The Pleasures of Sin (3 page)

He caught her chin betwixt his fingers and brought her face back to his. Interest lit in his eyes.

A curl of heat formed low in her groin. She’d seen that look a thousand times bestowed on Gwyneth. And on serving maids. And even on Adele.

But ne’er had she herself been the recipient of such a gaze. The intensity nearly took her breath. So this was what it felt like to be desired. Wanted. ’Twas exhilarating.

He continued to stare at her, a deep crevice forming betwixt his brows. “Beg me to kiss you, captive wife,” he said, his voice husky and compelling.

Caught in his spell, she opened her mouth to obey, then gasped, suddenly understanding. ’Twas not desire for her that had caught his interest, but the need to conquer, to cow her, to bend her to his will.

The demon! She glowered at him. However this day ended, ne’er would she be a witless slave for him to command. “I’ll beg you for naught, barbarian. Now or ever.”

The interest in his eyes burned into a blue inferno. His lips touched hers, hot and soft—neither cold nor stone as she had expected. His breath was sweet, clean as if he’d been chewing mint leaves, and the masculine musk of his skin was heady as fine wine.

Her stomach flipped. She stiffened, wanting to pull away. The act was done. The bargain sealed.

His lips lingered on hers.

She tried to step back, but his arms around her shoulders and lower back prevented her from moving from the cage of his embrace.

“Open your lips for me, captive wife,” he murmured against her mouth. “I want to taste what is mine.”

Her breath quickened, and heat flooded her cheeks. Ne’er had a man wanted to kiss her.

The sensation was as intoxicating as a well-made brushstroke after a series of mishaps while she was painting.

Her father growled, and shame spun through her, hot and prickly. His rage bore into her back.

She pressed her lips closed.

“Ah,” her husband said, pulling slightly away, “not as compliant as I was led to believe then. Mayhap we should go straight to the wedding chamber and see to your taming. You respond well enough to my kisses.”

Of all the vile things to say! She nearly choked at his words, then drew back her hand and slapped him. The sound cracked across the sanctuary’s air. “I’m no pet to be tamed, knave.”

Her father snorted.

Montgomery pressed his palm to his cheek. The gleam in his eyes turned from amused captor to merciless conqueror.

Her heart caught in her throat. No wonder children ran from his pathway. Whirling, she lifted the hem of her skirt to flee.

Like a flash of lightning, his hand lashed out and grasped her wrist. He spun, dragging her in his wake down the chapel’s aisle.

A few of his warriors guffawed.

Damnation! He was going to kill her! No husband of worth would take such insolence from his wife.

And this man was a conqueror.

“I—uh—that is—I did not mean—” she began, trying to buy herself time. She needed to appease him so she could get him alone to use the dagger.

“Silence, wife. I will deal with you in our chamber. By the time I am finished, you will wish you had agreed to amuse me by begging for kisses.” Armor clanking, he paced toward the church’s exit. “Soon, you will beg for much, much more.”

Wincing, she dug her toes into the carpet to slow his pace. Unlike her own simple kirtle, the voluptuous houpelande entangled her legs and hindered her movement. He kept walking and she stumbled forward. Her headdress wobbled and the pins smarted against her scalp as they strained to hold the enormous contraption on her head.

He slowed just before she fell to her knees.

“Bastard,” she muttered, righting herself.

“What was that?” he asked. His tone was mild, but a feral gleam shone in his cobalt eyes.

She licked her lips, trying to reconcile the soft warmth of his kiss with the harsh, severe man before her. She hadn’t intended to slap him, but ’twas too late for regrets. She opened her mouth to repeat the curse, but thought better of it.

“Naught,” she bit out.

Scowling, he pulled her forward until she bumped against his torso. He was as solid as the boards she painted. With his free hand, he ran his thumb up her collarbone, then curled his palm around the back of her neck.

Her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest, and she nearly made a desperate attempt for her dagger. But, nay. She was not so addle-headed to give away her one tiny advantage whilst he wore armor and was surrounded by his men.

She twisted aside, wanting to run. She knew he would follow, but mayhap if she could get him alone, she could salvage some element of surprise and use
l’occhio del diavolo.

“Cease struggling, captive, ere I turn you o’er my knee here in the chapel.”

One of his men laughed.

“Nay! Do not manhandle my daughter!” Her father lurched to his feet, throwing off the men who guarded him. He stepped forward, defiant despite the ropes. His short beard and gray hair looked disheveled, and his nose twitched as if he’d smelled rotten eggs. He wore a simple tunic and hose in colors that would have blended with the forest. Dirt crusted his knees.

“My patience is thin with you too, old man.” Montgomery paced forward, and Brenna’s heart sank into her stomach.

At that moment, Gwyneth stood up, wailing in a loud cry. “Please, sir, I beg of you, do not hurt her.” She raced forward and threw her arms around Brenna, breaking Montgomery’s hold and nearly toppling her off-balance. Her wimple slid aside and her long blond hair came unwound and spilled around them.

Oh, for heaven’s sake.
Brenna felt as if she was enclosed in a spider’s web. She struggled to unwrap herself from her sister’s tentacles so she could breathe.

“I’ll kill you for this!” her father threatened, fighting against his wrist bonds.

Montgomery went into a fighting crouch. He still wore armor whilst her father was bound, unarmed, unprotected, and not nearly as large as his opponent.

“Do not be daft, Papa!” Freeing herself from her sister, she snagged hold of her husband’s armored forearm.

The guards contained her father.

Montgomery whirled, and their gazes locked.

Gulping, Brenna gathered her courage. Gwyneth may have been wrong about his looks, but, verily, he
was
a savage. “Please leave my family be. I’ll go with you. Punish me as you will.”

With his thumb, he touched the soft place at the front of her neck. The dress was much lower cut than her own clothes, and his fingers looked frightening against her bare skin.

He stared down at her, and she squirmed under the intensity of his gaze. “And you will submit willingly to whatever punishment I design?”

She blinked, her heart pounding faster. What would he require of her? She’d affronted his honor in front of his men. If he beat her, she would be lucky to survive.

His thumb did not hurt her neck, but she could feel every motion either of them made. Feel her heartbeat. Feel herself swallow.

His touch made her want to wrap her arms around herself to keep from shivering.

Straightening her spine, she shook off her alarm. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Little liar.”

Arrogant pig. Of a truth, she would have no remorse at all when she could finally stick him with the dagger.

“Bah!” her father said, spittle spewing from his mouth. He glared at her. “You little whore. You want him, don’t you?”

Stunned, she stared at her father. It felt as though he’d kicked her in the stomach. How could she tell him about the knife? About Gwyneth?

“Fath—”

He cut her off with a jerk of his head. “You were more than willing to marry my enemy.”

Her cheeks prickled. No matter what was between them, how could her father think that she would simply marry the enemy? Why was he so hot and cold to her? He had just defended her a moment ago…at once, she hated Montgomery for his part in making her father turn further against her.

“I did not want to marry at all, Father,” she said quietly.

Montgomery’s lips turned downward in a nearly imperceptible frown, and she found herself amazed that stone could show any emotion at all.

“Enough, old man.” He motioned toward the man holding the crossbow. “Gabriel, find a tower to lock him in.”

Gritting her teeth, Brenna forced herself to be patient.

She gasped as her new husband clamped her wrist and yanked her forward.

The monster!

Anger flared inside her. She glared at his back as he stalked out of the chapel into the damp spring air, irritated that she was forced to either follow or be dragged.

Dark clouds gathered in the east and the scent of rain hung heavily in the sky. She contemplated yanking the dagger out of her bodice and stabbing him in the back. No doubt, his men would cut her down afore she could even blink. And slay her family asides.

Nay, she must wait until Adele gave the signal.

The castlefolk lingered nearby watching, but no one stepped forward to help her.

“Paulin,” she called to a servant.

He shrank back, hiding partially behind the cistern and pulling his hat over his face. Others averted their eyes.

Damnation!
Do they all think I am a traitor?

Glowering at her devil of a husband, she vowed that by day’s end all here would know where her loyalties lay, and his life would be forfeit. She would go to Italy as a heroine instead of a shamed woman.

She’d slapped him! In front of his men, no less. The little wench.

Years ago, the first lesson he had learned as The King’s Enforcer was that without respect, one could not lead. Faded scars crisscrossed his back—tokens of the mutiny from the one smuggler he’d been merciful with.

He would not make that mistake with his own wife.

If he hadn’t seen the look on her face when her father had called her a whore, he’d be tempted to bend her straight over his knee and give her the spanking she so soundly deserved.

But even in his anger, he hadn’t missed the stung, hurt look in her eyes.

Ne’ertheless, she
would
learn who was master here. His tunic needed washing, his body needed bathing, and his boots needed polishing. Acts she could perform. Furthermore, he was hungry;
she
would feed him.

Tallow candle smoke stung James’s eyes as he stalked down the hallway towing his hellcat wife in his wake. Her silver-blue wedding dress swished along the rushes as she scurried to keep up with him.

They reached her chamber in the north tower, and, barking a command for one of his men to bring a bathing tub and heated water, he pushed the door open and drew her inside. The door slammed with a loud, shutter-rattling bang.

He released his wife, and she scampered away to the window seat embrasure as if her dress were on fire. She sat there staring at him, willfulness in her emerald eyes. The butterfly headdress and trailing veil covered her head, allowing him only the barest glimpse of her copper colored locks, which curled out the sides.

Yards and yards of dazzling blue material trimmed in ermine surrounded her slight body—but the wedding gown looked too delicate for her strong spirit. It might have
fit
her, but it did not
suit
her at all. The thin scar across her face reddened slightly in color as if blood coursed through her in an angry rush.

Dragging her off to her chamber hadn’t diminished her insolence one bit.

Scrutinizing her chamber, he debated where to start her training.

Three windows were built into the stone wall: two small ones and a large one with a window seat that his new wife sat upon. The room contained minimal furnishings for a noblewoman: it had a bed, a rough trestle table with two drawers, a three-legged stool, and a dressing screen.

Oddly, a maze of religious paintings were scattered all around the floor and walls. Boards and parchments leaned around the perimeter of the room with depictions of religious scenes of the Annunciation and baptism of Christ. His gaze went back to the trestle.

Pots of color pigment, oils, eggs, rags, and an artist palette crowded the desktop and five or six paintbrushes spotted the floor beneath it.

Paintings. He had been so focused on collecting his new bride when he’d burst into the room before, he had not even noticed that she was an artist.

For an instant, he thought of the small, exquisite miniatures that the king wanted him to look for. If his new wife was the artist of those, then there was no reason to even attempt at creating a marriage or establishing his place as her lord—his duty would require him to haul her to London and deliver her to his liege. Surely the painting was only a coincidence—she was a noble daughter from a good family, a virgin with no carnal knowledge. Still—

Taking her by the upper arm, he lugged her off the window embrasure and pointed around the room. “Who painted these?”

She straightened her spine. “I did.”

He scrutinized her for a moment, then picked through the artistic rubble on the desk. Every brush he turned over made her twitch as if barely contained outrage jumped beneath her skin.

Tough.

She may as well get used to him. And used to him touching her things. And touching her as well.

The desk was made in the fashion of a rough-hewn trestle table with two crude drawers beneath the surface.

Keeping his hand wrapped around her upper arm, he opened a drawer and searched inside. It was unlikely that the artist the king wanted to hang was a woman, and even more unlikely that it was his new wife. But he had learned to be thorough. She flinched as he opened the second drawer and slipped his hand inside.

Several smaller paintings, done on parchment, lay among the supplies. All of them contained figures with golden halos above their heads.

Leaving her standing in the midst of the chamber, he methodically made his way around the room searching for hidden paintings or any clues. More religious art. More depictions of the birth of Christ, of angels, of the Virgin Mary. Nothing of a sexual nature. No pictures of the king and his court in poses of compromise.

“Only religious work? No other paintings?”

Lifting her chin, she managed to look down on him even though she was at least a head and a half shorter. “I was supposed to be a nun.”

He lifted the bedskirt and peered under the bed. A small satchel lay amidst the cobwebs. He fished it out and scrutinized Brenna who glared at him as he opened it. A wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread, and other meager supplies lay within. Confused, he held up the sack. “What is this?”

“Naught,” she said, swallowing.

“Were you going somewhere?”

“To a convent.”

“You will not be a nun. You are my
wife,
” he said flatly.

She jerked her head to one side and set her jaw. “Only because it was forced upon us.”

“There would have been no force if you and your family would have done their God-given duty to the king.”

“Men make their own rules and claim God’s authority.”

“Mayhap. But ’tis God’s law that a woman obey her husband.”

“I am sure God makes allowance for women married to cruel demons.” With a huff, she sat on the three-legged stool and tinkered with one of the paintbrushes sticking out of a pot of liquid. “In the Bible, Jael was praised for nailing her husband’s head to the ground.”

His neck prickled at her words, and he determined to keep a close rein on her. ’Twas obvious by the way she had twitched and flinched as he touched her brushes that her artwork meant something to her. Until she learned deference, she would do no more painting.

Walking to the door, he called to the guards in the hallway to bring him an empty trunk. He would tame her piece by piece: reward compliance but discipline uppityness.

The men returned shortly carrying a medium-sized trunk. It was plain, but functional.

When they had left, he set the chest on the floor in front of her desk and nudged it open with his boot. He took the foodstuffs out of the pack then dumped the rest of its contents, including her tiny hog’s hair brush and a couple of gold coins, into the gaping space. “Package up the art supplies in the desk.”

“What?” Her eyes widened, and she looked like he’d slap her.

“You will have no more time for such dalliances. You now have a household to run, a husband to care for, and heirs to bear.”

Brenna cringed as sheer loathing shot through her and it was all she could do to remain still.

She hated him!

His fingers on her painting supplies made her feel violated, and now he wanted to dismiss her life’s work like a piece of garbage. Her heart beat rapidly against the dagger, and she wondered the best way to divest him of his weapons and armor so she could use it.

He paced toward her. His movements, like himself, were precise and efficient with no time wasted on leisure.

She wondered if the act of intimacy with him would be as calculated.

Bloody hell. What was she thinking? She was not going to swive him. She was going to kill him.

He came to stand directly in front of her until his armored codpiece was right in her face, and he crowded out the space around her.

She glanced out the window to avert her gaze from the molded steel plate covering his member. It was so…large.

“My lady,” he said, “do not make this difficult for yourself. Pack your supplies.”

The foul beast! Outrage curled in the pit of her stomach. She wished her sister would hurry and give the signal that it was safe to slay the monster.

But it was not even dusk yet.

Angrily, she scooped up her precious brushes. She could not best him by sheer strength—she would force herself to wait for good opportunity. She set the brushes in the trunk, lining them up in neat rows. Likely if she did not do this deed herself, Montgomery would scoop up her supplies and toss them unsorted into the box. The colors would be ruined, the brushes splayed by his thick, brutish hands.

He picked up a pot of blue pigment and rolled it between his fingers. “It was unwise to challenge me in front of my men.”

She wanted to snatch the pot out of his hand and dash its contents in his face. “And it was unwise to kiss me in front of my family.”

“We’ve just been married. I am your family now.” Seething, she picked up her palette and spatula and placed them near the brushes. She would
not
let him rile her temper or make her do something stupid. She would wait until the appointed time. And that was that.

“Peace, wife,” he said. “This marriage can work in your favor, or it can work against you. ’Tis your choice.”

“
My
choice?” Outraged, Brenna sucked in a breath and set two pots of color pigment in the chest. The clay jars clanked together. She grabbed two more and then started tossing half-finished parchments on top of them.

He stalked around the room, looking in corners and crevices and behind the bed. Even though he wore armor, his movements were fluid and panther-like, a testimony of his strength and fortitude as well as the precision and quality of his battle gear.

Mud from his boots flaked onto her cleanly swept floor. The clinking of his chain mail grated on her ears.

He pulled up a corner of the mattress and peered beneath it. “Where are your hidden paintings?”

Her pulse quickened and her hand squeezed. Did he know about the erotic work? She nearly jumped as slime dripped through her fingers. Bloody hell. She’d crushed one of the eggs she used to make her tempera.

Shaking the egg goo from her hand, she snatched a rag from the desktop and began wiping off the now ruined painting at the top of the pile in the trunk. Blasted man.

“I have no hidden paintings,” she gritted out.

“All artists have hidden work—things they are ashamed to let the world judge, but too dear to their heart to toss aside.”

She glanced up and realized he was watching her. His blue gaze was as fierce as a stormy ocean. Gooseflesh popped on her arms.

“Why do you care what I paint?” she asked fiercely.

He stepped toward her, looming over her. “I do not. I care about your respect and obedience to me.”

She checked the urge to damn the consequence of yanking the dagger out now. But she must be patient if she intended to live. And she
did
intend to live.

“Respect must be earned,” she countered. Her voice came out much softer than she had intended. Almost squeaky.

“True enough, my lady. But I’ll not have you slapping me in front of my men.”

She ducked her head, so she would not have to look at him. Smoothing the gigantic blue skirt over her knees, she composed herself. Acting the hellion would not accomplish her goal.

When she lifted her face again to his, she forced herself to soften her tone. “Fair enough. I will not do that again.”
You’ll be dead.

“And I’ll have your apology.”

Gritting her teeth, she sucked in a deep breath.
Patience
, she told her seething emotions.
Wait for the signal. Wait until your sisters have men in place.

He lifted one dark brow, his blue eyes watching her intently as if trying to conquer her with his gaze. He stood much too close. “Now, wife.”

“Forgive me.”

He gave her a small smile that looked more like a grimace. How had she thought he was perfect? He was irritating, irksome. Too large. Too controlling. Likely he’d be fingering all her painting brushes and oils again in a minute, smudging the work surface and muddling the pigments. She silently vowed she’d scour down all her supplies once she got rid of him.

Turning, he marched to the edge of the mattress, ripped back the bed curtains and sat down. ’Twas a relief to not have him so near.

Her bed linens did not have lace and bows as Gwyneth’s did. They were neither frilly nor overly feminine, yet he still looked very out of place against the pillows and cushions. The bed sagged against the weight of his armor and the red curtains fluttered.

She turned her gaze to the large painting of the battle between the archangel Michael and the devil. She was fighting the devil too.

The sound of Montgomery slapping his thigh in slow, calculated strokes cracked through the room. “Cross me again, and I’ll turn you over my knee and give you the spanking you deserve.”

Drawing on her inner strength, she gazed at him disdainfully, giving him her best you-are-beneath-me glare. “I’m no child to be spanked, sirrah.”

“Nay, but you
are
a wife who needs to learn to behave.”

Turning back to her task, she scrubbed harder at the slimy egg stuff, squeezing her rag so tightly her knuckles whitened. Two of her dress’s mother-of-pearl buttons snagged on the trunk and nearly popped loose. “I am packaging my art supplies as you demanded, am I not?”

“You said you would submit to any punishment I set forth as retribution.” Brushing the curtains aside, he leaned against one of the bedposts.

“I did not mean I would calmly allow you to spank me.”

He glanced at the closed wooden door. “Do you break our bargain already? Shall I fetch your father and finish what we began downstairs?”

The anger in her stomach gelled into a cold knot of fear. He could still have her father and sisters murdered. Her hand paused above the parchments she’d sat in the chest. “Nay.”

“You said, ‘punish me as you will,’ did you not?”

That
was
what she had said. She raised her chin, wanting to deny it, and knew she could not.

A blue flame sparked in his cobalt eyes—rich and warm and intense. For a second, his face was so breathtakingly masculine and flawless, she longed to be able to pick up one of her brushes and capture the blue of his eyes, the length of his lashes. She squelched the wayward thought.