Tamed by a Knight

by Devlin, Delilah

  Except for the sound of water sloshing as it was poured into the copper tub by servants, silence descended on those remaining in the chamber.

  His bride knelt to pick up her robe from the floor.

  “You won’t be needing that,” he said. At her wary glance, he added, “You’ll only wet your robe. Leave it off.”

  “But I’m cold.” Her nipples were tightly beaded, but not from the cold, he’d wager. She still assiduously avoided looking at his cock.

  “We’ll add wood to the brazier.”

  “Milord, is the temperature of your bath to your liking?” the old nurse asked, reminding him there were others still in the room.

  He walked to the tub and bent to trail his fingers in the water. Steam rose from the surface. “It’s perfect. You may leave us now.”

  “As you wish,” she replied after a pointed glance at her mistress. The other servants followed in her wake.

  Now that the two of them were alone, Roland studied his bride’s body more closely. Dougal had thought her breasts small, but well placed on her chest. Roland thought them perfect—round as apples, tipped with ripened berries. Indeed, the small nipples pointed north so that a man need only lean down to sip upon their stems. Her waist was small and neat and flared into rounded hips. The dark down between her thighs looked soft as silk, and Roland’s groin tightened. He wondered whether the flesh her curling hair cloaked was as pink and succulent as her nipples.

  Tonight, he’d dine on the freshest, lushest fruit in the kingdom—his bride’s virgin flesh. But first, he had to overcome her maidenly fear. He had to convince her he wasn’t a great, rutting bear. God’s ballocks, but virgins were a true test of man’s will!

  “Attend me,” he commanded, and he stepped over the rim of the tub and knelt in the narrow space. The water lapped at his hips and was hotter than he’d first thought, but it had the desired effect on his manroot. Almost immediately, the pressure building in his cock eased.

  Lady Margaret hovered beside the tub behind him—out of his range of vision apurpose, he suspected.

  “Would you care for more ale, milord? I’ve a pitcher warming next to the fire.”

  “I would be much obliged if you would pour me a cup,” he replied, remembering his manners. Women seemed to prize a pretty turn of phrase or an unneeded thank you on occasion. Now that his erection no longer demanded he pounce upon her, he relaxed. The two of them, he and his unruly cock, had the entire night to woo his nervous wife.

  A silver flagon was handed to him, and he threw it back, draining nearly half the cup before holding it out to her. “Take it. I would have you wash me, now.”

  “P-perhaps, I could start with your hair.”

  “Whatever pleases you, my dear.” The warm water and ale lulled his body. A pleasurable ease settled over him. Aye, he was a lucky man to own such a thoughtful wife. He envisioned many nights to come when he returned from battle or a hunt to find a warm bath and her lush little body ready to comfort his aches and wounds.

  “Tilt your head back, milord, I can’t reach you with this pitcher.”

  Water sluiced over his head. His indrawn breath whistled between his teeth, but he bit back the oath he would have shouted to spare his wife’s tender feelings. The water was so hot his skin felt parboiled.

  “Oh! It’s too hot. I’m so sorry.”

  Before he could assure her she had not roasted him like a lamb on a spit, another pitcher of water was dumped over his head, this time so cold his fingers left their imprint on the sides of the tub. Bloody hell! If this was her version of a soothing bath, he’d wait until the next spring’s thaw to wash his arse in the river!

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her hand dip into a pot and bring out a dollop of soap. He grasped her wrist and tugged her forward. If he turned his head her sweet nipple would brush his lips. Lord, she was a temptation. “I’ll not smell like a flower,” he said more harshly than he’d intended.

  “I-it’s scented with herbs only. Smell it.”

  He pulled her hand to his face and sniffed. The fragrance was pleasant, like green fields in springtime. “Very well,” he said, releasing his hold.

  “If you’ll lean your head back again…”

  Closing his eyes, he did so. Her hands glided over his hair; then her fingers dug beneath to gently scrape his scalp. The sensation was so pleasurable, he moaned. “You’ve a gentle touch, wife,” he said, remembering to give her praise.

  “Thank you, milord,” she said, her tight voice betraying her worry.

  A smile tipped the corners of his lips. Aye, she should be alarmed. Her silken touch was countering the effects of the warm water and ale.

  Margaret chewed on her lip, wondering how long she would have to wait for the water and the drink to strip his oak of its bark. In the meantime, she listened to his murmured praise and moans and wondered why his pleasure drew the tips of her nipples into hard points and made her woman’s furrow moist.

  Sweet Jesus! If merely touching his hair could do this, she would surely perish of ague if she were forced to bathe the rest of him!

  Knowing she had already spent overlong washing his thick hair, she reached for another pitcher of water, this time testing the temperature to make sure she wouldn’t cause him any more discomfort—however satisfying his reactions had been with her first rinses. She poured the contents of another pitcher over his head and watched as the warm water rinsed the dirty, gray film from his hair. By the time she’d finished, she realized his hair was so dark a brown it was nearly black, with strands that glinted red in the candlelight.

  “I’ll scrub your back now,” she said, hoping when she was done that he’d be satisfied and finish the rest himself. Her stomach was so tight, she felt as though she’d eaten a green apple.

  He leaned forward, and she dipped a cloth into the water, and then worked some of the herbal soap into lather before smoothing the rag over the broad expanse of his back. She scrubbed hard, partly hoping to cause him more discomfort, but mostly because she wanted the job done quickly. She didn’t dare venture below the water line. What little she understood about men’s anatomy warned her that touching him there would render her plot useless. When she was finished, she held out the cloth to him.

  He looked over his shoulder and didn’t say a word. The arch of his eyebrow said it all. Blast his hide! His challenge laid down, she rinsed the cloth and applied more soap, and then circled the tub to face him.

  Aware her breasts rose above the rim of the tub, even though she knelt to hide the rest of her body from his knowing gaze, she laid the cloth against his chest and scoured his skin in circles. The cloth did not provide enough of a barrier between her palm and his hard chest. Everywhere she touched, she learned the hard contours of his muscles and the warmth of his skin.

  Hers became so heated, she was sure she grew fevered. She knew her cheeks flushed, and a glance downward confirmed her breasts suffered a similar malady.

  Except for the ripples and spasms of his muscles as she cleaned his flesh, he never moved. But the heat of his gaze followed her everywhere, scorching her lips, burning the tips of her breasts, and lower, when she rose on her knees to scrub his shoulders and underarms.

  She reached for his left hand, intent on digging dirt from beneath his nails, and didn’t notice at first when his right hand slipped softly over the top of her breast. When she did, her breath caught and held, and then her gaze rose to his face.

  His expression was hard and assessing, and then his fingers glided lower until they smoothed over her nipple.

  Margaret forgot how to breathe. Her breast tightened, almost to the point of pain, but she didn’t want him to stop, until his thumb and forefinger plucked her nipple. Then she jumped and placed her hand over his to make him halt.

  Without saying a word, Lord Roland returned his hand to the edge of the tub, and he leaned back his head, his chest rising sharply with his indrawn breath.

  Taking it as a cue to resume his bath, she washed
his neck and around his ears, and tried to ignore the disturbing sound of his breaths and the rigid muscles beneath her fingertips.

  Thankful when at last her task was done, she rinsed his chest and back and sat back on her haunches.

  A small, tight smile and a shake of his head brought a surge of anger boiling to the surface. She was becoming ill, and he wanted to be bathed like a babe!

  “You’ve missed a few spots, wife,” he said, his voice like silk and gravel.

  You pompous, sodding bas—

  She bit back the retort. Her reticence was her only defense left. “I’ve cleaned behind your ears and under your arms. Surely, I’m finished now.”

  “I would have you cleanse the rest of me. It will help you overcome your fear of my body. You’ll find I’m made like any other man.” With that, he gripped the sides of the tub and hauled himself up to stand in the center. She glanced a long way up his body, and her heart stopped.

  His limb didn’t droop like a willow’s.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  Roland hesitated at the flare of panic in his young bride’s eyes. In his experience, fear was an impediment to useful congress between two people. Having no experience with marriage, he suspected the same held true for bedding virgins—and especially for any hopes of repeating the act before dawn.

  Inwardly, he sighed. Introducing his wife to her new duties would be much akin to breaking a horse to halter. He’d have to gentle her with his voice and hands.

  His body leapt eagerly ahead to the hands part of the gentling process—his staff grew measurably more alert. Frustration gripped his body hard. “Don’t just gape! Gather the soap and wash the rest of me…wife!” So much for gentling her with my voice. “Ballocks!” he muttered.

  Trembling as she stood, her gaze never rose above the wayward flesh straining from his groin.

  “You may start here,” he said, pointing to his backside, hoping to give her time to gather her courage again, while he fought for control over his cock.

  No use dispensing his seed into the bathwater when her lovely body needed only priming to receive him.

  A frown creased the narrow space between Margaret’s eyebrows, but she grabbed up the cloth once more and worked another dollop of soap into the fabric, rubbing so long, he was sure the fabric frayed. But he let her take her time to accustom herself to the idea of the task—and so that she could continue eying him thoroughly as she did now.

  Familiarity would ease her fear—and perhaps feed her desire. After all, he was a well-formed man, or so the women he’d bedded in the past had said.

  When her small hand scrubbed the cloth across his buttocks in sharp, quick strokes, he flexed, ensuring she noted the play of muscle beneath his flesh.

  Her soft gasp was gratifying, as was her hand pausing over the larger muscles to cup him, stroking downward, slowly now, as though she savored the feel of his flanks.

  He widened his legs, bracing his feet as far apart as the tub would allow. “Be sure to scrub in between,” he said, suppressing a smile.

  Her hand snuck between his legs, a timid foray, just glancing against his balls, and then smoothed back, her cloth-covered palm cupping him.

  Roland gritted his teeth. At this slow rate, his balls would be blue and his cock hard enough to drive a pillion through stone.

  When her other hand parted his buttocks to allow her access to stroke between, he groaned aloud. The rough cloth glanced against his back entrance, and his cock jerked.

  “Oh, did I hurt you?”

  “You’re damn near making me a eunuch, love,” he said between gritted teeth. “Come around the front and be done with it.”

  As she circled the tub, her expression became more tense, her cheeks fiery. He wondered if that would be her look when he drove into her, stroking her toward ecstasy. “Dispense with the cloth.”

  Her eyes widened. “Am I finished?”

  “My manstaff will be too sensitive to the coarseness of the cloth.”

  “Then I’m finished?”

  Her hopeful expression amused him. Baiting the wench was proving great sport. “Of course not. Use your hands.”

  Margaret’s brows drew together in a fearsome frown for a moment, before she dragged in a deep breath and smoothed her features.

  That hint of anger stirred the devil inside him. Can I stir that flame hotter? “And be careful not to bring the soap near the head.”

  “Head?” she asked, her voice sounding strangled.

  He reached down and circled the end of his cock with his thumb and forefinger, lifting it to her gaze. “This is the head.”

  She sniffed. “It looks like a mushroom to me. Why would one call it otherwise?”

  The contrast of her prim tone and naked, lush body nearly had him groaning again. “It’s called the head because at times it behaves like a man with a will of its own. And this is its eye,” he said, stroking his thumb over the tiny hole.

  “The eye?”

  “Look closely at the tip. See you the narrow hole?”

  A milky drop of excitement glistened, obscuring the eye, so he wiped it with his thumb, smearing it over the soft tip. “Do you understand now?” he asked softly.

  Her gaze lingered, and Roland’s balls drew closer to his body.

  She nodded. “No soap in the eye.” Then her eyelids dipped. “What would happen if I did…get soap in the eye?”

  “The lye would burn me.”

  Her lips pressed into a determined line, and she dipped her fingers into the soap dish. She worked a thin lather between her palms. Then she stood beside him and grasped him near the root.

  Roland closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

  Her hands were small, but strong, and stroked and twisted on his shaft as she cleansed him. But these weren’t the quick swipes she’d delivered before. She loitered over the task. Was she becoming aroused? Had his ploy to accustom her to his body worked?

  He pumped his hips, tunneling his cock between her palms, and her grasp loosened for a moment before encircling him again.

  His hands moved restlessly at his sides, his fists clenching and releasing, his cock gliding faster. Until he realized he was nigh to bursting from the drugging motions of her hands.

  He turned to face her, just the length of his staff between them, and saw another flare of panic in his wife’s eyes.

  But he was close now, and not caring how he might frighten her. He’d soothe her upset later. He gripped her shoulders, finding her skin just the thing to fill his restless hands, and pumped faster, his gaze falling to her slim fingers as they glided up and down his cock.

  She stroked higher up his shaft then back down, tugging him now—and he felt much like a stallion on a lead, not yet broken to harness. His hips bucked, his body straining closer to release.

  Then she clasped the head of his cock, and his toes curled into the metal bottom of the tub. His fingers dug into her soft shoulders.

  When her fingers caressed the bulb, the “mushroom”, a little trickle of lye slipped into his eye.

  Roland sucked in a deep breath; his rise halted in one blistering oath as the inside of his cock caught fire. “God’s Ballocks!”

  Her hands fell away, and she took a step back, her face pale as parchment. “I’m sorry, milord. Have I caused you pain?”

  Roland bit his tongue against the litany of curses crowding the back of his throat. But the sight of her wringing her soapy hands and chewing the edge of her lip had him dragging in a deep breath. “I think I’m clean enough, my dear,” he choked out, waving her away.

  Then he lowered himself back into the tub, gingerly letting his cock submerge to rinse away the last traces of the stinging soap.

  While the fire licking the inside of his cock cooled, his ardor waned, and he was able to view her innocent error more clearly and see it as a gift. A woman’s first experience with a man’s passion ought not to be with his seed striping her face and belly.

  “Shall I shave your
beard for you now?”

  Roland shuddered, a vision of his throat split open like a fish’s gullet skittering through his mind. “Bring me a sharp knife. I’ll do it myself.”

  Margaret brought him a steaming-hot towel.

  “Thank you, wife.” He pressed the towel to his beard to soften the coarse hair and shot her a curious gaze. “Have you shaved many men?”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. “None. But I watched the laundress shave my father.”

  “And you thought to start with me?”

  One fine brow arched in a look that held a hint of challenge. “Why, are you nervous?”

  “Petrified.” He held his hand out for the knife she brought him, then ran his thumb across the edge to test its sharpness. “Have you a mirror?”

  She presented a polished silver mirror and held it up for him while he shaved, dipping his knife into his bathwater to clear the blade between strokes.

  When he scraped the last of his bushy beard and mustache away, his wife gasped. He ran his hand over his chin and glanced up at her.

  The sacrifice of his fine beard was well worth her look of wonder. Roland grinned. “Do I have a weak chin?”

  She shook her head.

  “Any deformity that will cause you to lose your supper?”

  She grimaced and cast him a glare. “You know well you have a handsome face.”

  Roland chuckled at her disgruntled tone.

  She turned and started toward the brazier again, giving him her back.

  “You wanted an ugly husband?”

  “I wanted an impediment,” she muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

  But she must have misspoken. “Well, now you may be satisfied.” Roland stood and stepped out of the tub. “Bring a cloth to dry me.” Then, remembering the pretty words, he added, “Please.”

  She sighed and hurried over with a square of linen, her gaze on his wilted staff. Her expression—at once relieved and with another emotion he had a harder time defining—was almost comical.