The Pleasures of Sin (6 page)

“James!” A voice cried out from the crowd. “Halt! You cannot slay her.”

The axe stayed high in the air, right over her neck. “Leave be, brother. This is not your concern.”

Brenna opened her eyes to see a large man pacing toward them. He was similar in height and size to Montgomery, but his hair hung freely about his shoulders, wild rather than sharply contained like her husband’s. She could not see his face. He drew near Montgomery and stopped. “She is not to blame.”

Montgomery glanced down at his chest. Red stains marred his hose and little splotches of blood fell from his torso to the ground. Damning evidence of her handiwork.

“You are here to bring peace to the region and to oversee the port. ’Twill cause discord among the castlefolk if you slay her.”

“And if I do not then I’ll not be able to sleep another night with my eyes closed.”

“Then throw her in the dungeon, make her a slave or send her to a nunnery.”

A convent! Hope soared in her heart.

“Stand back, brother. My duty is clear and this is the only way for peace.”

Her hope crushed, she winced as the axe lifted even higher.

“Your position as The Enforcer has addled your brain. Use her as an asset, a pawn.”

Brenna twisted her head as far as she could so she could to see Montgomery’s face, to see if he was softening any. She wracked her brain to think of something to say that would tip the argument in her direction.

“Prithee, my lord,” she said. “Give me my life and I will fight you no longer.” Her pride kicked her for breaking her vow to beg. But she could be no help to her family dead. Mayhap she could poison him later. They said deceit and poison were women’s weapons, but ’twas men who made it thus. What choice did a woman have in this world of men’s power and men’s wars?

Montgomery stood there, axe poised. “Offal is worth more than your word.”

She swallowed, holding her breath. No words came to her to fight his claim. Pressing her forehead into the wooden block, she closed her eyes and began to pray again despite her fury towards God for making her a woman. She would not beg Montgomery again.

Slowly, he lowered the axe until its blade rested just on the nape of her neck. The sharp, cold metal chilled her to the marrow.

Moments ticked by.

Apprehension rose higher and higher, banding her stomach, squeezing off her breath. She opened one eye, angry he drew out the moment, that he stood there so calmly while she trembled on her knees. Pressure built inside her seeming to fill all her being until she felt she would burst. The fear, the terror overwhelmed her. If she must be a woman, why could she not be a fainting one?

“Zwounds! Just get it over with, man!” she cried out when she could take no more.

The axe twisted, raking to one side and nipping her skin. Her taught nerves registered it as strongly as a deathblow and her whole body convulsed. A stinging line burned her neck.

Another wave of terror went through her that it might please him to saw her head off slowly rather than lop it off all at once. The edges of her vision blackened and the voices of the castlefolk faded. Her head swam.

Mayhap she was the fainting sort of woman after all.

“Awaken, Brenna. We must make plans. They are making talk of taking Father to London.”

“Huh?” Midmorning sunlight streamed over the mattress in long yellow streaks as Brenna opened her eyes and blinked sleepily, trying to fathom what had just been said. “Am I dead?”

Adele hovered over her, shaking the bed. St. Paul paced back and forth across the pillows while Duncan licked her nose. “Get up, Brenna. We must rescue Gwyneth and Father.”

At that, Brenna came full awake. Outraged, she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Gwyneth and Father? It’s their bloody fault that I nearly had my head chopped off!”

Adele and Panthos jumped backward as Brenna lurched off the bed.

Ignoring her stinging back, she scrambled to find the pack that Montgomery had emptied and refill it. “I’m leaving before the beast comes to finish his deed of beheading me.”

“I do not believe Montgomery still intends to slay you.”

Brenna remembered the hush of the crowd, the cool wood against her cheek and the terror in her heart. Her pulse sped, and she felt dizzy at the memory. “You are daft.”

In sharp contrast to Brenna’s panic, Adele calmly scratched the dog’s head. “Panthos likes Montgomery.”

“Panthos!” ’Twas the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. The world had gone mad. “Most likely my faint took the joy out of murdering me. Killing me isn’t enough for a man like him—he could have done that here in the chamber.” Her tirade rose in tone and pitch as she grew more and more determined to quit the castle. She accented her words by racing around her chamber, tossing random items for her journey into her pack. “He drew the whole process out to terrify me and probably sees my swooning as thwarting his plans. He may want to send me to the rack or worse for the mishap.”

Panthos gazed curiously at her, ears upward as if he understood every word and thought she had lost her mind.

“Nay, Brenna, you must speak to Montgomery, see if you can lessen his sentence on Father. Both Gwyneth and I have been lock—”

“Father be damned! ’Tis his idiocy that caused this!” The thought of even seeing Montgomery made her queasy. In her mind she could see the red mote in his eye that bespoke vengeance. “And Gwyneth is as much to blame as him! Save yourself.” Plucking her wedding garment from where it lay flopped over the trunk Montgomery had locked her painting supplies in, she flung it into the hearth. Flames burst around it. Duncan leapt onto the window seat as if to get away from the crazed humans.

Brenna hurried behind her dressing screen to find clothing for her journey. “Come with me. We will beg for shelter at a convent and pray Montgomery won’t burn it down looking for us.”

“But Gwyneth will be married off to one of the king’s cohorts, and Father will be dragged through the streets and tortured if they take him to London. I know what Papa did to you was wrong—but he is still our sire. Montgomery is your husband; even with yesterday’s events, he may still hear your plea.”

Panthos barked once as if to agree with Adele.

A welling of dread clogged Brenna’s throat at the word husband. “Not a husband in truth.” She poked her head around the screen and scrutinized the sheets, searching for any sign of blood. “I am still a virgin. At least, I think I am. I need to get far, far away, have the marriage annulled and pray he never finds me.”

With a pensive look in her eyes, Adele glided to the seat in the embrasure. Panthos followed and settled at his mistress’s feet, flopping his large furry head on his paws.

Brenna scurried behind the dressing screen and peered at her wild red hair in the looking glass.

Someone had placed a sleeping cap on her head—Gwyneth? Adele?—but the curls had already begun to spring this way and that. Wearing the cap was a habit she’d let slide some when her hair had been freshly shorn, but she’d need it again soon to protect her locks. Her skin looked sallow and freckled.

“Ugh.” Even if she wasn’t dead, she looked like death. In this state, the convent nuns would think she was a harlot, hung over from a night of swiving randy men.

She hurriedly splashed water on her face, rubbed her teeth with a hazel wood stick trying to make the best of things. She needed to look respectable enough to not be mistaken for a whore or someone with the plague if she expected to find shelter along the way.

Picking her kirtle from her trunk, she inspected it. Three paint smears marred the faded blue bodice and the embroidery hung unraveled around the square-cut neckline. The sleeves had once been long, pointed, and graceful, but she’d cut them off and sewed them so they fit tightly around her arms and would not interfere with painting. The lack of embellishment made the dress look sad and out of fashion. But it would have to do.

Surely she could convince the nuns that she was simply a noblewoman down on her luck. She would explain her family’s lands had been taken by cruel men and offer her talents as an artist to restore the convent’s books and statues. A resident painter would be an asset.

Adele fingered her cane. “Montgomery intends to marry Gwyneth off. He says her beauty will cause discord.”

“I cannot save Gwyneth.” Nor anyone here. With one last glance at the looking glass, Brenna hurried from behind the dressing screen. “Gwyneth should count herself fortunate that Montgomery is only marrying her off and not having her whipped and beheaded. I’ll have no part in provoking him further.” She retrieved a wimple, secured it on her head and snatched her pack. “We must leave post haste. Come with me, Adele.”

Challenging him with the knife had been daftness incarnate. She might rant to God about the unfairness of being born a woman, but ranting did not change the fact that it was so. Her safety lay in running.

Her father had shown an unholy disregard for their lives and the lives of the castlefolk by annoying Montgomery in the attack. She would no longer be a part of his schemes. Hurrying to the exit, she reached for the door.

The door flung open afore she could touch it. The terrier set off a shrill yapping, but Adele shushed him quickly.

Brenna yelped as Montgomery appeared in the doorframe. ’Twas as if speaking of escape had conjured their jailer from the pits of hell. He wore black hose and a black tunic and was larger even than she had remembered. In his hands, he carried a chain.

Yesterday’s memory of being dragged to the courtyard, pushed to her knees, tied and whipped loomed in her mind. Her chest squeezed, choking off the air in her lungs. She looked for any signs of softness that he might have forgiven the ambush and stabbing and saw none. His jaw was set in a sharp line and tension pulled across his wide shoulders.

He had come to finish the beheading.

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed Adele who leaned on her cane and headed to the door. St. Paul scrambled into her arms.

Panthos wagged his tail and licked Montgomery on the hand as he followed her. Adele’s familiar uneven gait faded. The terrier growled at him and Montgomery bent and held out his palm for the dog.

Duncan paused, reached his nose warily forward and sniffed the outstretched hand before following the pack out.

Montgomery straightened. “I have new jewelry for you, wife.” The last word was spat out like a bitter curse, his generous lips lifted into a snarl.

Warily, Brenna stepped back, her gaze darting to the open door and then the window. Obviously his softer side, if indeed he had one, was reserved for animals and not humans.

The metal clanked in Montgomery’s hand and then unfurled. Five loops of iron connected by chains hung on his palms.

Brenna’s eyes widened and sweat beaded on her upper lip.

Fetters of a slave.

Bloody hell. “Chains! You plan to chain me?” Despair rose in her chest as all her plans to shelter in a convent disappeared like smoke in the wind.

He began to stalk toward her, obviously planning more than to merely behead her. Humiliation and torture lay in her future.

“You cannot be serious,” she gasped.

“You are a traitor. The chains should be the least of your worries.”

Her legs turned watery thinking of prisoners sentenced to have their skin stripped from their bodies and their muscle and bones torn and broken by large hammers and hooks. Their screams of agony could last for days. ’Twas the price of treason.

She frantically scanned the chamber, looking for a way out. If she could make it to the window, she could fling herself into the courtyard—die a quick death. Taking her own life would land her a place in hell. But surely the devil had more mercy than The Enforcer.

Brenna edged toward the opening. If she moved too quickly, Montgomery would suspect and thwart her purpose.

The chains clanked as he paced closer, looming like a dark shadow. His eyes were steely and full of purpose, terrifying in their intensity.

Her heart hammered, beating so furiously she thought she could hear the sound thudding throughout the chamber. She stepped toward the window, her thighs tensing to make the final leap.

As if anticipating her move, Montgomery closed in on her.

She lunged; death beckoned her like a generous mistress of light. Her fingers touched the windowsill, her knee on the embrasure seat.

His hand closed around her calf just as she scrambled up on the window bench to make the final leap toward freedom and the safety of hell.

“Nay!” She kicked back at him, frantic for him to release her. “Let me go!”

He pulled her back. Her knees and thighs bumped on the edge of the seat and her chest scraped across the top of it. “Cease fighting, wench! There will be no such swift end for you.”

She screamed, panic flooding her mind, and tried to wiggle away.

Undaunted by her efforts, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. “Shhh. Shhh. Be calm, wife.” This time the word didn’t sound like a curse. It was low and deep and soothing. He held her tightly, squelching her struggles.

She pushed against him, pressing her arms and legs outward to get away. ’Twas like trying to fight an iron cage, but she struggled until her strength was spent.

Tears rolled down her face. ’Twas pointless to combat him. Utterly, completely pointless.

He was a large man. She was a woman. A wedded woman under the hand of her lord and master who could punish her at his whim. Furthermore, he was The Enforcer, a powerful man, legally empowered to torture and execute her as he saw fit.

More tears fell down her cheeks as her helplessness sank in. She furiously wiped them away, angry at her defeat.

Slowly he eased his grip. “Do not try to escape.”

She tried to rally her strength, to give one last nod at getting free even though she knew it was futile. Weakness filled her limbs; her legs felt like lead weights. Her shoulders slumped and she nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Her own voice startled her. So this is how it would be—a world filled with “yes, my lord” and “of course, my lord” and “as you wish, my lord” until he finally tired of torturing her and finished the beheading.

“Stay here.” He stood and the straw mattress jiggled.

Numbly, Brenna stared at him as he bent to retrieve the loops and chains from the floor. There may as well have been devil horns poking from his dark hair. She curled into a fetal position, hugging a pillow. Her stomach churned.

Straightening, Montgomery held the device up, his face as merciless and cold as a Roman warlord. Five iron manacles linked by a lightweight chain slid across his palms. Two for her wrists, two for her ankles, and one for her neck.

Her breath clogged in her throat. The cold, hard iron would wind around her neck and link to her limbs in a way that every step would be hobbled. She would not be free to run, or stretch or even climb stairs without trouble.

Worse, she would never be able to paint again. Even if she could break into the locked trunk, the chains would slop in the colors and drag across the canvas, inhibiting her from freely moving the brush.

She would be a slave in every sense of the word.

“There is truly no nee—”

“I won’t have you jumping out of windows or trying to stab me at every turn.” The links of chain slid across his long, blunt fingers. Clink. Clink. Clink.

She shivered.

The mattress ropes creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Come, captive wife”—he patted his lap—“stretch your neck o’er my knees so I may fasten on your new necklace.”

Every bit of pride she possessed crashed to the surface. Lay her head over his knees and allow him to snap a collar around her neck like one of Adele’s pack?

Demeaning!

“Unless you would prefer to stretch it over the axeman’s block again.” The words were spoken as mild and politely as if he were offering her a choice between a slice of bread and a sweetmeat.

“I have no fear of death,” she said shakily. Had she not just thought to kill herself moments before?

“Then perhaps we could stretch you o’er the spokes of the wheel.”

She swallowed, a touch of ice shooting inside her veins. She’d once seen a man executed by that means. The victim had every joint broken in his arms and legs. Then his limbs were braided through the spokes of a large wheel, which was hoisted atop a tall pole. Around and around he spun as ravens plucked bits of bloody flesh from the man’s body.

Her hand went instinctively to her throat as she scrutinized Montgomery’s face for any sign that he was bluffing.

His jaw was hard as flint. No flicker of compassion shone in his eyes, and he gazed back at her as if he knew the battle was already won and merely waited for her to acknowledge it.

His long fingers skimmed over the links of the chain, one by one, as if counting them.

She shuddered. No doubt The Enforcer had sentenced many to death on the wheel and felt no measure of guilt over the pain they would suffer. “Is that how your last wife was murdered?”

His fingers stilled on the chain. “Nay.”

“But you did murder her, didn’t you?”

The mote in his eye reddened. “Some say that. Not the wise ones.”

A deathly silence hung in the room. And she knew the battle was won.

Angrily wiping the tears from her cheeks, she moved to a kneeling position. Her face heated at what she was about to do. “’Tis vile to treat one’s wife such,” she said, unable to contain her tongue.