Improper Seduction (10 page)

“Meet me, Bridget. Give me your tongue.”

Yes …

That was the only thought her mind seemed able to hold. Her mouth opened for his kiss, and she sent her tongue toward his, stroking along its surface. Another growl came from him, and he pressed her tighter against him. She could feel the hard outline of his cock against her belly, and it tore her away from the pleasure of the kiss. His hand left her head, smoothing along the column of her throat and down to boldly stroke the swell of her breast. Excitement made her shiver,
and her nipple begged for his fingers to travel lower so that she might feel what it was like to have his hand on them.

You yearn for it so much …

She retreated, letting her body fall back against the tree instead of pressing so feverishly up against his, the force of her desire shocking her. Watching Tomas and Marie had not prepared her for how her body was demanding she allow Curan to claim her.

“Enough, Curan. We have agreed that this is not the place to …” Her voice was too husky, shocking her further, so she shut her lips while her hands gripped the rough bark of the tree behind her.

He allowed her retreat, but only a few inches. Her breath came in pants, but his was labored, too.

“I see that your tutoring did not include true kissing, even if you were shown what to expect.”

He drew in a deep breath and stepped back. “We will wait until we reach Amber Hill.”

Each word sounded as though it were forced through his teeth. But she understood why. Her entire body was pulsing with needs so great they were rapidly transforming into demands. She fisted her fingers in her skirts while fighting off the urge to reach for him once more.

She longed to, actually craved having their skin meet again. The urge to shed her dress and press against him pounded through her so loud and hard it drove almost every other thought from her mind.

“These … feelings. They cannot be right.”

Her words were a mere whisper, a vain attempt to regain some measure of control over the weakness that seemed to have taken command of her flesh. How did one kiss destroy so many years of practice and instruction on proper behavior?

Curan snorted. “I see why the courtesan was on her way to
you again.” He reached out and clasped her wrist to draw her slowly away from the tree. With a turn he began leading her down the remaining distance to where his men were camped.

“She hadn’t finished your lessons.” He stopped just short of breaking through the trees and cupped her chin in a warm hand once again. To her starving senses, the contact was jarring and she shivered.

“I will look forward to introducing you to the pleasure intimacies can produce in a woman when her partner takes the time to make sure she is satisfied.”

Satisfied …

Curan was as far from that as possible. He stopped when they broke through the tree line and allowed his bride to leave his side. He had to hook his hands into his belt to keep from taking her back up into the night for enough privacy to relieve the ache in his cock.

Yet he did not suffer passion’s burn alone. That bit of knowledge drew a stiff breath from him while he watched Bridget make her way back toward the wagon she’d traveled in. Her step was hurried and her hips not nearly as steady now. Her poise was deserting her in the face of the flames licking her body.

It was astounding—the way they were attracted to each other. How had he missed it three years ago? He had chosen her for many reasons, always understanding that celebrating his union would be another duty required of him. Something stirred inside him, and he realized he was happy for the first time in a very long time. There weren’t many possibilities for personal happiness while earning his spurs of knighthood, or in the service that was required of him after he became a knight. The years since he’d left his father’s house to begin training stretched out in a cold trail of completed tasks. For sure, he
had been proud the day he received his knighthood and likewise during the times he had ridden in the midst of other lords who respected him for what he had proven on the field of battle.

The feeling settled in his chest, and he stood still to enjoy it. Bridget climbed easily into the wagon in spite of her dress and bulky surcoat. He was rather grateful for the over-garment that hid her form from his gaze. It would seem his self-discipline was inadequate to the task of resisting her.

There was a confidence in her he admired. Truth was he had no patience for helplessness even if he had spent many hours tempering his judgment to expect his bride to need some coddling. His lips curled up. Somehow he doubted his bride would enjoy hearing his thoughts. She was stubborn, a trait he didn’t find at all repulsive. After all, he was not some polished gentleman of court. Amber Hill did not need a lady who was despondent over being denied the court atmosphere. They would not live without comforts, but there would be work aplenty for his new wife to see to.

Yet he wondered if she would be happy. He had little taste for dealing with those who could not adjust to the way things were. Too many times he’d seen noble sons sent off to earn the respect of their king by riding with him, only to hear them whine about everything that wasn’t up to their standards. Spoiled. There was no other word to place upon them.

Well, his bride was neither a child nor spoiled. He allowed the grin to remain on his face as he walked farther into camp. It was a fine day in spite of the circumstances that had almost seen him having to fight for his rights as Bridget’s groom. He would have fought for her, and the devil take whichever man thought to claim her away from him. Maybe the throbbing cock in his britches was a result of the years he had carried the image of her face in his dreams. On countless nights he had
closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy the vision of her face, the way she moved or the shy manner with which she had sneaked glances at him. Now that he thought about it, the happiness warming his heart wasn’t very surprising at all. He had considered her his for three long years, enjoyed her in his dreams, and taken his only leisure while thinking of her.

They would both be happy. Her brazen kiss was proof of that. Stoking her passion would be the perfect place to begin demonstrating just how content she would be as his wife.

It was a situation he was eager to begin showing her.

S
o this was passion.

It was as much a torment as it was delightful.

Bridget tried to hold her head steady while covering the space between the trees and the wagon. She couldn’t recall being so ill at ease before, not even when she was younger and first placed in a position of authority over the household. Tonight, it felt as if every man watching her could tell that her nipples were hard behind her stays. Her cheeks colored because she was very sure that Curan knew it.

She certainly understood that he was the one causing her such upset.

Passion …

Hot and thick, moving through her veins like strong cider. The sort that her mother had insisted she sample so that she would know how potent it was, just as her mother had brought Marie to show her the power passion might yield over a man. At the moment Bridget found herself longing for that final lesson Marie had promised her.

Curan seemed very willing to instruct her; that was as clear as a summer day. To be honest, she was enjoying his tutoring. Watching Marie and Tomas had not been nearly as enjoyable as having Curan’s hand on her thigh.

What did it feel like to be touched on more sensitive parts of her body?

She was sure her blush was burning bright enough to illuminate her shame now, but the men around her only looked away when their gazes connected with her. It was a reflex, something they did without thinking because they turned their attention to any motion near them. Once they realized it was their lord’s bride, their eyes shifted. That was true respect for the man they followed. She reached the wagon and climbed in, only pausing on the tailgate to unlace her boots lest she track dirt into her bed. The evening air was chilly on her stocking-clad feet, and she scooted into the back of the wagon where she might pull her toes up into the folds of her clothing.

Someone had laid out one of the rolls of bedding. Considering that ninety percent of the men making the trip to northern England would be passing the night on the hard ground, the fact that any of them had even taken time to see to her comforts was an extreme luxury.

“Beg pardon, lady.”

Bridget looked back at the foot of the wagon to see one of Curan’s officers. She recalled his face from those who had stood nearest him when he had first arrived. This was the man who had moved her mother. He had light blue eyes that seemed to make his gaze sharper.

“We downed a few deer today, and your mother had her kitchens bake bread for us as well.”

He stretched out his arm and placed a large wooden bowl as close to her as his arm length allowed. Even covered with a linen cloth, the rich aroma of roasted meat teased her nose.

“Thank you.”

“I am Synclair, first in command. You may look to me when
Lord Ryppon is not present; he has charged me with your welfare, lady.”

“I see.”

Synclair inclined his head but did not lower his gaze. There was a firm confidence in him that reminded her of Curan, but it did not send a jolt down her spine. This man was just as hardened, just as polished in his skills, but there was nothing drawing her closer to him.

At least it would appear that she was not wanton. Or only when it came to Curan, it seemed. A curse with a blessing attached, now there was a paradox if ever she had heard one.

“You should eat, lady.”

Her thoughts had distracted her yet again. “Yes, I shall.”

She reached for the bowl and had to force herself to do so calmly. Her belly rumbled low and long, berating her for losing sight of how hungry she was. The night would seem endless if she neglected to fill her stomach.

Synclair watched her silently. His armor breastplate was missing, but a gold knight’s chain sat proudly over his shoulders. It was a symbol of his years in service, and the intense focus of his eyes on her felt misplaced because every other man had spent the day looking away from her. This knight appeared to take the matter of her not eating as more important than the need to allow her privacy. That spoke of command and grooming to rise in rank. Unless she judged incorrectly, this knight was one whom Curan relied upon to help command his men. One of his captains, his helmet would have feathers that proclaimed his rank. He was one that she would have to watch if she planned to escape.

“It is not necessary for you or Lord Ryppon to give so much attention to my eating habits.”

She found it difficult to consider taking even one bite while being scrutinized so closely.

“The pair of you are treating me like a prized mare. I am not some child who must be monitored.”

Surprise registered on Synclair’s face, but he remained firmly in place for another long moment, clearly considering her words against those of his lord’s.

“Yet you are prized, lady. The border land is an uncertain place. Attention must be paid to ensure your safe arrival at Amber Hill.” His gaze shifted to the wagon cover that was tied securely in place along the sides of the wagon now. “It is not my intention or Lord Ryppon’s to see your modesty bruised.”

But keeping a close eye on her would be their way, no matter her feeling on the matter. Bridget saw that truth clearly illuminated in his eyes. A firm, unwavering set to his expression confirmed his opinion of her position as his responsibility. Her mother’s words returned.

“Trust no one with a sword …”

Wise advice, indeed. Synclair did not move until she uncovered the meal he had brought. The way he watched her definitely bruised her pride. She felt the sting of this hurt even after the knight inclined his head and left her to eat in privacy. Escaping would not prove simple. She resisted thinking that it might be impossible. She resisted thinking that she would prefer it to be impossible.

Then she truly would be free to enjoy what delights Curan promised her.

She scoffed at her own ideas. The man had more threatened her with those pleasures of the flesh than promised her them. She recalled very plainly the look in his eyes and the feeling of his hand tugging her skirt up. Firm purpose, coupled with the same passion she felt burning her as well. A passion that removed any conscious choice in the matter because her body had already decided to yield.

She had to remain firm; to falter would see her ruined. No
matter how much Curan desired her body, the man had contracted her for the connections and dowry that came from her father. If her sire cut her off without a shilling for disobeying his command to marry Lord Oswald, she would be less fortunate than a whore, for she would have nothing for the favors she gave to Curan.

Not only would she have nothing at all, but possibly a child in her belly. Her best option was to beg to remain as his leman when he took another wife who brought him everything he desired from marriage.

She stopped eating before finishing the portion given to her, her grim thoughts killing her appetite. When had life become so dim? Truthfully, she had been spoiled. Never had there been such a lack of hope in her life. Now there was only the very difficult task of somehow escaping the diligence of Synclair and Curan, before attempting to cross the border into Scotland while avoiding any Scots who might decide to slit her throat simply because she was English.

These thoughts were quite dark indeed, crowding her mind and giving her little peace throughout the night. She huddled beneath the bedding and woke several times, keenly aware of the howl of the wind. It sounded colder and lonelier than she could ever recall. The only mercy came when the camp began to stir at the very first hint of dawn. But the day was gray; the thick clouds massing above them were black with the promise of rain.

The precipitation began to fall before noon, but there was nothing to do save continue onward. The wagon cover was well oiled, providing her with a haven of dryness that none of her escort enjoyed. From the opening at the foot of the wagon she could see the water turning chest armor shiny. Drops dripped off helmet edges, and the horses’ coats darkened. The steady clop of their hooves became a sloshing sound when the
road turned to mud. The wagon began to sink, and the team pulling it snorted as they tried to drag it through the mire.