The Pleasures of Sin (14 page)

“Bathe, wife, or I’ll do it for you myself.”

She glared at him but began undoing the fastenings on her dress. With a heave, she flung the sopping kirtle into his face. The stench assaulted his nostrils. He drew it aside and tossed it beside the chains on the floor, more amused than annoyed.

Glowering at him, she raced through the motions of soaping herself.

Her hands flew fast and furious on her skin as if trying to peel off the filth of the past month’s dirt.

’Twas clear that although she did not wish to be where she was, being unclad in front of him didn’t embarrass or humiliate her. That fact fascinated him. His experience with noblewomen were that they were a silly lot, overly concerned about fashion and elaborate clothing, yet Brenna had never shown modesty, even when she’d bathed him the night of their wedding or when they had made their ill-fated bargain.

“Are you a virgin?” he demanded.

She stopped, the bathing cloth a thumb’s breadth above her skin. “I’ve had dozens of lovers,” she sneered. “You can tell that to the priest and have the marriage easily annulled.”

Cocking his head to one side, he scrutinized her. Her audacious declaration called to the conqueror within him, to rise and prove her wrong. She was lying. She had to be.

She went back to scrubbing her body, this time even harder. The skin around her wrists and ankles was red and tender—attacking them with lye soap was not going to help her.

Bending down, he pulled the cloth from her fingers. “Cease, Brenna, afore you rub yourself raw.”

She snatched at the cloth, coming partway out of the tub. “Give me that!”

“Not if you are going to harm yourself with it.”

“I won’t. Give it back.”

“Cease fighting me, Brenna. You cannot win. This can be easy for you or difficult—either way, there is only one ending to this evening and it does not involve annulment.”

They glared at each other for a moment.

With a glower, she sank back into the water and drummed her fingers on the edge of the tub.

Kneeling behind her, he cupped her upper arm. He would do well to be wary of her unpredictability, but he intended to conquer her one way or another.

Her back was rigid, but she did not fight him as he ran the cake of soap across her shoulders. Good. At least she’d given up on trying to fight him physically.

He sniffed at the soap. It was harsh lye, not well made at all. Certainly not suitable for a noblewoman. Setting the soap on the floor, he decided to use only his hands to wash her.

He drifted his fingertips up her neck and then down her spine. “Relax, girl. Trust me, just for right now.”

Trust him! Of all the daft notions. Brenna seethed silently as Montgomery ran his fingers over and down her back. If fighting him would do any good at all, she would fly out of the tub and hurl herself at him.

But, even without the chains and manacles, he was too large. Too powerful. Too masculine.

He loomed over her, his big body with its wide chest and long muscular legs eclipsing everything else in the room.

Wearily, she slumped forward and leaned her head on one side of the tub, fuming that she had to submit to his ministrations. She had planned to state her case with some form of dignity, but instead had attacked him like an animal. Her brain felt foggy and bewildered. This past month she’d become more and more frightened, terrified she’d be living in chains, dirty, exhausted, and helpless, for the rest of her life.

Despair welled inside her as he ran his large hands over her shoulders. She hated that they felt good; the calluses on his fingertips rasped her skin, cleansing away the feel of grime. Had she sank so low that even her enemy’s touch was welcomed?

He had said that there was only one ending to this evening. Likely as soon as he had her clean, he’d be slamming into her, consummating their marriage, finishing what he had started weeks ago.

She hated him. Hated him!

Vowing to face her fate with dignity, she tried to conjure up images of Italy, of how her life in the convent would be when she was able to escape.

“I am sorry, girl, truly I am.”

Blackheart. Liar.

He did not rush to clean her as she assumed he would. His fingers lingered over her back and shoulders, rubbing up and down in slow, sensual strokes. Over and over again his hands roamed, smoothing away knots and washing every trace of filth from her skin.

“I know you do not believe me, but ’twas not my intention to be gone so long and leave you chained. Two bridges were washed out by rain so that we had to take a much longer route home. We were waylaid twice, attacked by thieves and two horses fell lame from slipping in the mud so we were reduced to walking until we could secure more mounts. I sent word back with a key, but we found that man dead days later.”

She didn’t believe him, but the words sounded like balm anyway.

“Forgive me, Brenna.” He kissed her shoulder and the rough feel of his beard rasped her skin.

He hadn’t shaved.

There was something telling about that. Everything about the man had been so precise: from the creases in his tunic to the spotless shine on his boots. But, here, he returned as bedraggled as she felt.

“I’m sorry, Brenna,” he murmured, his generous lips brushing the top of her shoulder. “Truly, truly sorry.” He massaged down her arms, then her legs. He caressed the crevices between her fingers in unhurried motions. Despite her nudity, not once did he reach for her private parts or attempt to jump on her—his fingers remained on her back and arms sliding slowly up and down.

Little by little she felt herself being sucked into his spell. He kept murmuring gentle words against her neck and his breath caused her skin to heat and tingle. Slowly, she lost track of everything but the present. He massaged her lower back then took her arm and placed little kisses all around where the manacle had braceleted her wrist. The skin was no longer red or itchy.

The knots beneath her shoulder blades eased, and, against her will, she felt her betraying body begin to relax.

She sat up in the tub, not wanting to feel that languid sensual sentiment, not wanting to enjoy the touch of a man who had brought her so much grief. For an instant, she wished her back was whelped and scarred, that her wrists and ankles were bruised, that somehow she was injured to prove how horrid and evil he was.

But she knew she was not. She had been dirty, not harmed.

Montgomery slid to the side of the tub. His hand dipped lower into the water, cupping beneath her knees and back, and he lifted her effortlessly into the air. Water dripped onto his tunic and she felt vulnerable being naked while he was clothed.

She stiffened, then forced herself to relax. A man who took his time massaging her and gave her the courtesy of both explanation and apology for his absence, did not plan to harm her, no matter his size and strength.

He carried her to the bed, pushed the curtains back and laid her across the mattress. Her stomach churned nervously as she waited for what lay ahead. Anticipation warred with dread. Would it hurt? His member had been enormous.

She swallowed. “About our bargain—”

“Our bargain still stands and you are still mine. The image of you off-balance, bent over my arm with your skirt upraised and a trickle of woman’s fluid wetting your thighs has kept me warm these past weeks.”

Her face flooded with heat at his words and the memory of how his fingers had felt as they traced their way down her spine and between her buttocks.

“You wanted me then,” he continued.

She shuddered. “I don’t want you now,” she said, but the lick of heat in her woman’s core belied the words.

“Hmmm.” He rolled her onto her stomach, his sleeves brushing her bare skin. “Stay here.”

With unhurried movements, he backed away and shrugged out of his tunic. Brenna watched with lowered lids. Despite her anger at him, the artistry of his body fascinated her. His shoulders were so wide and tanned. Muscles moved beneath his skin, rippling and undulating.

He stretched casually in an obvious display to show off his body to its full glory. It was vulgar. Shameful. Magnificent.

He was beautiful and he knew it, how horridly arrogant. She tried to turn aside but couldn’t seem to make herself do so. She nearly moaned as he moved his hands to the waist of his breeches and teased at the laces. He watched her, observing her with all the casualness of a coiled snake ready to strike. If only she had done a better job at hiding her fascination with his large, male body all those weeks ago when she had bathed him. This purposeful onslaught to her senses was not fair.

With infinite slowness, he unlaced the ties and peeled off the rest of his clothing.

Her mouth went dry.

His member stood partially erect, but still relaxed.

The lines of his body were as well drawn as any painting. All sinew and strength. Round buttocks. Long, long legs. Thickly corded muscles. The curve of his hip was sculpted with such beauty that it would have made a master artist weep.

Devastating.

How could such evil be held in such a perfect body?

He stepped into the tub, his thighs flexing in a compelling masculine display.

She cursed herself for watching, but her eyes seemed to follow his every move of their own accord.

Water trickled down the sensuous line of his back as he ran the cloth over his shoulders. The gesture was slow, practiced, as if he were a merchant displaying his wares.
Like what you see? Isn’t this muscle interesting? How about this arm?

As if he was testing the truth of her statement that she did not want him. How utterly, utterly horrid.

His thickly corded biceps danced beneath his tanned skin as he moved the cloth slowly over his wide chest and down the bumpy dips and valleys that made up his stomach.

Her breath caught in her throat. How could she resist such beauty?

For a wicked instant she remembered how it had been when she had bathed him. Heat seeped into her core in a hot wave of desire and she wanted to slide off the bed and follow the paths of the water rivulets with her finger.

She slammed her eyes closed, squelching that daft thought. He was her captor, not her lover.

“Look at me,” he commanded in a low voice.

Swallowing, she reopened her eyes—and nearly lurched off the mattress. The bed ropes protested her sudden movement.

He stood right beside her, water dripping off his torso in interesting rivulets. Intensity swirled in his eyes like a sea storm. In his hand, he held the blade she’d tried to kill him with.

She yelped and shrank back with a shudder, holding her hands up in a feeble attempt to protect herself. “Y–y–you don’t need the knife; I wasn’t going to fight you,” she stammered, horrified to realize she spoke the truth, and equally horrified to realize that if he planned to slit her throat, she was completely at his mercy.

“Peace, girl,” he said, proffering the blade. “I want you to shave me. We need new memories between us with this knife.”

Taking the dagger, she scrambled off the mattress, wrapping the sheet around herself as a makeshift garment. He loomed over her. The bed curtains flittered and she stared at the blade. The glow from the low fire in the hearth flickered across it, showing that he’d sharpened it to a razor edge. The handle was warm, heated by his skin. Should she try again to stab him? To slit his throat?

Her fingers tightened.

He caught her wrist in his hand, latching around it like the manacle had been. “Think carefully before you act,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.

Blinking, she leaned her head way back so she could scrutinize his face.

He was watching her intently, the blue of his eyes gleaming like dark sapphires. Releasing her wrist, he indicated the cake of soap and the three-legged stool beside her table. “Shave me.”

She smarted at the command. Shaving him instead of stabbing him would just prove how fully captive she was. She had to at least attempt to rid herself of him. She
had
to. Didn’t she?

He turned, giving her an open view of his back, and walked to the stool. Arrogant bastard! As if he thought her so puny he did not even have to look at her and that she would heel like a dog.

Her fingers slid down the length of the blade, resting lightly on the tip between her thumb and forefinger. Afore, she had stabbed him instead of flinging the knife. Stabbing was not her skill. But now he was across the room like one of her targets. And this time the knife was very sharp.

She
could
kill him.

He had apologized
. Relentlessly. The thought struck her as sharply as if a paintbrush had jabbed her in the eye.
He washed me, bathed me, massaged me, carried me from where I had been laying on the stairs.

Those were not the actions of a monster.

But he kept me dirty and terrified, chained for over a month
, her mind argued.

But he bathed me
.

“Brenna?”

She blinked, coming back to the present, glad of the distraction from her warring thoughts.

Montgomery sat at her table desk, his legs splayed as he sat on the stool in a pose worthy of one of her paintings.

A commander, a husband, a man, yes. But not a monster. Not worthy of death.

She could not slay him. She stifled a sigh at that revelation. If only she had the nerve to slay herself instead. But, alas, she wanted to live. Even if it meant consummating the marriage.

She looked him up and down. His member hung to one side, relaxed and much smaller than it had been before. Even in its flaccid state, it did not look like a scrawny sausage. She allowed herself a small smile at her folly of sketching a man’s member incorrectly. She would do better in the future.

“I would like to paint,” she blurted, the words coming out of her mouth before she could stop them. “The bargain was that I would be able to paint.”

He ran a hand against the stubble on his cheek. “We were talking about you shaving me.”

“Nay, we were
talking
about whether or not I would try to stab you again and if you were going to be able to swive me without putting me back in chains.” She held up the blade to punctuate her words. Her fingers were no longer on the tip, but wrapped loosely around the hilt. Harmless.

He slapped his thigh and laughed. “How perceptive of you, my lady. And your decision?”

“I want to paint. I want you to open that damn trunk and let me paint. I cannot bear this marriage or my lot in life without my artwork.”

“Another bargain, my lady?”

“We have made bargains aplenty,” she said sharply. “I’ve been chained like an animal this past month, and if you intend to keep me thus, I want you to open my blasted trunk.” She wondered if holding the dagger to her own throat would tighten her argument, but she imagined he would know she was bluffing.

Pursing his lips, he stood, retrieved the key from his pouch and unlocked the trunk. He flipped the lid open.

A wash of relief sped through her and she wanted to race to the chest and dig through her supplies.

That he could command her pleasure and pain so easily irritated her—painting had been what she had longed for, obsessed over these past weeks. Even more than the chains or the lack of bathing.

He straightened, standing wide-legged, hands on hips in front of the chest. His member twitched, lengthening some. If he was unsettled in any way by being fully naked, he did not indicate it.

“A kiss in return for your paints, my lady?”

“A kiss?” she scoffed. “The paints are what you owe me already.”

“True. But your father’s escape changes our bargain some, so I insist on a kiss in return.” The dark sapphire of his eyes twinkled like sparkling sand in the clear blue depths of the ocean.

A lazy butterfly swooped into her stomach. A kiss was so—simple. Especially in light of what would surely occur later. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to him, holding the knife with one hand and the sheet with the other.

Heat flowed off his skin as she neared him. He did not move to grab her, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. His mannerism might appear relaxed, but he was ready to pounce if she attacked.

Standing on tiptoes, she slid her hand around his neck and leaned her face forward. Hesitating only a moment, she brought her lips to his.

His arms closed around her, not frightening or imprisoning as she had imagined, but simply holding her. It felt…nice.

When she broke the kiss and stepped back, he did not try to stop her, but instead smiled his boyish grin. His overlapping teeth showed, as did the dimple on his chin, and for a moment, he could have been an Atlantian god instead of a conqueror.

She took a deep breath, not wanting to acknowledge the thrill that slid through her betraying body. His manhood pressed against her stomach, proving he was not so impassive to the kiss as he pretended either. A curl of heat unfurled inside her.