Pagnell had bound and gagged Elizabeth, rolled her in a filthy piece of canvas and ordered his man, John, to deliver her to the notoriously lecherous, satyric, hot-blooded Miles Montgomery. Of all the four Montgomery men, Elizabeth knew that the youngest, a boy of only twenty years, just two years older than Elizabeth, was the worst. Even in the convent where she’d spent the last several years, she’d heard stories of Miles Montgomery.
She’d been told that he’d sold his soul to the devil when he was sixteen and as a result he had an unholy power over women. Elizabeth had laughed at the story but she’d not told the reason for her laughter. She thought it much more likely that Miles Montgomery was like her dead brother Edmund and had ordered women to his bed. It was a pity that this Montgomery’s seed seemed to be so fertile, for it was rumored that he had a hundred bastards.
Three years ago a young girl, Bridget, had left the convent where Elizabeth often lived to go and work at the ancient Montgomery fortress. She was a pretty girl with big dark eyes and swaying hips. To Elizabeth’s disgust, the other residents alternately acted as if the girl were going to her wedding or to be a human sacrifice. The day before Bridget left, the prioress spent two hours with her and at vespers the girl’s eyes were red from crying.
Eleven months later, a traveling musician brought them the news that Bridget had been delivered of a large, healthy boy who she named James Montgomery. It was freely admitted that Miles was the father.
Elizabeth joined in the many prayers offered for the girl’s sins. Privately she cursed all men like her brother Edmund and Miles Montgomery—evil men who believed women had no souls, who thought nothing of beating and raping women, of forcing them to do all manner of hideous acts.
She had no time for more thoughts as John grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her to her feet.
“Your time for prayers is over,” he said into her face. “Montgomery has made camp and it’s time he got a look at his next…”—he smiled—“mother of his next bastard.”
He laughed aloud when Elizabeth struggled against him, and when she realized he enjoyed her struggles, she stopped and gave him her coldest look.
“Witch!” he flung at her. “We’ll see if this devil Montgomery can capture the angel you look like—or will he find your heart as black as his own?”
Smiling, his hand twisted in her hair, he brought a sharp little dagger to rest against her throat. When she didn’t flinch at the feel of the cold steel against her skin, his smile changed to a smirk.
“Sometimes the Montgomery men make the mistake of talking to women instead of using them as God meant them to be used. I plan to see that this Montgomery has no such ideas.”
Slowly, he trailed the tip of the blade down her throat to the high square neck of what was left of her gown.
Her breath held, her eyes on his, her anger held under rigid control, she stood very still. She would not goad him to use the knife on her.
John did not cut her skin, but the blade easily parted the front of her dress and her tight corset under it. When he’d exposed the full curve of her breasts, he looked back into her face. “You’ve been hiding a great deal, Elizabeth,” he whispered.
She stiffened and looked away from his face. It was true that she dressed conservatively, flattening her breasts, thickening her waist. Her face attracted more men than she wanted, but aside from covering her hair she could do nothing about her face.
John was no longer interested in her face as he concentrated on slicing away the rest of her gown. He’d seen very few women nude and never one of Elizabeth Chatworth’s station—or her beauty.
Elizabeth’s spine was so stiff it could have been made of steel and when her clothes fell away and her bare skin felt the warm August sun, she knew that this was more painful than what had heretofore been done to her.
An ugly expletive from John, uttered from deep within him, made her blink.
“Damn Pagnell!” he cursed and reached for her.
Elizabeth stepped backward and tried to muster her dignity as she glared at John, saw he was practically foaming at the mouth. “You touch me and you’re a dead man,” she said loudly. “If you kill me, Pagnell will have your head—and if you do not, I will see that he finds out what you have done. And have you forgotten my brother’s rage? Is your life worth one coupling with any woman?”
It took a moment for John to sober and bring his eyes to her face. “I hope Montgomery causes you endless misery,” he said with great feeling and stalked away to the carpet slung across his horse’s rump. Without a glance at her, he unrolled it on the ground.
“Lie down,” he commanded, his eyes on the carpet. “And let me warn you, woman, that if you disobey me I will forget Pagnell and Montgomery and your brother’s wrath.”
Obediently, Elizabeth lay down on the carpet, the short woolen nap pricking her skin, and when John knelt over her, she held her breath.
Roughly, he pushed her to her stomach, cut the bindings on her wrists, and before Elizabeth could even blink, he tossed the edge of the carpet over her and began rolling her in it. There were no more thoughts. Her only concern was a primitive instinct to continue breathing.
It seemed an eternity that she lay still, her head tilted back as she sought the air coming from the top of the carpet roll. When she was at last moved, lifted, she had to struggle to find air, and when she was tossed across the back of the horse, she thought her lungs would collapse.
John’s muffled words came through the layers of carpet. “The next man you see will be Miles Montgomery. Think on that while we ride. He won’t be as kind to you as I have been.”
In a way, the words were good for Elizabeth because the idea of Miles Montgomery, of his evil ways, gave her some incentive to work hard at breathing. And when the horse jolted her, she cursed the Montgomery family, their house, their retainers—and she prayed for the innocent Montgomery children who were part of this immoral clan.
The tent of Miles Montgomery was a splendid affair: deep green sendal trimmed in gold, the gold Montgomery leopards painted along the scalloped roof border, pennants flying from the crown. Inside, the walls were lined with pale green silk. There were several collapsible stools, cushioned with blue and gold brocade, a large table carved with the Montgomery leopards and, against opposite walls, two cots, one abnormally long, both draped with pelts of long-haired red fox.
Four men stood around the table, two dressed in the rich uniform of the Montgomery knights. The attention of the other two men was given to one of the retainers.
“He says he has a gift for you, my lord,” the knight was saying to the quiet man before him. “It could be a trick. What could Lord Pagnell have that you would want?”