The Pleasures of Sin (5 page)

As she walked across the floor planks to her dressing screen, she looked down the bodice of her gown to see the top of the dagger’s hilt to gain courage. The knife was well hidden in the folds of her wedding dress. How odd to be fully dressed—and dressed so elaborately—whilst he was naked.

Once behind the screen, she unpinned the butterfly headdress, set it on a small table, and refastened the veil on her head to cover up her cropped hair. How did her sister wear such contraptions without having an awful headache?

Taking a rag and a cake of soap, she brought them to the edge of the tub. Her heart began to pound as she realized he expected her to scrub him.

Such an opportunity to explore the male body! The knowledge would add life to her paintings. She tamped down a niggling of guilt that she would be using him in this way. Her father oft railed at her that she should focus on important matters. She should be thinking of escape and saving her family, not artwork.

Trying not to seem too eager, she bent and wetted the rag in the side of the tub. The back of her hand grazed his leg, and even more interest sparked inside her.

No matter how beastlike the man within it, his body would be a joy to capture on parchment—nay, on canvas. Parchment would be too crude for such a subject. Brother Giffard assured her that canvas was aplenty in Italy.

Rounding to where she stood behind him, she rubbed the cake of soap on the rag and squeezed the cloth out across his shoulders. The water trickled down the curve of his spine. He leaned forward and she ran the washcloth up one side of his back and down the other in a slow circle.

“Mmmmmmm,” he said.

She smiled. Getting him relaxed and off guard was good.

Leaning forward, she pressed her hand lower in the hot water. She allowed her greedy fingers access to his skin, trying to memorize every fiber and muscle so she could transfer it to the canvas later. Heat rose inside her. Who knows but this might be her last chance to ever see a naked man so close.

In her mind, she knew it was evil that she did not feel properly ashamed or beset with nerves. Surely God would forgive her this one sin. She tamped down her guilt: she would save her confession for when she reached the convent.

Water slopped on the bodice of her gown as she worked her hands over Montgomery. She soaped his neck and rinsed it, then moved to the side of the tub so she could reach his torso. The area betwixt her legs seemed wetter than usual, and she felt a little dizzy.

His skin was not as soft as hers, and his chest hair felt interesting against her palm. Crisp and slightly rough. His firm muscles, alive with vitality, flinched under her touch. She dipped her hand lower.

Montgomery drew in a sharp breath as her hand touched the inside of his thigh.

“Of a truth, wife, you please me greatly. I had thought we were ill suited.”

Shocked at his words, she paused in her ministrations. The pulse in his thigh beat against her palm.

She swallowed, forcing herself to continue washing him in long strokes, running the cloth up his chest and over his neck. His member stiffened, and she felt a heady rush of power that she could have such an effect on him.

Soaping up the cloth again, she ran it over his shoulders, mentally counting the hand spans across his shoulders. The lye smell of soap mingled with the scent of warm male skin.

More water wet the front of her gown as she leaned across him.

How weird to be performing such a task dressed as she was. The houpelande was a far cry from her two tattered kirtles. She had not worn anything so fine in years and this seemed a bizarre task to do in such a garment. The musky scent of the wedding gown’s ermine trim intensified as water dripped on it.

Montgomery had a bumpy crescent shaped scar on his right shoulder and four freckles on his left. Those would make nice touches on her next miniature.

Standing, she fanned her face. The chamber seemed over-warm. Wetness seeped from her woman’s core.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have lusted after a man and planned murder in my heart.

Montgomery rose from the tub, skin glistening. Rivulets of water wiggled down his chest and arms.

Dear saints! His sex had become enormous. Her prayer cleared like incense on a windy day. Her nipples tightened, and more heat pooled in her groin.

He chuckled.

A prickling sensation crept up her cheeks. Heavens, her eyes must be wide and round as feasting goblets. She blinked, trying to regain her composure.

“You’re not afraid?”

“Afraid?” she said dumbfounded.

“Of having me inside you.”

The gentleness in his tone disconcerted her. “I—uh—” At once she realized that she was not scared because she had not been thinking of the sex act itself, only on the beauty of his male member. Of how she would mix the colors to paint it. She would need lead white, cinnibar, and massicot.

She hid a grimace. She had no need to be afraid of copulation because she planned to slay him afore the night went that far. Bowing her head, she started her confession again.
Forgive me, Fath—

“Come, wife, you have had enough of knowing my body. ’Tis time that I saw yours.”

“Nay!” She caught herself and smiled tightly at him. If her clothing was removed, he would see the dagger. Their plans would be ruined. Her father would be hung. Her sisters raped.

She could not allow herself to go weak now.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she coaxed. “I seem to be more nervous than I had first thought. If only you could lie on the bed that I might touch you a little longer. As you said, we have all the day and night to consummate this union.”

The gleam in his eyes was predatory, but he walked to the bed. The tight round muscles of his buttocks flexed in a fascinating erotic dance. He lay across her mattress, propping his head up slightly on a pillow and lacing his fingers behind his neck.

Her mouth went dry. She took in his chest, trying to discern the exact location of his heart.

It seemed a shame to kill a man so perfect in form. Mayhap—

At that moment, a loud scream and frantic barking sounded outside the chamber.

She gasped. ’Twas Adele and Panthos!

Quitting the bed, she raced to the door and yanked it open. In the tower’s stairwell, Adele was being pulled down by two burly soldiers. Her cane lay on the stones, and her dark hair flailed around her as if in a windstorm. Her skirt flapped about her knees.

“Adele!” Brenna screamed. “Cease! Cease!”

Ignoring her, the men laughed as one dove atop her sister and yanked her skirt up above her thighs. To one side, a man held back the snarling mastiff.

“Adele!” Brenna lurched into a run to rescue her sister. She slammed into something that felt like a wall. Montgomery! She blinked, stunned for a second, then sidestepped him.

He caught her and pulled her back. “Nay!”

“They are hurting my sister!”

Holding her by one wrist while she fought to get away, he peered down the hallway.

Adele scrambled for her cane, and one of the men struggled to get his breeks down. The mastiff spun and bit the man holding him who, in turn, kicked him, but neither let the other go.

Frantic, Brenna struggled against her new husband.

“Cease!” Montgomery bellowed out. His voice rang through the hallway bouncing off the castle’s walls.

The men looked up. Montgomery gave them a deep glare and made a short swipe across his neck with his finger. The message was clear: continue and be slain.

Brenna gasped, surprised at his action. He was a beast. What would he care about her sister being raped when all of them were there to conquer her family’s castle? This union was naught more than legalized rape.

Adele wobbled to her feet. She was unsteady without her cane. She gazed around dazedly and caught Brenna’s eye. “Do it!” she commanded. “Do it now!”

Brenna had no doubt what she meant.

“’Tis our only chance.”

Panthos barked, lunging upward to her. The men wrestled the dog to the ground.

Stark reality slammed onto Brenna. There were only two things that would happen in the wedding chamber—either she would be swived or The Enforcer would be killed. If she didn’t destroy this man, ’twould be both her and her sister lying beneath Montgomery men. And no doubt Panthos would be put down.

“Do it!” Adele cried. “Afore they rape and murder us all! We can get away if we act now! I know the way out and men are waiting!”

Now was her best chance, whilst Montgomery was naked, unarmed and unsuspecting.

Without another thought, Brenna yanked the dagger from her bodice, and lunged it at Montgomery’s heart.

“What the—” Montgomery twisted aside, as lithe as a tiger caught off guard.

The knife struck skin, slicing in a clumsy arc across his chest and glancing off his shoulder blade to stick shallowly in his flesh.

He grunted. A thin red line oozed blood down his chest.

Her heart lurched into her throat and she backed away, realizing what she had done. She’d been too close. This was not how she had practiced; she should have thrown the dagger, not lunged at him. Her stomach felt sick and her knees liquefied as if they had turned into water.

He scowled at her, dumbfounded, his hand grasping the hilt of the dagger. “Christ Almighty, wench.”

Her underarms prickled and her palms turned clammy. Terrified, she turned and fled down the hall.

Justice demanded that she be charged with treason, the same as her father.

A red haze of fury clouded James’s vision as he snatched his wife’s upper arm, hauled her to the bed and threw her across it. His pride stung, demanding retribution. In his mind, he heard his father jeer.
Stupid fool
!
You are too soft to be a leader. An unworthy son.

She landed with a thump, and James forced himself to unclench his fists to keep from beating her to death with his bare hands.

A sharp twinge throbbed in his chest, slashing across the knife wound. The blade was stuck shallowly into his shoulder and the dagger’s quivering hilt caused wave after wave of stinging pain. He drew a breath, forcing himself not to look at her lest he be tempted to turn the knife straightaway on her.

With a mighty wrench, he yanked the dagger from his shoulder. He grunted. Blood trickled down the blade and wetness ran down his chest.

She scrambled to her knees on the bed. Her fingers trembled, but she glared at him all the same.

Taking a deep breath, he released his anger and refocused on his duty to the king.

Milksop
, his father taunted, speaking to that dark part of himself that wanted to rashly slit her throat, to damn the consequences and slander of having a murdered bride in his past.

With strength of mind, he shushed his father’s voice. His rage was not the best way to serve his country. But, all the same, insolence would form in his ranks if it were believed that he could not handle his own wife. He would be the laughingstock of the army. The King’s Enforcer would become The Wife’s Dunderhead.

The blade shook, but, through force of will, he made his hand open and dropped it to the floor. It clattered on the planks, and with deliberate, slow motions he commanded himself to don his hose as he decided her fate.

Earlier he’d thought the note to bring him to this castle was prompted by her father—now he realized that she, too, was a key player in the rebel scheme to unseat the king.

If he took her to London, the king would have her beaten and tortured. Likely, she’d be passed around the army.
Pass her around to your men
, his father taunted,
only a sap would give her the benevolence of a quick death.

Nay. He would not allow that. Not even for her.

He would execute her here…but he wouldn’t do it in the bedroom to have the castlefolk and all of England’s rebels able to clamor around her as a martyr.

His mind made up, he reached for her leg.

Brenna scrambled backward on the bed, her pearled veil and the enormous wedding dress twisting around her body. Ermine trim fluffed in the air.

At her insubordinate action, fury fogged his brain, giving a hazy quality to her wide-eyed face.

“Move off that damn bed and I’ll kill you right now.”

A strong pulse beat in her neck; she glared at him, but she didn’t get off the mattress.

He stepped back, determined to make it to the courtyard before executing her for treason. To not give in to the rage that coursed through him.

Milksop
, the dark voice sneered.

Brenna swallowed against the hard knot in her throat as she watched Montgomery buckle his leather belt around his waist and slide on his boots. Should she scream? Fight? Run? She straightened her skirt over her legs. His anger was a tangible force in the room and, feeling like a dog sent to its kennel, she dared not test his threat to leave the mattress.

“What are you going to do wi—”

Her mind froze, the words dying on her tongue, as he straightened and looked at her. His eyes were no longer cobalt, but steely blue with a red mote glowing in the left one.

Vengeful eyes. Determined eyes.

And she knew. Knew beyond a doubt, she was a condemned woman. He may not have turned the knife directly on her, but he planned to execute her all the same.

As was his right as The Enforcer.

Panic radiated through her limbs. For a fleeting instant, she recalled her sister’s warning that he had murdered his first wife.

Glancing at the door, the window, the garderobe, she searched frantically for a means of escape. Her chest constricted so tightly she could barely breathe. Cornered. Trapped. Nowhere to run.

“The battle is lost,” he said as if reading her mind. He stepped toward her, his jaw hard.

Not allowing herself to think, she lunged, attempting to race past him, to go somewhere, anywhere besides here. He grabbed her arm in an easy twist as if he had expected such a move and hauled her upright until her nose nearly touched his.

“You will have three lashes for every defiance you give me between here and the woodchopper’s block.” A tight tic pulsed in his jaw as if he was just holding himself back from striking her. As if he feared that once he started beating her, he would not stop. “I can have the skin stripped from your flesh and leave you to die from the wounds or have your execution done with one stroke to your neck.”

Her knees began to shake. In her mind, the cold metal of the axe was already biting into her neck. With a bravado she did not feel, she squared her shoulders. “I’m not sorry for what I’ve done.”

“Three lashes.”

She lifted her chin, her ire rising. “Do what you will with me, I won’t cow down to you.”

His hand on her arm tightened into a biting grip. “If you care naught for your own flesh, I can have the skin stripped from your sisters’ bones as well.”

Hot, angry tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Before she could compose an answer, Brenna found herself pulled upward and slung over Montgomery’s shoulder. The room spun, her paintings forming blurs of colors. His scent, which had enticed her only moments earlier, terrified her now.

“Put me down!”

“Nay.”

She beat on his back with her fist.

“Six lashes.”

She stilled, his shoulder pushing into her stomach. There was no sense in acting the fool. She would face death with dignity.

He paced to the door, opened it and began his march down the hallway. If the wound she had inflicted bothered him, his movement did not indicate it.

About halfway down the steps leading into the bailey, one of his men met them.

She cringed, embarrassed at being held in such an undignified position.

“My lord?” The man was a tall, thick-limbed brute with a crooked, ugly nose and deep frown line betwixt his brows. He took in the bloody red slice across Montgomery’s chest, silently nodded and moved to follow them outside. As if he too understood what would happen.

Flashes of light flickered before her eyes; she bounced against Montgomery’s shoulder as he strode down the steps into the courtyard. The bright sunlight stung her eyes, making them water. Hanging her head down, she allowed the pearled veil to cover her face and peeked through the folds.

Slowly, he set her down. Her legs trembled so much only his grip on her shoulders held her upright as her toes sank into the cool, wet earth. Her gaze darted to the castle’s gate. Could she make it? Lose him in the woods?

“Run and I’ll burn the keep to the ground,” he said, following the direction of her gaze.

She shuddered.

A crowd gathered, soldiers and servants rounding on them. They stared at the two of them, and Brenna felt her underarms sting with terror.

Montgomery stood tall and firm, allowing the castlefolk to gawk at the open wound and the blood oozing down his bare chest. So this is what facing death felt like? A cold, icy feeling that won’t let your knees stop shaking no matter how hot the sun gets.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she determined not to cry. Not to plead. Time seemed to slow so that the people moved like sluggish snails.

“Move. Walk forward.”

Toward the side of the bailey, a tall woodstack leaned against the outer wall of the castle. Logs scattered haphazardly on the ground and a heavy block that the woodcutters used to split logs was nearby. Two axes leaned against the pile, their sharp crescent blades gleaming in the sun. Ogier, the head woodchopper, took pride in having a sharp shiny blade.

Brenna trembled, thinking of all the times she’d seen the men pop open a log. Breathe. Breathe. But she couldn’t breathe. At least not deeply. Her breath came in short, panicked gulps as if her body was trying to inhale life itself.

What was left of it.

Montgomery’s hand between her shoulder blades pushed her forward. Her feet tangled and she had to make several quick steps to keep from pitching forward.

Angry, she whirled around. “You needn’t push me like a pig to slaughter!”

“Nine lashes.”

She clamped her mouth shut, fury swirling inside her like a storm.

With a hard hand on her shoulder, he forced her to her knees before the woodchopper’s block and motioned to one of his men. Her knees ground into the earth, further dirtying the wedding gown. Buttons popped and the points of the sleeves dragged in the mud.

She squeezed her eyes shut and when she opened them a man was nailing a spike into the block a dagger’s length from her face. Every thunk of the hammer reverberated through her skull.

Bile rose in her throat. Clenching her jaw, she refused to give into panic.

The crowd grew larger, murmuring in hushed voices. To one side she saw Jennet, the laundress, holding her basket of linens. Brenna closed her eyes against the sight, and covered her ears with her hands.

She shivered as she felt strong male hands on her arms. One hand and then the other was brought in front of her to the spike and tied there. The ropes swirled around her wrists in symmetrical loops like some beautiful exotic snake. They cut deeply, biting into her tender flesh.

The crowd’s voices strengthened into a roar. She wiggled to escape, to put her hands back over her ears, but her efforts were puny. The rough hemp scratched her skin as she pulled against the rope.

Breathe. Breathe. She couldn’t seem to get enough air. The block pushed against her chest, the hewn wood smashing her lungs.

Behind her she felt Montgomery’s presence. His anger. His largeness. Fury radiated off his body like heat from the hearth.

Anxiety rose higher and higher inside her, choking her like steel bands around her chest.
Our Father Who art in heaven
—

She bit her lip to keep from begging for mercy.

Hallowed be Thy name
—

Beyond Montgomery, she felt the eyes from the crowd. Gooseflesh popped up on her arms and legs.

Thy will be done
—

She stopped the prayer, suddenly angry with God that he’d made her a woman. If only she were a man, able to fight, able to choose her own destiny. She didn’t want God’s will if it included being female.

And then she heard a rip and air rushed across the skin of her back. She gasped.

Glancing backward, she saw Montgomery standing legs apart holding a whip. He wore only hose, boots, and a belt. Blood ran down his chest, dripping on the ground. Resolve gleamed in his eyes.

Terrified, she pulled against the rope binding her to the block. She tried to scramble off her knees and onto her feet. Why, why, why had they crossed him? They knew his reputation, his station as The Enforcer.

What a daft plan it had been to try to stab him.

The crowd drew in a collective breath as Montgomery unfurled the whip and silenced them with a wave of his hand.

“This woman has committed acts of treason. She has gone against the orders of the king and against the order of God by attacking her lord and master with the intention of murder. As The King’s Enforcer, I now sentence her to a public whipping and beheading.”

Oh, God.

Brenna squeezed her eyes shut, awaiting the feel of the whip. She wouldn’t beg, she vowed. She wouldn’t.

Around her she heard the sounds of the shifting crowd, of their approval of the punishment.

And then the whip cracked across her back and all thoughts left her brain. A line of white-hot agony laced across her skin.

Black spots formed in front of her eyes. Thrice more the whip sang through the air, landing with perfect accuracy across her shoulders. She screamed; feeling tears begin to leak from her eyes, and knew five more lashes would follow.

Sweat beaded on her upper lip. She pulled to one side, fighting the rope and dreading the next stroke. Gritting her teeth, she vowed to not scream again. She would not give him any more satisfaction.

With a soft pop, she heard the whip being flung to the ground.

Startled, she looked back, blinking the tears out of her eyes.

He paced to her, knelt and forced her neck down on the chopping block. She didn’t fight, but looked at him with questioning eyes. Why had he stopped?

“I take no joy in another’s pain. This was to keep order only and my point has been well-proven.”

His face was blurry through the veil of her tears, but, even so, she could see that his anger was gone. His eyes still looked hard, but the red mote no longer shone. In a flash, she knew he still planned to kill her, but the public whipping and humiliation was over.

“Gramercy.” Her voice sounded like a croak, her mouth dry as dirt.

He looked genuinely taken aback that she’d thanked him, and she felt her face heat. She wasn’t thinking straight. If her hands had been free she would have covered her mouth with her palm.

Turning, he picked up an axe, running his fingers over the smooth wooden handle as if afraid that if he did not hurry he would lose his will to kill her altogether.

“My lord—” she started, trying frantically to think of something that would stave off the deathblow.

“Lady of Windrose, do you have any last words?” He raised the axe.

A gurgling sound came from her throat. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came forth.

Her heart beat like a drummer’s frenzy. The seconds seemed to drag on, each one a year in length. The wood felt cool and hard against her cheek; four dark rings and endless others of lighter colors looped on the wood. Tans and blacks and browns all faded one into another as she stared at them, her eyes going blurry.

“Would you tell my sisters that I am sorry?” she finally managed to choke out, then squeezed her eyes closed and awaited the blow. Odd disjointed thoughts scattered through her brain. Would she die right away or would her head live for a few moments, severed from her body? Would her blood paint the earth in crimson? Would her miniatures be discovered? Perhaps this was her punishment for painting such things. For only wanting to enter the convent to follow her own selfish ambitions, not religious conviction.