Free Defiant by Jessica Trapp Page B

hideously furry feet, tonsured hair, and brows that pulled in tight between his eyes so that long lines ran up his forehead.
    “Mayhap we should not—” the monk started, but Irma cut him off with a snap of her fingers.
    The dagger eased from Jared’s back, and the pretty whore pointed it at the monk. Her arm was as straight and stable as royalty pronouncing judgment on a traitor. Haughty and imperious. “Begin.”
    Damn princess. Her dress was whore red, but of all things he was sure she was not some common harlot. But who?
    It did not matter. Whoever she was, he’d take pleasure in ripping her pride from her, hold her down and force her to eat like a cur off the floor. He pumped his hands to stave off the numbness that crept into his fingers; he needed presence of body as well as mind to get free from the shrew’s clutches.
    The monk cleared his throat. “This is not quite orthodo—”
    “Do it now, Giffard. I have no patience tonight,” Princess Harlot said. “For certes, you can smooth over any issues we might have with the church. You know the bishop.”
    “But I’m unsure if this is legal—”
    Irma stepped forward and whispered something in his ear. A blush crept from the neckline of his robe and trailed up his cheeks until even his earlobes glowed bright red.
    Fingering his Bible, the monk cleared his throat and began mumbling in Latin.
“Vis accipere hic praesentem in tuam legitimam uxorem …”
    Of a truth, the man was blackmailed. As caught in this sham as Jared himself.
    Thirst for justice coursed through Jared, eating at his stomach and burning coldly through his veins. He shook his head, trying to clear the vestiges of drug from his mind. The hemp ropes scraped and ate at his skin.
    More dizziness. Awash of acid came up in his throat.
    The church’s interior swam in an opulent display of color. The huge space, dappled with stained-glass rainbows, monstrous columns, and gory religious paintings, felt like a crowded tomb. One complete with grim reapers and souls destined for hell.
    Grunting, he fought the ropes, fought the bile, fought his spinning head. He rocked back and forth on his knees. His hair fanned around him.
    Ignoring his fury, the monk officiating the unholy sacrament droned on. “…
iuxta ritum sanctae matris
…”
    Heedlessly. Recklessly. Stupidly.
    He should have been saying his last rites instead of the marriage ceremony. Jared vowed to have justice if it was the last thing he did.
    “Calm, man.” Princess laid a delicate hand on his shoulder, petting him like an overanxious dog as his struggles threatened to topple him from his knees to his belly.
    Anger, so thick that he could taste it even against the sourness of the woolen gag, pulsed in Jared’s mouth. He swung his body, butting her arm forcefully away with his head.
    The motion off-balanced him and he fell, landing hard on his stomach, prostate at the strumpet’s feet.
    She knelt at once, laid a palm against his forehead. Her fingers were warm, not reptilian, as he had imagined they would be. “Irma, we cannot do this.”
    “Bah. ‘e’ll be fine. ‘e’s jes in a bit o’ a stir ‘cause ‘is pride kicked up. I know men. This one is quite tame.”
    Tame? He’d show her tame.
    Forcing himself to roll onto his side, Jared squinted up at the two female faces gazing at him. Irma’s eyes held little pity, but his bride-to-be’s were wide. One tendril of glistening hair roped downward from beneath her cowl.
    He stared at the distinctive strand of hair, wishing he could remove the covering and see more of it.
    Gwyneth of Windrose? His angel of light?
    A brick of betrayal dropped onto his chest. How could his Gwyneth, the one he had pined for, be this harpy before him?
    He looked at her again. Her features came into clear view for the first time. Nay. This woman was older, with sharp, harsh features made all the more prominent by the heavy layer of lead paint, darkkohl, and rouge. She lacked the luster of the fresh