“Then,” her father continued, “’tis time your superiors know the truth. Do you think they will allow you to keep your place as Mother Abbess after they learn you had a dalliance with a man outside matrimony, became pregnant, had a child and shirked your responsibility to that child? Do you think they will allow Brenna to remain sheltered in the abbey when they learn she is the bastard of that union and that the king of England wants to behead her for her paintings?”

Cramps tightened Brenna’s womb. Her knees quivered and her head spun. She tried to take a deep breath but seemed unable to suck air into her lungs. She had to figure out what to do.

“Don’t be a fool!” her father continued. “Give me the babe. I will ferret out Montgomery from where he has run from his prison and then sell the babe to a wealthy family in need of a child.”

Sell her baby? Brenna held onto the door to keep from sliding to the floor. He wanted to
sell
her baby? Anger began to eclipse her confusion, pushing through the thick sea of paralysis. Never would she allow such a thing. Children should be loved. Cherished. Held. All the things she had never experienced.

Hot tears stung the back of her eyes, but she blinked them away. She needed to
think
, not become a crumbling mess of emotions.

Montgomery’s command came back to her, strengthening her. His calm assertive voice slid across her brain:
You will be all right. But we must work, not stand around goggling.

This time she was able to pull a draw of air into her aching lungs and fill her chest.

“I will contact you when the babe comes,” the abbess whispered, sounding defeated.

Nay. Nay, they would not. The clouds in her brain cleared with that thought. Whate’er happened, they would not sell her baby.

Reeling, Brenna lifted the hem of her kirtle and hurried down the hall to her small chamber, her mind racing with what she must do.

She had to leave! Now! Afore the babe got any larger. Afore she was tangled further into their webs and schemes. Once she had chosen to remain part of her father’s plans. She would not make that mistake again.

In a rush, she fluttered around her room, gathering the few goods she would need for her journey. She considered the paintbrushes, so long her passion, and realized her life was dull without Montgomery. She missed him. His perfect body and handsome face.

Only—her father said his face was broken and his body bruised. All the emotions of the day consumed her in a torrent, and she had to hold herself upright by leaning against the wall. She forced herself to suck in huge gulps of air. She needed to stop so she could think straight and formulate a plan. Sweat still dripped down her temples, making her feel both hot and cold at the same time.

She needed money. She needed a destination. She needed to get her babe to safety and she needed to somehow make things right with the king to clear her husband’s good name.

If the abbess or her father knew she wanted to leave, likely they would hold her hostage here. If James found her before she had a chance to make it right with the king, her lot would be no better.

Squeezing her eyes, she prayed for guidance. Would God even hear her prayer? Surely for the sake of the innocent child growing inside her, He would hear her cry.

Please, God, please.

Godric. Meiriona. The names came fast into her mind, giving her a sense of hope.

She would ask them for refuge and also for their help in dealing with the fickle Royal character.

With a breath of thanksgiving, she opened her eyes and glanced around the chamber to determine what to take. Her paintings could be sold or bartered for passage. She would wait until nightfall then steal her paintings from their frames and roll them into her wooden tube. She would take a few painting supplies in case she could find work along her journey.

As she prepared, an intense feeling of rightness came over her. Courage flowed into her limbs. For weeks she had been numb, passionless, but now purpose burned through her, clarifying what needed to be done. Her body stopped shivering and the sensations of hot and cold cleared to normal.

The old thrill of rebellion slid through her and she suddenly had the urge to paint again—the first real feeling in over three months. The nunnery was quiet and boring, the countryside dull and painting only religious scenes dulled her brain.

Mayhap she had been unable to paint life, because she was no longer living it.

After night fell, she worked stealthily in the candle glow packing for the journey. She stole a knife, cheese, and bread from the kitchens.

At last, she took her meager supplies and her wooden tube and sat on her cot, waiting for dawn’s first light and thinking through her plans. Until she was able to secure a guard, she would only travel by day.

This was a peaceful area, but once she reached the coasts and a larger city, she dared not travel alone. She would find a safe, clean, well-lit tavern and ask for recommendations for hiring a companion for the journey.

With luck, she could find a family traveling the same direction and blend in with them. There were many cottages and huts on her way into the village. She would steal boy’s clothing from a clothesline.

When the sun began to pinken the sky, she stood and looked around at her tiny cell one last time. Here was safety; outside was certain death.

Her life was already forfeit when she reached the king, but she had to clear her husband’s name before she died and give her babe a safe home. No matter Montgomery’s feeling about her, no matter if he hated her, he was a man of honor and he would not hate his child.

Her stomach sloshed, and she took several deep breaths to quiet her queasiness.

Moving like a shadow, she made her way to the outer wall of the abbey. The gate was barred for the night with heavy iron. Finding some crates, she stacked them for a makeshift ladder. As she looked over the wall at her unknown future, her heart raced, but she steeled her mind.

She scrambled over the wall and landed softly on her feet. She steadied herself against the outer wall and took a deep breath as she gazed out at the countryside.

Luck was with her: only a few steps down the road a boy’s tunic and breeches hung on a line.

Crossing herself, she offered a prayer of thanksgiving. Surely, ’twas a sign of God’s blessing.

At that moment, a large hand reached from behind a tree and latched around her upper arm. The fingers were blunt and dirty. She screamed, but her cry was cut off as a second hand slapped her hard across the mouth.

Her captor dragged her into the woods.