Chapter 23
Deliverance
Istared down at the man on the bed in front of me.
Was this the man who had terrorized me for months?
If it were not for his steady, penetrating gaze, I would have never had any idea it might be him.
But as he turned toward me, his eye tracking my movements, I noticed.
He had only one eye. Where the other one had been was a burning hole, the flesh still sizzling with unsettling sounds.
“Gideon?” I whispered.
The man opened his mouth but no sounds came out.
My hands began to move almost independently of my mind, applying the delicate salves to his skin, my fingers burning as they came into contact with him.
What in all the heavens and hells had happened here?
Just then, Brother Bartholomew came in.
“Grayspires has fallen!”
“Grayspires?” I cried hoarsely. “What happened?”
“The entire manor has burned down.”
“Who–what? Was anyone injured?”
“One body.”
“Who–”
My eyes sought my patient’s. Was it only coincidence? Had Gideon died in the fire?
“A–woman. Was it someone you knew? They said it looked like it might have been your sister-in-law. I’m so sorry.”
A woman. Dead in the rubble of Grayspires, and Gideon Nightshade barely escaped with his life.
Ada.
My skin prickled at his proximity and I began to clean his wounds to cover my emotion.
He was severely injured and came in and out of consciousness—burns all over his body, several broken bones including every rib, and his left leg was entirely missing below the knee. For a time I wasn’t sure if he would live or die.
I took care of him until my body ached and my stomach tightened, and the hours, days, weeks blurred by.
He did not get to die. There were still things I wanted to say to him.
“You shouldn’t have to take care of him,” Bartholomew muttered one afternoon as he brought me up a bowl of hearty broth, only to see me get it ready to feed to my patient.
“It is my duty to,” I said. “No matter how wretched the sinner.”
At this Gideon opened an eye, and he had been unable to speak, but I saw his lips twitch.
“And this sinner,” I said, “is particularly wretched, vile, and unforgivable. He deceived an innocent virgin into marrying him, and planned to dispose of her when she became inconvenient.”
I waited to see if I could detect any sign of guilt in his eye, but my husband looked as wicked as ever, his lips curving up into a pleased smile.
“You cannot deceive me,” Bartholomew said. “I believe you still—harbor feelings for this man.”
“And are you going to be the one to draw me away from him?” I asked tartly, without thinking through the implications.
The monk groaned, tearing at his silky brown hair as he began to weep.
“If only I could! If only I hadn’t made this vow of celibacy!”
And then he was seizing me in his arms, dragging me away from my husband’s bedside, and—kissing me!
Bartholomew’s lips were exquisitely soft and kind, kissing me with a tender gentleness.
So gentle. So unlike my husband’s rough touch.
I could not help looking over at my patient to see that Gideon was watching me with a tortured eye. He opened his mouth to speak but, once again, nothing came out.
“I adore you,” Bartholomew groaned, cradling my head tenderly.
What a kind, good man, and I could not help putting my arms around him as best as I could with my belly in the way, appreciating all the ways Bartholomew had helped me.
“Stay away,” Gideon called out hoarsely.
In astonishment, I broke off the kiss to stare at my husband.
“You can speak!” I cried.
But he looked infuriated, and I shrieked in shock to see Gideon throw himself off the bed and onto the hard wooden floor.
He still could not walk, but that did not stop him as he dragged his body along the floor, the muscles standing out in those powerful forearms.
Bartholomew’s eyes widened in alarm to see my husband rise up as if from the dead to pursue us.
“Stop–get back,” he cried.
“No,” Gideon rasped out, his eye burning like a risen corpse, his arms so strong that he had already crossed the room while Bartholomew and I still stood there clasping each other.
The monk aimed a kick at Gideon’s face, but just at the last moment my husband gripped his foot and twisted hard.
I grabbed for Bartholomew but he had already started to fall, and Gideon was there dragging him to the ground with his fingers around the other man’s throat.
“You’re a godsdamn lunatic!” I shrieked, grunting slightly as I bent over to grab my psychotic husband by the back of his robe and twist.
I twisted again, drawing the cloth tighter around his throat, but Gideon didn’t drop his grip on Bartholomew. The monk began to turn a mottled red and purple color.
Allowing Bartholomew to get close to me was dangerous for him, and I should have known that. The longer I taunted my husband with him, the greater the chance Gideon would end up killing him.
“I will not worry about you again,” Gideon cursed as Bartholomew’s tongue lolled out of his mouth, and I knew I had to make a choice.
“Fine, I won’t touch him again!” I cried. “Just let him go!”
Only then did my manipulative husband relax his grip.
“Deliverance, it is not safe for you here,” Bartholomew gasped, staggering away to the door. “Do you want me to send a letter to St. Martin’s or any of the other abbeys in neighboring counties? As long as you are here, your husband is going to hunt you.”
“I would hunt her no matter what county she was in,” Gideon rasped out, his voice sounding raw.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I am not afraid of him. But I think it’s best if you go.”
Bartholomew nodded, then clasped my hands for a brief, fervent moment before leaving.
“If things were different,” he said, his eyes full of pain. “If I had not sworn an oath to the church, I would take you away from here and give you the peaceful life you deserve.”
“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”
But did I feel the same way? Was that the life I dreamed of?
Or did I dream of something else. . . something unspeakable?
I was looking for something to grab to help hoist my pregnant body up, when a big hand, burned and blackened, came up to my swollen belly.
“Our baby?”
“Doing very well,” I said. “I can feel movement almost every day now.”
“Good,” Gideon said, gripping the bottom of my robe and dragging me over on top of him.
“What are you doing?” I choked out, but a sharp slap on my thighs had me instinctively spreading them wide.
“What do you think, slut? I’m fucking dying for some cunny so open these legs.”
He held me trapped over his face as he pressed his tongue deep inside me, laving along the wet edges and ridges until I was squirming and overheated, shoving at him to get him to stop because I felt so twisted tight with a heavy, unbearable pressure between my thighs.
But of course he wouldn’t.
He never did.
He suckled and nipped at me until the tight knot of pressure inside me burst, and I looked down with astonishment to see liquid squirt out of me and coat his beard.
My hips seemed to move of their own accord, grinding over his face until the spasms were done and then it took only a moment for him to drag my wet cunny down still further so he could spear inside me with his prick.
“What happened at Grayspires?” I asked, but when I heard the answer I did not know whether to believe him or not. He was a liar and a manipulator and a villain, but he was here. And his beloved Grayspires was not.
Day by day, Gideon grew stronger, defying the monks that had predicted his death from the injuries.
And then one morning when the first spring buds had begun to hang heavy on the trees, I came upon Bartholomew carving a wooden leg.
“What is this?” I asked in astonishment. “Is this for my husband?”
“He has given a–very substantial donation to the church,” Bartholomew said. “And we have been—instructed to do all that is possible to make him comfortable.”
“A donation of money, I suppose?” I said caustically.
“No, strangely enough,” Bartholomew replied. “It was all his personal effects. He had jewelry, pins, and watch fobs of his own that were stored in town and thus survived the fire. All donated.”
“Hm,” I said, a bit impressed despite myself, but refusing to admit it. “Well, do not put much store by that. Mr. Nightshade does nothing without profit.”
But it seemed the donations had changed their minds. Now Mr. Nightshade was welcome at St. Mary’s Abbey anytime he chose to come.
But one day he was simply gone. Vanished from the infirmary without a word to anyone.
Wild theories and conjectures spread through every street of St. Mary’s. What had happened to him? Many speculated that the Devil himself had finally come to bring my wicked husband home.
When Bartholomew asked if I believed the rumors, I shook my head.
“If the mouth of hell opens up for my husband, I truly believe he will be there trying to drag me down with him.”
But as the spring days stretched on, and he did not return, I began to wonder.
Maybe he had finally forgotten about me.
“Good,” I said. “I hope he never comes back, the lying cheating bastard that he is.”
I could convince Bartholomew to abandon his vows and run away with me, pay a lawyer to declare my marriage annulled on the grounds of deception and degeneracy.
Only it would be no fun without Gideon around to defy, I reflected as I collected a handful of tree bark for some nourishing bark tea.
And then suddenly a bag was placed over my head and someone was picking me up, someone for whom it was no difficulty at all to hoist a heavily pregnant woman up and put her gently but very firmly into a carriage.
A familiar scent of leather and tobacco, mixed with a slightly unfamiliar spice, greeted me as I was plopped down unceremoniously on a velvet seat.