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The Pleasures of Sin

Page 18

by Jessica Trapp


  Suspecting her was untenable.

  Still, he determined to get to the bottom of the erotic miniatures. The chains on her wrists and ankles gave little clanking noises as they passed down the busy street of the town’s main merchant row and headed toward the cathedral.

  His neck prickled with unease. Something did not feel right about this trek into town.

  He stopped in the midst of the road and turned her toward him, tipping up her chin. “Brenna, did you paint the miniatures of the king?”

  “Of all the horrid things!” Outrage flashed in her eyes and for an instant he thought she would try to slap him as she had in the chapel.

  He snatched her wrist to prevent such a motion. “Peace, Brenna. You are not a true suspect.”

  “Well,” she huffed. “I should think not! I was supposed to be a bloody nun until you came along and forced me to marry you.”

  He nearly laughed at her use of “bloody” and “nun” in the same sentence. If she was faking her outrage, she was damn good at it. Still, she was a woman who needed to be taken in hand. She’d fooled him too many times. “Careful, love, your bargain involved curbing your tongue as a respectful wife should.”

  She lifted her chin, but bit back any other retorts.

  “Give me the wooden tube.”

  Her nostrils flared, but she handed him the tube. “You will find naught there.”

  He pried the lid off and peered inside at the painting curled within the dark space. He wiggled his fingers around to determine the subject: an angel flying off to heaven carrying a soul. Another of the birth of Christ.

  Of course, even if she had painted the portraits, and he had no convincing reason to believe that she had, she would not bring The King’s Mistresses to the cathedral.

  Realizing naught but strife would be gained by continuing to question her, he handed the tube back, and headed down the lane that led to the opening of the church’s grounds.

  She smiled at him, her gaze veiled. Was there a hint of victory in her eyes?

  It would definitely do them good to spend time with each other so she could adjust to having him as lord. This battle betwixt them was not one he could afford to lose.

  The cathedral stood in front of them: a massive structure with ornate architecture. A beautiful park, contained by a high stone wall, surrounded it. Several shrubs were in bloom and the grass and trees were closely clipped and well watered.

  Spread around the grounds were various other buildings: a library, several administrative buildings along with various garden sheds and the kitchens. The place was almost a village unto itself.

  Brenna saw Brother Giffard across the grounds, sitting beneath a spreading oak tree to the left of the main hall where the men who lived here stayed. He wore his customary brown robes and appeared to be writing on a tablet. Her heart sped as she racked her mind to come up with some excuse to speak with him by herself.

  Looking up, Giffard saw them and rose to his feet. As was his custom, he wore no shoes. His bare soles stepped lightly across the grass as he approached and she averted her eyes from the fur atop his toes.

  “Brenna, my child,” Giffard said, holding out his hands as he drew near. “How good of you to come. And Lord Montgomery, it is nice to meet you at last.” He beamed at both of them as if he had not a care in the world or that the purpose of this visit wasn’t to give him erotic miniatures and plan her escape. He motioned them toward one of the buildings near the kitchens. “Won’t you come and join us for the evening meal?”

  Brenna said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that Giffard was so versed in sliding easily in and out of conversations with the nobility. His shoulders were relaxed and his mannerism loose. The appearance of Montgomery with her clearly had not flustered him in the least. As they walked to the hall with Giffard chatting amicably about nothing of consequence, Montgomery visibly relaxed. Her heart rate calmed.

  At the feasting hall, trestle tables lined the walls and some of the church’s workers directed them to a place to eat.

  Brenna grew more and more agitated as the meal wore on. Her whole purpose for coming to the cathedral had been thwarted by Montgomery’s presence. For certes, Damien would have been chatting with some of the younger men by now, boasting and teasing them about their dull life at the church and she would have had a chance to slip the miniatures to Giffard. But Montgomery sat close by her side, not allowing her even a second to breathe.

  At last the trenchers were cleared, the trestle tables were wiped down and Giffard grew quiet, as if he too was at a loss.

  “I brought paintings to show to Bishop Humphrey,” Brenna said, taking the tube from where it lay beneath her feet. She may as well finish up the charade of having her work hung here in one of the buildings so they could return to Windrose.

  With luck, she could take out the religious works and not disturb the erotic ones. She fiddled with the tube’s cap and the rolled-up canvas inside. Drawing out the painting of the angel carrying a soul up towards the heavens, she smoothed it out on the table before them.

  “It’s truly magnificent, my child,” Giffard praised, nodding his tonsured head. “I have spoken to Bishop Humphrey about having some new pieces to hang here in the feasting hall. I was sorry he did not join us for the meal.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he had told the bishop that the paintings were hers, but, of course, he likely had not since all of this was a ruse for her to speak with Giffard about the miniatures. And her escape, which—she stifled a sigh—seemed very far away at the moment. Montgomery’s leg pressed against hers as he leaned forward and gazed at the painting.

  After a time, a man wearing sleek black robes slid up next to them. He had a long, narrow face and a pinched expression as if someone had squeezed his head between two millstones.

  The pious and judgemental Bishop Humphrey.

  Her nemesis.

  Quickly, she tucked her hands and arms into her cloak not wanting him to see the manacles or what her lot in life had become.

  Sneering at the canvas, he cleared his throat. “We have no place for your art here at Windrose Cathedral, Lady Brenna. Go back to your castle and be a wife to your new husband.”

  Brenna stiffened, her old animosity rising thickly to the surface. Bishop Humphrey had been her nemesis for years with his insistence that women should not be painters.

  “I have come here with my husband’s blessing, as you can see,” she said, nodding toward Montgomery who, she noted, had also stiffened.

  “A word alone with you, Lord Montgomery,” Bishop Humphrey said.

  Ah! Brenna’s heart leapt. At last she would be able to have an instant alone with Giffard.

  No doubt Humphrey planned to give her husband a complete lecture on the place of women. That could take hours. She ran her finger down one of the chains; her husband needed no such lessons.

  “Of course.” Montgomery rose, his hand trailed toward l’occhio del diavolo tucked into his belt. Light from a stained glass window cast dazzling blue and green sparkles over her husband’s wide shoulders. He gave Brenna a “stay-here” glance before moving off to one corner of the room with Bishop Humphrey.

  “Lean toward me as if we were discussing something philosophical,” she whispered at Giffard.

  Quickly she uncapped the wooden artist tube again and fished out the two miniatures, using her cloak and the trestle table to hide what she was doing. She pressed it into Brother Giffard’s hand.

  “Hide them well,” she admonished.

  With a hasty slight of hand, the small canvas disappeared into his robe. No doubt a move he had perfected from years of practice.

  “Only two?”

  “’Tis all I could manage.”

  He glanced over at the bishop and Montgomery who were deep in conversation. “Have you had any luck in obtaining the key to your bonds?”

  “Nay, naught. But he releases me each night for a time.” She did not mention why, but her cheeks burned at the memory and, fo
r certes, when Giffard saw the painting he would know exactly the reason.

  “There is a ship leaving six weeks hence. Mayhap that will give me time to sell your work and obtain passage.”

  “For both me and my sisters,” she insisted.

  “Hmm.” He drummed his fingertips on the table. “’Twill cost a great deal of gold for three noblewomen. Depends on the value of the work and if it will fetch that much.”

  “It’s good,” she muttered, turning the tube’s cap over in her fingers.

  His brown robe fluttered as he shrugged. “We’ll see. The market can be tricky. And ’tis only two paintings.”

  “I can get you the other two of The King’s Mistresses,” she whispered, remembering what Montgomery had told her about the price they would fetch in London.

  Giffard’s eyes widened.

  A hand clamped down on her shoulder and she jumped. She looked up to see Montgomery standing before her and Bishop Humphrey storming from the chamber.

  Had her husband heard their discussion? Her heart raced.

  “Roll your work, Brenna. We head home.”

  She gave one last look at Giffard who sprawled out across the bench, nonchalant as always. To look at him, one would have thought they were discussing the recipes of mince pies.

  By the time they reached Windrose, exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Brenna. After the cacophony of the city, they returned to the voices of men, women, dogs, cats, pigs, boys and girls of the keep. They swirled around her like a wild storm pulling her this way and that, keeping her from her one purpose of verifying The King’s Mistresses were safe.

  Wearily, she climbed to her tower room with Damien in tow. Montgomery had left her to see to the progress on the new roof that was being built on the kitchens. She ran her finger around the manacle on her wrist, determining to do what it took to get free. The sun had set and tallow candles were lit in the hall. Their acrid smoke tinged the air.

  In a few moments’ time, Montgomery would join her in her room. He would release the chains as he always did. And he would bring her body to that beautiful, crashing peak where she forgot that she had been bound all the day long.

  The conflicting emotions were too much. With luck, she would have a few moments to take her paintbrush to canvas and soothe the turbulence rocking in her mind.

  Damien, stroking his facial hair, nodded at her as she made her way into the hallowed quiet of her chamber and closed the door behind her.

  Alone in the blessed, blessed quiet.

  She glanced out the window, wanting with some desperation to simply sit in the embrasure and stare out at the darkening sky.

  But first, she needed to see about The King’s Mistresses. She had told Giffard she would bring them to him, but mayhap the smarter course was to destroy them.

  Hurrying to her painting desk, she scooted it outward so she could crawl behind it and pry up the loose floor plank. She knelt, reached into the opening and dug through the parchments.

  The half-finished gladiator was there.

  Another self-portrait.

  Several others.

  No paintings of the king and his mistresses.

  They would be at the bottom of the pile. She rifled through them again.

  Naught.

  A sinking notion gurgled in her chest.

  Gone!

  ’Twas gone!

  She could neither take them to Brother Giffard nor destroy them. Nausea waved over her.

  She searched again for good measure, her fingers frantic. She creased one of the parchments. A knot formed in her throat.

  She replaced the floor plank and all its materials.

  Straightening, she took a deep breath and pushed the desk back into its place.

  Nay. She must be mistaken. Most likely, she’d placed the portraits elsewhere. Her fingers trembled. That did not seem possible. Montgomery would have already found them.

  Opening and closing the two rough drawers on her table-desk, she began her search. She felt over and under the variety of items in each drawer. Quills, ink, vials of pigment.

  Naught.

  Had Montgomery already found them?

  Nay. For certes, he would have done more than merely ask her about them if he had.

  Then where? And who had taken them?

  Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she restarted the search in a more systematic way, taking each item from the drawers before putting them back, then moving around the room searching every trunk and every corner.

  Bloody hell. Her heart pounded as she wrapped up the search. They must be in the bedchamber. They must.

  Panic worked into her throat. She tried to think of the last time she’d seen them.

  “Have you lost something, my lady?”

  She lurched and whirled at the sound of her husband’s voice. Devil take it! How had he entered so quietly? “What are you doing here?” she gasped.

  A twinkle formed in his indigo eyes. “I sleep here…among other things.”

  Her hand flew reflexively to her throat as he closed the distance between them. She stepped back as he leaned down, his face nearly touching hers.

  “Why are you so jumpy?” he asked.

  “I’m not jumpy! You–you just shouldn’t walk around like some sort of spy.” Had he seen her push the desk back over the loose floor planks?

  A nervous flutter formed in her stomach. If he found the painting of the gladiator and the half-finished one of herself, more questions would be forthcoming.

  He strode to the bed and leaned against the edge of the mattress. The curtains shivered. “Come to bed, Brenna. ’Tis been a busy day.”

  With a breath of relief, Brenna moved toward him. She tried to tell herself that the thrill trembling in her belly was only the remnants of edginess. But the desire to melt into his arms, to forget the anxieties of the day, flowed through her as seductively as holding a new paintbrush.

  His lips met hers and he reached beneath his tunic to take out the key to her bonds.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Days later, drawing on her memory of how Montgomery looked fully enlarged with passion, Brenna painted in the sketch of a man climbing onto a bed to kiss a sleeping woman. The chains were bound to Brenna’s forearms with twine to keep them out of the colors.

  She smiled at the parchment; this painting was darker, richer still than her others had been. She’d been working for hours and her brain felt a little cloudy with obsession.

  She wanted to be ready when she could steal time to meet Brother Giffard again.

  Against her will, her legs grew restless as she painted the man’s member. It was such an interesting sight, how the flesh protruded between his legs.

  So masculine.

  So large and interesting.

  She took a deep, satisfying breath. Copulating with Montgomery had given her artwork a new layer or realism and complexity that made her heart soar with joy.

  Wetting her lips, she added a crescent-shaped scar onto the man’s left shoulder. Just like the one her husband sported.

  Of a truth, her lord’s body fascinated her. She tapped the side of her paintbrush on the edge of the table. It was not just his body, but the man himself.

  During the days, he hired and managed workers to bring the land into good repair. New whitewash appeared on the castle’s walls and new thatching on the roof. He cared for the keep in ways her father had neglected.

  Every night, he removed the chains and kissed her until she felt frenzied with passion and gently made love to her. If he didn’t replace the chains every morning, she might actually start to like him. She tamped down that daft thought. She needed to escape. She could not live her life trussed up like a harem slave.

  But, he didn’t treat her like a slave: for the past three days, a new garment had arrived every morn—something she had not had in years. She marveled at the fine workmanship and the bright colors. He listened to her concerns about the household and had implemented some of her ideas to make meals smoo
ther. She’d seen her sisters from a distance on several occasions but had still been unable to contact them. They seemed well.

  She gnawed the end of her paintbrush; surely he gave her clothing as another way of owning her—so she would not embarrass him with the rags that were her own garments.

  Even so, she could not stop herself from luxuriating in the way the silk felt against her skin. The one she wore now was particularly fine—a deep green with little roses embroidered into the neckline and down the sleeves. With its long, trailing sleeves and square cut bodice, it was her favorite so far.

  She wished she had been able to change garments before she began to paint, but the chains prevented that and she had to use what minutes she could steal to work on her more passionate art.

  Turning her attention from the man in the painting to the background, she added shawls and a table and then, with a few brushstrokes, a broken vase appeared.

  She stopped and leaned forward on her stool, scrutinizing her work; she had not intended to paint a broken vase. Frowning, she let out a small huff of frustration. Sometimes she got carried away and things seemed to just paint themselves onto the canvas, like little fragments of another time and place.

  Dipping her brush into the blue tempera, she decided to change it into a lady’s kerchief. Broken vases did not suit the erotic mood of the painting.

  Annoyed that the unwelcome vase had stopped her concentration, she glared at it and leaned forward. The manacle around her wrist clipped her artist’s palette and in slow motion, it tumbled from the table into her lap. Paint splattered her bodice and onto her new skirt.

  Bloody hell! She snatched the palette, flung it onto the table and grabbed a rag.

  Crimson, yellow, and blue spotted the green silk. She wiped frantically at the colors. The stain widened.

  Of all the horrid things.

  Lurching to her feet, she took water from a pitcher, dipped the rag in it and wiped more.

  The colors darkened, became one huge smear of brown instead of several spots of individual colors.

  She groaned. Not her new dress. Now her favorite one.

 

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