The Pleasures of Sin

by Jessica Trapp

  “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 retribut
ion.” 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.

  Crooking his finger, he beckoned her toward him. “Come here, captive wife.”

  Chapter Four

  Her fascination evaporated, and she fought the urge to take the dagger and defend herself. Was he really planning to turn her over his knee? She glanced at his hands; they were huge and thick. No doubt they would sting like the devil. If only her sisters and father’s lives were not at stake. If only the men were ready and the signal given.

  Gathering her courage, she stepped toward Montgomery. Her heart thumped against her ribcage and she feared the worst.

  When she reached him, he took her chin between his fingers and turned her face this way and that. She forced herself to remain compliant. Fighting him physically would not win her victory. She had one chance—and that was to throw her knife—something she could not do at this close range and with him fully clothed and in armor.

  Icy fear gripped her gut.

  After what seemed like hours, he released her chin. “Very good. Your compliance serves you better than your insolence. Help me out of this armor. ’Tis bloody hot.”

  Releasing a breath of relief that he was not planning to carry through with spanking her, she fought the urge to smile. Getting him out of his protective coverings would definitely make killing him easier.

  But, ’twas best not to appear too eager or he would suspect something was afoot.

  She silently vowed not to let her tongue or her irritation get the best of her. She would wait until Adele’s signal and follow Panthos through the woods as they had planned.

  Montgomery held an arm out so she could unfasten the buckles of his vambrace and pauldron. As the plates fell away, she found herself marveling at the size of his limb, which was still encased in chain mail. His thickly muscled arm flexed, and the mail made a tiny metallic sound.

  Standing this close to him, she could hear him breathe, a soft whispering that seemed fragile in contrast to the hard, sturdy man before her. Life was like that: frail and uncertain, even for a man of his size. ’Twas why she found capturing fleeting moments in oils and tempera so appealing.

  She removed his other arm’s armor then moved to unbuckle his cuirass. Her fingers slid across fasteners on his side, and she felt entranced by the thickness of his chest. Slowly she removed the metal plates piece by piece. As she worked, she grew more and more awestruck by the artistry of his body. With each layer more and more of his masculinity was revealed.

  She’d helped her father and brother plenty of times with their armor—’twas part of a noblewoman’s duty.

  But always before it had seemed a dull chore, a drudgery disguised as duty. This man enthralled her like a deadly viper. Both beautiful and lethal.

  She finished with the cuirass and helped him out of his chain mail shirt and gambeson until his chest was bare, save for a crucifix of springy hair and a silver heart-shaped locket that dangled on a plain leather cord. The fancy, filigreed piece of jewelry looked out of place against the masculine contours of his torso.

  Curious, she reached for it.

  “Nay.” His hand closed around the locket hiding it from her view before she could touch it. Power seemed to pulse through him like a tangible thing. Fearsome, loathsome even. Marvelous in its intensity as he protected the piece of jewelry from her eyes.

  Was the locket a family heirloom? A gift from a lover? She could not fathom why a hardened warrior would wear something so delicate.

  Without a word, he removed the locket, wrapped it in a cloth, and set it aside before she was able to inspect it. The warning look in his eyes disallowed question or comment.

  She blinked and forced her attention back to the task of inspecting him. If she was to slay him, she did not want to think of him as anything other than a beast, and small silver lockets made him all too human.

  She traced a finger along his shoulder. Ne’er in her life had she seen a man such as he. He was wider even than she had imagined. While other men might enhance the width and thickness of their arms and shoulders with pads and fabric, he had no need.

  The sheer manliness of his body made her want to run her hands along the sinewy texture of his muscles, just to verify that he was, indeed, human, and could be killed. Dueling thoughts of repulsion and fascination ripped through her.

  She counted the thin scars on his biceps. Four crisscrossed the muscle on one side and seven on the other. Proof of the many battles he’d fought.

  And likely won.

  Biting the inside of her cheek, she realized she would have to be very, very cautious. His fingers likely could snap her spine in half like a brittle twig. She’d only have one chance with l’occhio del diavolo and she prayed its aim would indeed have the eye of the devil.

  A thin layer of perspiration covered his tan skin making his shoulders look glossy, as if they had been highly polished with a cloth.

  Standing in front of him, she tried to imagine where his heart was. No movement on his chest indicated its beating. Mayhap he had no heart at all.

  His face was stony and unreadable, but his eyes were like glittering waves on the blue ocean as he gazed at her. “Kneel and remove my boots.”

  She smarted at his tone, and sank to her knees.

  Hate swelled in her heart. He was the most vile, loathsome blackheart she’d ever known. For certes, undressing him was part of her punishment for slapping him in the chapel. Get your enjoyment from this, devil. Tonight will be the last time you command me. She narrowed her eyes at him, but held her tongue.

  Mentally, she counted the hours until sunset when the signal would be sent. When that time came, she wanted him as vulnerable as possible. Even wearing only half a suit of armor, he looked capable of killing a man in cold blood.

  Or a woman.

  She suppressed a shudder, remembering what her sister had told her about the lad who spilled ale on his paltock.

  From her position on the floor, he looked even taller than before. Grasping his large black boots by the heels, she pulled off one then the other.

  The muscles in his legs were enormous—like Grecian pillars. The chain mail gave little clinks and the mattress creaked as he stood and indicated for her to remove his chausses and the metal codpiece that protected his privates.

  “I do not think I should,” she started. Her mouth felt dry as sand and her heart raced as she speculated what he looked like beneath the metal protector. She had some knowledge of the shape of a man’s sex—she’d bathed with her twin brother Nathan when they were children: ’twas like a stubby sausage.

  She stood abruptly, not wanting to let on about her curiosity. Her inquisitiveness was something her father oft railed about. And it was evil itself to even want to look at a man she hated so much.

  “You should remove the rest yourself. You have no need for my assistance.”

  “’Tis part of what I require of you, wife. I have called for water, next you will bathe me. As a proper wife would.”

  Bathe him?

  She swallowed. Was it her imagination or did the codpiece move slightly of its own accord?

  Spellbound, she stared at it to see if
it would move again.

  It did!

  Of all the devilish things!

  Mayhap her paintings had not been accurate at all if a man’s member was thick enough to move a piece of metal with its swelling. She’d based her miniatures on what she could remember of her brother when they had been mere children.

  But this…this was interesting. Perhaps she could paint it when she safely reached Italy.

  Her gaze flicked to her art supplies stacked neatly in the trunk. In a safe cleft beneath the floor planks under her desk, a half-finished work depicting a naked gladiator was hidden along with a number of other unfinished or inferior paintings. Montgomery had been correct that artists sometimes hid their work.

  That gladiator piece was the first one she’d been so bold as to do a complete frontal view of a male figure. Unsure of the exact size and color of a man’s member, she had not finished it. It did not seem right to paint a vague sausage-shape as she had done with her other erotic art.

  At once the thought of having Montgomery unclad was more than simply making him easier to kill. Doing so would allow her to finish the painting with an edge of realism. That would, for certes, allow her to study with her brother’s tutors when she reached Italy.

  Emboldened by the thought, she untied the strings holding the codpiece and lifted it away. A large bulge lay beneath it, straining against the chain mail chausses. Eager now, she slid these down his legs until he was clad only in his hose.

  She skimmed her hands over the ties, slowly undid the stays and peeled them down his long, long legs. The crisp hair on his thighs prickled against her palms. She felt hot, dizzy. And completely curious.

  Without allowing herself time to think, she pulled the strings on his brais and let them slide to the floor.

  She gasped as his member sprang loose. ’Twas so much larger than she’d expected. Much different than the ones she’d painted. It bobbed in the air seeming to defy the laws of nature that pulled things downward. Not like a flabby sausage a’tall!

  Amazed, she stared at it and as she did, it seemed to grow even longer.

  Hell’s fires. All her paintings had been wrong! She’d painted men’s members afore, but they looked nothing like this. She’d gotten the color wrong. And it had a slight purplish tint at the end and a very interesting vein that bulged down the length.