The Pleasures of Sin

by Jessica Trapp

  “Aaagh!” the lady exclaimed.

  Irritation curled through Brenna at the frustrating lot of a married woman. At the mercy of some oafish man’s whims. ’Twas exactly why she planned a life of independence at a nunnery! She glanced down at the masculine hand that held her wrist and pressed her manacle into her skin. Loathing waved through her.

  Fighting the urge to pull away, she looked back at the new beast.

  The unveiled lady raised herself onto her toes to glare into the giant’s eyes. She grasped a handful of his blue tunic in each of her small hands. Her smooth alabaster complexion contrasted with his tanned scarred skin. Her delicate limbs with his brawny ones.

  “You are the most vexing husband a woman could have. Arrogant, impossible, beef-witted blackheart!”

  Brenna squirmed, wanting to close her eyes to what would surely happen next and yet was unable to turn away. She awaited the warrior to cock his arm back and club her for her impudence.

  Instead, a slow smile lifted his lips into a lopsided grin that crinkled the white crescent scar on his cheek. His eyes lit with blue flame. He slapped his wife on the bottom, but the stroke was without heat. His hand lingered, folding over her buttock in a gentle, overly familiar caress as he pressed her into himself. Even with all his brutishness, ’twas obvious he was being cautious with her pregnant belly.

  “I like your hair,” he said simply.

  The woman gave an exasperated long-suffering sigh, then yanked him close and kissed him.

  “Barbarian,” she said when the kiss was broken, but she tilted her chin down and glanced up at him in a way that made Brenna wonder if the lady had worn the veil apurpose.

  He ran his hands over her long locks, digging out a wayward hairpin and tossing it into the rushes.

  Brenna blinked, running a finger across the locks on her manacles. Could she unlatch them with a hairpin?

  Beside her, Montgomery cleared his throat.

  The couple turned.

  Keeping her gaze on the spot where the hairpin had landed, Brenna tried to memorize the exact position.

  “Come, wife. You will meet my brother Godric and his lovely wife Meiriona, the lord and lady of Whitestone.” He jostled her forward and the location of the hairpin was lost, eaten up by the multitude of rushes.

  Devil take it.

  Irritated with the loss of the ill-formed plan, Brenna scowled at the new intruders.

  So this was the legendary lord and lady of Whitestone. She had heard of the great love and passion between them, but ’twas unseemly for them to act thus in the great hall.

  Brenna looked from her new husband to his fearsome sibling. Of a truth, it must have been this man who her sister had seen at the tournament. He and Montgomery had a similar look, but scars laced this man’s face and his hair was shaggy instead of set in close-cropped precision. In contrast to her husband’s unadorned black tunic, he wore a blue paltock with delicate embroidery that looked to have been stitched with painstaking care.

  Clothing of a man well-loved by a woman.

  Montgomery caught Brenna’s hand and drew her forward. “I will introduce you.”

  The giant tucked his wife’s hand into his own as they approached. The lady had the grace to look slightly abashed. She pushed a strand of wayward hair behind her ear then held her hands out to Brenna.

  Awkwardly, Brenna took them. The woman’s long auburn hair swayed gently against her calves. Her green gown was of high quality with an empire waist, and she wore sparkling emeralds around her neck.

  The clothing of a woman well-indulged by her lord.

  Naught like her own marriage at all. As discreetly as possible, Brenna shuffled her toes around in the rushes, hoping to come across the hairpin.

  “Congratulations on your marriage and the union of our families,” the woman said, as if no hostilities had occurred. Mayhap she was daft.

  “Th–thank you,” Brenna stammered.

  “I am Meiriona of Whitestone and this barbarian is my husband Godric.”

  Leaning forward, Brenna tried to determine if the woman’s mass of long hair contained any more pins. Surely such an object could pick the locks.

  “Ho, brother!” The scarred warrior drew Montgomery into a bearlike hug with cuffs and claps that would have left a smaller man bruised. The giant eyed Brenna and nodded. “I like her. She suits you.” When he moved his head, she suddenly recalled where she’d seen him: he’d been the one to stand up to The Enforcer during yesterday’s hurly burly. “And lovely wedding jewelry,” he continued, eyeing the chains.

  Brenna flushed, indignant anger rising inside her. She wished she could crawl beneath a trestle table to hide from the prying eyes of others.

  Apparently heedless of her discomfiture, the warrior winked at his wife. “Might need to get a set for you, love.”

  Brenna felt her face grow hotter. She was some big joke for them all. She wiggled her toes more furiously in the rushes, determined to find the hidden hairpin and set herself free.

  The lady shook her head at her husband and pulled Brenna across the hall, her pregnant stomach wobbling this way and that as she went. “All bark, no bite,” she murmured to Brenna. “Treat him well and you can have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

  “Freedom?” Brenna asked bitterly.

  “Of course. ’Tis only his pride you must soothe to gain such.”

  His pride. Bah. And what of her own?

  At that moment a loud screech sounded across the hall.

  Gwyneth barreled toward her wearing a blue woolen dress with long embroidered sleeves. “He put you in chains! Oh, blessed Lady of Mercy.” She stopped before Brenna and threw her arms around her. “Brenna, forgive me.”

  A hush fell on the hall as men, women, and servants turned to look their direction. Brenna felt Montgomery’s eyes watching them. “Get up, Gwyneth.”

  “Dear heavens, sister. Are you all right?”

  “Yea,” Brenna answered, unsure if it was entirely true.

  “But the chains. Oh, Mother of Mercy, the chains. I am so sorry. I never meant for it to end like this. There has to be a way out. This is not what I intended at all.”

  Unease prickled Brenna’s neck. Her sister was talking much too loud, attracting too much attention. “Shh…shh.”

  The hall grew quiet. Montgomery’s boots scrunched on the rushes and Gwyneth turned as he approached.

  “I will set things aright.”

  Zwounds. Not another of her sister’s bedlamite ideas. “Nay, he doesn’t need to kn—” Brenna whispered, but halted as Montgomery closed in on them.

  Both women turned to gaze up at him. He scowled, imposing as ever.

  “Doesn’t need to know what?” he asked.

  “Naught, my lord. A small matter betwixt my sister and I,” Brenna said, latching on to Meiriona’s plan to soothe her husband’s pride. She licked her lips.

  Gwyneth held her hand out to him. “My lord, I beg you to release Brenna from this union.”

  “And you are?”

  “Gwyneth, her sister.”

  When Montgomery made no indication that her name meant anything to him, Gwyneth dropped into a deep curtsy.

  A feeling of impending doom welled inside Brenna like that moment when a brushstroke has gone astray but the paint smear had not yet appeared on the canvas.

  “My lord, this is my fault,” Gwyneth began.

  “Shush, sister,” Brenna implored, trying to reach for her sister’s mouth to cover it with her palm. The bonds made moving quickly awkward.

  “I beg you to release my sister and take me.” Gwyneth held her hand out to Montgomery.

  Frantic, Brenna lunged for her sister, clapping a hand tightly over her mouth. “Shush, you ninny! He doesn’t know.”

  God only knew what Montgomery would do when he found out they had switched places at the altar.

  “Know what?” A tight tic started in his jaw and Brenna’s heart dropped into her stomach. Would he lead her out to finish the beh
eading when he discovered their trickery was not yet over?

  Gwyneth pushed Brenna away and dropped into a position of fealty.

  “Gwyneth, cease, you milksop!” Brenna tried to hoist her pea-brained sister to her feet, but, fighting, Gwyneth remained on her knees with her palms toward Montgomery.

  “I tricked you, my lord.” Gwyneth lifted her hands even higher in an obvious beg that he take hold of them. “I am your bride, not she. I will willingly become your wife, your concubine, your slave, whatever you require, just, please, please, I prithee, do not harm my sister. ’Twas my fault and mine alone that she attacked you in the bridal chamber.”

  Brenna felt her fingers itch, wanting to smack her sister across the cheek and beat some sense into her. “Get up,” she hissed. “Get up before I smack you.”

  Silence permeated the hall.

  Dead silence.

  Lifting her chin, Brenna glanced at her new husband to see what his reaction to Gwyneth’s nitwitted declaration was.

  His eyes were alight with an unholy gleam as he gazed from her to her kneeling sister and back again.

  Queasiness poured into her stomach. Whatever he made of this new development, it would not be good.

  Chapter Eight

  James stared back and forth from the beauty kneeling before him to his new wife. Tricked again! These two had made him out to be the stupidest sort of fool.

  The blood of generations of warriors ran through his veins and a battle cry rose in his soul. Fury coursed through him in thick waves, and for an instant, he wanted to behead both of them. He wanted to see them vanquished and conquered, their pride crushed beneath his heel. From their remains he wanted to pull his tattered honor and then force them to sew it back together.

  He clenched his fists, determined to formulate a plan before embarking on his quest. For years his life had been controlled and ordered, his inner demons kept at bay by duty and honor and rigid demands. He would not let women’s trickery tear his self-control apart. Honor was not gained by beating women physically.

  Beyond a doubt, Gwyneth was the most stunning woman he had ever seen. She had a sweet, heart-shaped face, pale translucent skin, and glorious yellow hair. She looked like sunlight with bright turquoise sky for eyes.

  As dazzling as Helen of Troy, she gazed up at him with a look that no doubt could conquer nations. A woman who fully understood her own beauty and wielded it with keen precision.

  “You are offering yourself to me to save your sister?” The words came out with more control than he felt.

  “Yea, my lord.” The blonde looked ready to cast herself prone on the floor.

  “I see.” He would marry her off to someone who was blind to her beauty and unaffected by it. Someone who was wise to women’s ways. He turned from her to the redheaded wench who was trying to haul her to her feet.

  As if sensing the moment of reckoning was upon her, his wife let go of her sister and straightened, standing stiff and proud as any queen.

  He stroked the hilt of the dagger in his belt, wanting to draw out the moment, to build worry inside her mind. Yesterday, she had cracked for an instant and begged him to strike her with the axe. Mayhap her impatience was a weapon he could wield against her better than the whip had.

  This mission should have been simple: bring a measure of order to this area by marrying Lecrow’s daughter, taking control of the busy port and flushing out the rebels who had made a laughingstock of the king by selling illegal erotic artwork to build up weapon supplies.

  Instead he’d been ambushed. Stabbed. Tricked.

  Reaching out, he thumbed the scar across his wife’s cheek and felt a satisfying shiver run through her despite her warrior-like stance. She was comely, but his bride had been rumored to be a beauty, an English rose of such loveliness that men wept. He should have known that this woman’s scar would have kept her from earning that title. Society rarely saw past a few scars or supposed imperfections.

  Frustration coursed through him like a raging river that threatened to spill over the top of its dam that he had not suspected he had married the wrong woman. They had played him for a fool because he had acted like one. He’d been struck by her courage in the chamber, her willingness to push her sister behind her own body and face him squarely, just as she was doing now. As he had looked into her flashing eyes, the discrepancy between her scar and the rumors of beauty had not registered.

  He curled his hand around her shoulder, resisting the craving to haul her from the Great Hall, toss her across his bed and show her who would be master here.

  Mentally, he kicked himself for not paying more attention to the missive from the king that had demanded this marriage. He had not even bothered to check his new wife’s name. One noblewoman was pretty much like the next. Or so he’d thought until his new wife had stabbed him and he’d been forced to put her in chains.

  But not even the sight of seeing her trussed with manacles soothed the howling beast in his chest. Not while she was standing so unyielding and pompous.

  Quivering and mewling at his feet might have a different effect.

  Seeing his obvious interest in the hoyden he was married to, Gwyneth licked her lips in what seemed like a very calculated gesture. “I want to make things right. Take me as wife. I can please you. I want—”

  “Gwyneth”—James cut in, deliberately sneering her name—“I have a wife already. Mayhap she will give me the same bargain to spare your life that you have offered to save hers.”

  His wife gasped, her little pink mouth forming a perfect “o,” and he allowed himself a dark, satisfied smile. The beast of his own pride still circled in his mind, but it no longer howled with outrage.

  Establishing dominance in private would definitely soothe its wounds. The thought of having the hellion who’d stabbed him as a biddable partner in his bed shot a streak of wicked desire through his groin. She’d looked erotic as hell bent in two with her neck stretched over his lap.

  But, he didn’t want to take her by force—he wanted to take her of her own compulsion, to make her body fully and completely his so that she craved and longed for his touch. He’d leave her shivering and trembling, her pride vanquished.

  “But, my lord,” Gwyneth protested, shuffling forward on her knees. Her lovely skirt dragged behind her, sweeping the rushes aside and exposing the planks beneath.

  “Get up. Serve ale to my men and make yourself useful until I decide a husband for you.”

  She sank her teeth into her lower lip as if biting back words, then gave a jerky nod. Her blue skirt bounced around her as she flittered to the kitchens.

  James took a deep breath before looking at his wayward wife and contemplating her fate.

  She stood, hands on hips, glaring at him, and he doubted she would have been as compliant if he had given her the order to fetch ale.

  Hoyden.

  All her pride and defiance affronted him. He wanted her crushed, mewling at his feet, panting and lustful in his bed, a slave to passion, as her sister had promised.

  Her hands fisted at her sides as if she longed to punch him. The chain formed an X in front of her, but she looked more warrior than captive.

  Theirs would be a battle of wills, but in the end, there would be only one master here.

  “Your name, again, wife,” he demanded. The act of having to ask something so trivial pinched his pride. Damn the woman.

  Around them, he could feel the gaze of his men watching him.

  To one side, Meiriona rustled. “Cease, James, you are frightening her.”

  Good. With a wave, he dismissed his sister-in-law. “This is not your concern.”

  Meiriona slid between them, her deep green gown swaying as she moved. “She has done no more wrong today than yesterday.”

  Noting the quietness of the hall and the many eyes watching them, he gave his sister-in-law a glower. “Stand aside. This is betwixt me and my wife.” And my honor.

  “Brenna,” his wife said through clenched teeth. “My na
me is Brenna.”

  “Brenna.” He tasted her name on his tongue. It was a strong name. Not flighty or girly. It suited her.

  Brenna swallowed, and he could see the pulse fluttering in her throat. Her obvious fear did little to soothe the beast within him that demanded he conquer her.

  Milksop, his father’s voice said in his mind. Beat her as is your right.

  He latched on to Brenna’s wrist and pulled her toward the exit.

  Meiriona gnawed her lip, but she didn’t try to stop them. Her long hair quivered as she shook her head at him. He did not fault Meiriona, ’twas in her nature to step in when she saw one being intimidated: she’d done the same for him against his brother.

  As soon as they were out of sight of the many people in the Great Hall, he whirled his wife around and pressed her back into the wall. Her unique scent—warm skin and gesso—teased his nostrils.

  Placing one hand on each side of her head, he loomed over her. In spite of her bravado, her lower lip trembled.

  Good.

  “Why you, Brenna? Why did your sister not try to slay me herself? For all her emotional ways, ’tis obvious she cares for you.”

  Her gaze flicked to the dagger in his belt. “Gwyneth has not the heart and I did not think I would actually be married to you.”

  “Were you so confident of your knife skills then?”

  “I felt I had naught to lose. I thought you would kill me if I failed.”

  Glowering, he grasped one of her arms and held it up so the light from the arrow slit sparkled off the chain. How vexing she was. “You were wrong. You aren’t dead.”

  She lifted her chin. “Do you plan to execute me now?”

  He smirked, glad he’d spared her life. Glad for the challenge of conquering her. “Executing you would be too easy.” He ran his finger down her arm, enjoying the shiver it elicited from her. She was not as totally unaffected by him as she pretended. The chain made a soft chink.

  Pressing her lips together, she stiffened her spine like a soldier caught by the enemy.