The Pleasures of Sin (17 page)

She crossed her arms over her chest. “But you don’t mind if I’m naked and chained,” she snarled.

Heat lit in his eyes and he lifted a brow. “Not in the least.”

A curl of desire flitted through her belly at his words. She turned her face aside. Was this one more way Montgomery intended to humiliate her?

“Here.” Montgomery chuckled and tossed her a chemise. “Put this on and get up so they can measure you.”

Obnoxious toad! She frowned, recalling how impassive he’d been when servants had filled the bathing tub for him. While he may be used to people invading his privacy, she found the swirls of activity disconcerting. She had been mostly alone this past year.

The merchants bustled around them, consummate professionals as they rustled fabric and pins and scissors pretending they were completely deaf and oblivious to the conversation.

Gritting her teeth, she put the garment on beneath the sheet and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold on her bare feet. The chain clanked against the bedpost.

The merchant woman’s eyes bugged, but she only smiled. One does not anger well-paying customers.

Brenna scowled.

Montgomery stepped forward to stabilize her as the tailor stretched her this way and that to make measurements.

If she had not been so irritated, she would have enjoyed such treatment. But she needed to use the garderobe. And being poked and prodded wasn’t helping.

Setting her jaw, she stared at the wall. She couldn’t make water until Montgomery released her.

At last all the measurements were taken and the fabrics packed back into the trunks. The merchants left with their orders and the room felt quiet again.

“I need to use the privy,” she hissed at Montgomery when he still seemed disinclined to unlock her from the bed.

He grinned. “Say, ‘please.’” With his boyish overlapping teeth and the tiny dimple beneath his lower lip, he looked like a pirate about to claim a hidden stash of booty.

She glowered at him. She’d rather wet herself.

“Close enough,” he said with another wicked smile, pulling the key from his tunic and releasing her. “I would have done so sooner if only you would have asked.”

Seething, she scampered to the garderobe. So, that was the way of things now, eh? To have to ask even to use the privy.

A wave of distress crashed over her that she had enjoyed his attentions last night. How could she have? He was the most awful ogre alive!

When she returned from the privy, he held up a dress that the merchants had left. It was a creation made of blue silk with tiny embroidered dragons on the sleeves and neckline. It was not quite as voluptuous as the houpelandes that Gwyneth wore, but for certes, the fabric was fine, soft and comfortable—a far cry from her homespun kirtle. Well suited for a lady of the keep—both practical and pretty.

She blew out a breath and wished she had the strength of will to defy him, to toss the garment down the garderobe shaft. All new clothing had been denied her for years and she had told herself she did not care. But, alas, she was a woman still.

She put on the dress. It was as luxurious against her skin as she had imagined. Like donning a sigh. The skirt rustled against her legs and she could not help but rub the fabric back and forth between her fingers. At least her cage was gilded.

“Go on,” he said. “Go look at yourself in the glass. I know you want to.”

She wished she could stifle the age-old feminine urge toward vanity, but instead she propped up the looking glass and backed away so she could see her form. The color of the dress brought out the green of her eyes. Feeling like a princess, she held her unevenly cropped hair off her neck and turned this way and that.

“Fabulous.” He flashed another of his devastating smiles.

“You are still not forgiven,” she said, running her palms over and over against the silk.

He laughed and picked up the manacles from where they were piled beside the bed. “And that is why you must put your jewelry back on.”

Loud clanking, the clucking of a rooster and the squeals of a woman shouting reached Brenna’s ears a few days later as Damien and she entered the east tower while searching for Montgomery to ask his permission to walk into the village.

A note from Brother Giffard requesting they meet at the town’s cathedral was slipped to her during the noon meal. She had concocted an excuse that she needed to buy painting supplies and wanted to stop by the town’s church to take them a painting she had done of the birth of Christ. It was a flimsy excuse since that ol’ dried up prune Bishop Humphrey and her shared a mutual hatred for one another—but Montgomery didn’t know that.

That she needed a husband’s permission to walk into the town smarted. But judging from the sounds, she had found him.

She lifted the hem of her dress—one of the fancy new ones made of blue silk with slitted sleeves and a yellow undertunic, which looked hopelessly ridiculous with the chains—and went down a flight of steps. Every night he released her from the bonds and inflamed her body to a fevered pitch, but she was forced to wear the manacles as she went about her daily chores.

Irritating, for certes, but she had her revenge with her: she carried a wooden tube that contained two miniatures depicting the passion she and Montgomery had shared. They were hidden between the religious paintings she was taking to the cathedral. She planned to give them to Brother Giffard to sell. They were by far her best work yet and she knew in her heart they would fetch a high price.

Enough gold to take herself and her sisters to Italy.

Following the cacophony of sound down a narrow hall, they quickened their pace and hurried down another flight of worn steps that led to a large lower room.

And entered into chaos.

Montgomery and two of his men poked through drawers and upturned trestle tables. A rooster fluttered around the room, dropping feathers here and yon. Tunics, smocks, and undergarments looked to have been exploded about the chamber.

“You cannot go through that, my lord!” Jennet shouted at the men. “Catch Roger! ’Es terrified!”

Roger, Jennet’s pet rooster, made short paths around the laundry washing chamber, landing briefly on Brenna’s head before being caught by one of the men and released out the window.

“Roger!” Jennet yelled after the spooked bird. “Roger! Come back here!”

The rooster flew across the field, beating his wings like the devil followed him. Red and brown feathers swirled to the ground.

“Oh!” She stamped her feet. “Look what ye did, me lord. Now I’ll ne’er be able to get him back, I won’. An’ ’e was such a good bird too.”

Montgomery stood, sword drawn, in the midst of the confusion of dirty and clean garments. He wore an unadorned blue tunic, hose and high boots. As always, his tunic was crisp and his boots gleamed. A set of woman’s underthings hung limply off one of his shoulders, no doubt a casualty of his battle against the laundry.

Brenna stifled a laugh.

“Bear, go get the good woman’s bird back,” Montgomery bellowed at a large one-armed man who had a head full of bushy red hair.

“Aye! You do that!” Jennet fumed, snatching fistfuls of laundry from where it was strewn out around the room. “All my work! Ruined by a pack of boorish men!”

Casting a wild look over his shoulder at Jennet, Bear hurried from the chamber. “A pet rooster, of all the daft things,” he muttered under his breath.

“A word with you, my lord,” Brenna interjected before Jennet could catch her breath and start railing at him. Pet rooster or no, the laundress liked her work done orderly and systematically. She’d be uncontainable unless Brenna could soothe her.

In fact, if this was the way Montgomery handled matters, it would only be a matter of time afore the entire household exploded in utter chaos. His return has certainly sent her own emotions into a muddle. All the more reason to reach her brother in Italy, and gain his help in gathering her sisters and escaping. She planned to ask Giffard why he hadn’t sent the note today when she saw him. Everday she stayed here bound her more and more to the marriage; she had started looking forward to their eveinings together and she’d had no herbs to prevent a child either.

Montgomery turned and stared at Brenna. The blue of his tunic caused his indigo eyes to flash and spark. Sweat dripped down his temple and he looked for all the world like a demon come to life. But the effect was ruined by the lady’s undergarments flopping across his shoulder.

She bit back a welling of laughter. “If you are looking for rebels, my lord, they have gone and left only their underpants.”

Behind her, Damien giggled.

Removing the offending garment, Montgomery growled and gave the boy a curt look.

Brenna covered her mouth with the back of her hand. Laughing at her husband was not going to win her the trip into the town.

“Forgive me, my lord. What exactly are you hoping to find in the keep’s laundry chamber?” she asked, changing her tactic. With forced casualness, she plucked a tunic from the floor and folded it. Her bonds rattled softly, but were unobtrusive.

He flung the women’s undergarments onto the mountain of clothing. “I am searching for paintings.”

Her interest peaked. “Paintings?”

“Aye.” He moved closer so that only she could hear him. “A certain set of miniatures from this area has reached London and the king is most displeased. The paintings depict the king in various poses copulating with a number of courtiers. I have been sent to find them and take the artist to London.”

A lead weight fell into Brenna’s stomach. She remembered the questioning he’d given her after the wedding. He had been very concerned about the subject of paintings, but she’d never guessed why—or that it would involve the king.

Quickly, she bent to gather more of the scattered garments lest guilt show on her face.

When she was a girl visiting London, she’d painted a series of naughty portraits using what she remembered of the king’s likeness. They had been a joke to heal herself from the bruising memory of the trip. A reckless moment of petty revenge for being embarrassed by the queen.

Five had been sold when she’d first began the plan of escaping her father’s imprisonment—’twas what had started her erotic art sales. The other two were hidden in her room—she’d been afraid to sell them after Brother Giffard told her of the stir they had caused among the ladies of the court. She had not given any of the paintings a thought for months.

Montgomery watched her so intently that butterflies turned slow drunken circles in her stomach. He knew! He knew something.

The tube in her hand felt heavy. Inside, two miniatures crouched between the religious canvases. They were much better, much more erotic than the ones she had done of the king. But, if her husband took one look at them, he would have no doubt she was artist of
The King’s Mistresses
.

This past week, he had moved into her chamber and gone through all her drawers and trunks. She had hidden her sensual artwork beneath the floor’s planks, but had some thought that if he accidentally found one of the paintings, he would be amused. That she could claim she’d never done such before and that being with him had inspired her. She had no doubt that he was arrogant enough to believe such fodder. But if his duty was to find
The King’s Mistresses
, she was doomed if he found the paintings.

She coughed to cover her reaction and set the tunic onto a rough-hewn table stacked with toppling piles of clothing. A castle of this size generated a large deal of laundry.

He patted her on the back. “Surely after what we shared, I have not shocked you too much,” he whispered in her ear, the words only for her. “Are you well?”

“’Tis only the dust and feathers stirred in the hurly-burly.” She coughed again for good measure and arranged a pair of hose neatly atop the tunic she had just folded.

“I see.” He thumbed
l’occhio del diavolo
which was tucked into his belt.

She winced, hoping she wasn’t blushing. His fingers against the blade ignited memories she did not wish to explore. And…the painting contained depictions of her newly shaven sex.

“Have you heard of these miniatures?” he pressed.

“Nay,” she said, then realized she’d spoken too quickly. She smiled tightly.

“The miniatures are entitled
The King’s Mistresses
,” he continued. “They are quite good save for the subject matter. Surely you have heard of them.”

“As I told you before, I was meant to be a nun; my paintings are of a religious nature,” she denied, ignoring the selfish thrill that he had just said the paintings were good. Likely he knew naught about art and his opinion should be discounted. Still, in a world where criticism came more oft than praise, ’twas nice to hear.

Holding her breath, she held up the tube, deciding to brazen out his suspicions. If he checked what she carried too closely, she’d be taken to London so quickly her head would spin. “I would like permission to take these to the town’s cathedral. One of the monks wanted to see them.”

He stood too close to her; her nape prickled at his nearness.

She glanced at Jennet who was still muttering and picking the scattered clothing into piles and at Damien who stood by the door, his mustache twitching. There was no one here to help her if the worst was discovered. Chained as she was, she couldn’t even run.

Sheathing his sword, Montgomery nodded at Damien to leave them. “I will accompany you.”

“Oh.” She pursed her lips, relieved that he was disinclined to inspect her goods but dismayed that he would be dogging her steps. Damien would never suspect a monk; Montgomery might suspect his own mother.

“You look pale, my lady.”

“I–I had not expected that you would go with me on such a woman’s errand.”

He straightened his tunic, dismissed his men with a wave and offered her his arm. “It will be good for us to be together…”
Somewhere besides the bed
, was the unspoken ending for his statement, but neither of them acknowledged it.

Swallowing, she took her husband’s arm. The metal of her manacle gleamed against the blue linen of his tunic—a clear reminder of her position as captive rather than wife. But surely she could figure out some way to have a little privacy with Giffard while Montgomery was there.

Damien looked relieved to no longer be on such dull duty as guarding her. The others gave them a few sideways glances, but mostly ignored them.

Once they were in the bailey, Montgomery leaned down to her and whispered into her ear, “The scenes in the miniatures depict the royal member.”

She barely caught herself from choking. Why would he not let the subject rest! “I–I do not care what sort of depraved paintings you are looking for,” she exclaimed, coughing to hide her reaction.

“Perhaps your sister should make you a potion for your cough.”

Perhaps you should stop bringing up such horrid subjects.
“’Tis the dust only,” she assured him.

“Of course.” He watched her closely as they walked. Too closely. She set her gaze on the castle gate and quickened her pace. “We want to make it to the cathedral before it is too late.”

Montgomery’s bicep felt thick and strong against her fingertips. For an instant it felt odd to be walking together rather than being dragged by the wrist from one place to the next. Still, their union was anything but normal. A confusing swirl of emotions stormed inside her.

Last night he’d held her in those arms, stroked his fingers down her belly and between the folds of her nether lips. She’d wanted him. Today she was chained and wanted to find a way to escape. Vexing.

They passed under the portcullis. Windrose was set nearly in the midst of the bustling port city and the cobblestone streets were crowded with people and buggies. Huts and shops lined both the outer castle wall and the road, broken up only by occasional trees and hedgerows.

Travelers passed, going to and from the keep. A few gave her bonds a bug-eyed gawk, then passed in a hurry. What an odd sight she must be with her beautiful dress and her iron chains. Ludicrous. But surely servants’ gossip would have told the townspeople of their unusual marriage by now. Naught to do but hold her head high. She would escape soon enough, then she would have the last laugh.

“The king intends for the painter to be tried for treason and hung,” he said casually as they walked.

A shot of terror streaked through her and she forced her fingers to stay relaxed and not grip his arm in a fit of tell-tale horror.

She must get rid of these two paintings in her tube as soon as possible—hopefully pass them off to Giffard. Then, she needed to destroy the other two miniatures in
The King’s Mistresses
series along with all evidence that she was the artist of any erotic works.

“You look suddenly green, wife. Are you well?”

The heady fragrance of rosemary wafted in the breeze from a shrub on the wayside.

“Forgive me,” she said lightly, plucking a sprig from the pungent plant and crushing it between her fingers. “As an artist, I find it disturbing that a bit of paint on canvas would be worthy of a charge of treason and death.”

She prayed the simple explanation of her bizarre behavior would suffice. Her other nudes were also illegal but these were days of liberal morals and a blind eye to such things.

“The king was most displeased at the size and shape the artist gave to the royal member.” Now that they were away from others’ prying ears, he spoke in a normal but low tone rather than whispering as he had done earlier. Evidently, his mission for the king was a secret one. “The king likes to think of himself as a battering ram rather than a small prick.”

Oh, dear stars. Male arrogance. She had not thought of that. Until she’d seen her husband’s manhood, she’d assumed a man’s member was rather scrawny. In the paintings, she’d made the royal rod a limp and rather minuscule item. While she had been trying to capture the shallow and bawdy life at court, she had not been trying to mock the king’s member.

Forcing herself to straighten her spine, Brenna threw down the rosemary and took a firmer grip on the wooden tube holding her paintings. “Surely not all men are as endowed as yourself and perhaps the king should not feel so insecure in his manhood.”