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Lord of Fire,Lady of Ice(19)

By:Michelle M. Pillow


She shook her head and tried to back away from him, but she couldn’t wrench her arm from the force of his grasp. Her lips trembled. Again her words were a soft plea that only he could hear. “Don’t do this. Please, don’t.”

“Turn yer backs,” Serilda instructed the two maids bearing witness. “M’lady, lie down on the bed.”

Brant waited until the maids complied, aware that his bride had no intention of moving. Her face had iced over with a look of foreboding. Her limbs stopped shaking and her eyes were eerily dry. He searched her cheeks for tears. Surely an alarmed woman would wail and cry out for mercy. There was nothing in her features, just a blank wall.

He led her to the bed by her unresisting arm and helped her to sit. Then he gently laid her on her back. Her behavior frightened him. Never had he thought his obstinate bride would become so docile, her breathing shallow and slow. She remained motionless as her eyes stared into the ceiling and then past it. The midwife lifted her dress.

Nay, Ice Princess, stay with me.

Brant couldn’t help himself. His eyes hungrily devoured her as Serilda lifted her gown to expose her ankles, the delicate curve of her calves, the creamy white skin of her inner thighs. She was beautifully formed—not too athletic, not too soft. He wondered what it would be like to have her legs wrapped about his waist as he thrust wildly into her. The thought instantly brought to mind the day before, when he had been very close to doing just that.

Brant sighed as he touched her arm. She didn’t respond, didn’t seem to notice him. His heartbeat quickened in panic. He poked her harder and still she didn’t move. Not even to flinch. When he lifted her arm slightly, it dropped once again to her side—lifeless.

The midwife kept Della’s nightgown over the tops of her thighs for the sake of modesty, though the rest of her legs were laid out for view. Her feet were as still as stone, her legs didn’t kick. She was like a corpse. Serilda took a small, white, square piece of linen and handed it over to him for inspection.

Brant sat on the bed and edged closer to his bride. He nodded, acknowledging the linen was unstained. Again he caressed Della’s arm in hopes of eliciting a response. He was disappointed.

The midwife took the cloth and wrapped it around two of her fingers. Spreading Della’s legs a bit, she shoved it unceremoniously inside the noblewoman’s still body. He frowned at the deliberate motion and unnecessary roughness, but there was nothing he could say. All words died in his throat.

Della let out a soft moan and moved her hand close to her temple to clutch her fingers open and shut on his arm. Her eyes rolled back into her head before she closed them. A single tear fell silently across her cheek.

Brant held her hand as the midwife worked, his heart going out to her. Her fingers kneaded into him. But, despite her suffering, she didn’t let another sound escape her lips. Not knowing what to say, he delicately rubbed the pad of his thumb across her wrist. She felt so small and fragile and weak, nothing like the defiant woman who had faced him down but a moment before.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the midwife withdrew the linen and held it up for his inspection. A small red stain glared at him from the square piece of material. He nodded, not saying a word. The midwife stood without drawing Della’s dress down to cover her legs. Brant let out an exasperated sigh and quickly covered her thighs before the midwife called the maids to examine the cloth.

When Brant leaned back to look at Della, she glared accusingly at him. Her face was drawn and pale as she ripped her fingers from his hand. Without saying a word, she turned away from him and curled into a ball.

Brant moved to the door. He nodded to Lord Strathfeld, unable to get out more than a whisper. “It’s done. She is pure.”

Serilda held up the cloth for the ealdorman to see. Lord Strathfeld nodded and turned without speaking. He slowly made his way down the hall, looking nothing like the great war hero he was.

After the maids and midwife left, Brant shut the door and turned to the immobile woman on the bed. She hadn’t moved. A small shudder racked her body, but she let no more tears fall from her cold eyes.

“Della?” His words were very soft as he went to her side. He leaned closer to better see her face, staring down at her. The faintest hint of where her tear had fallen showed on her cheek. He reached to brush the trail from her flesh, but her cold words stopped him.

“I will never forgive this.” She rolled away from him.

Nodding, he realized she couldn’t see the gesture. Stiff and awkward, he sat on the bed. He lifted his hand to her back and tried to comfort her. She pulled away from him, cutting him off. His hand fell to his lap and all words died before they were spoken.