In her mind, she heard her father yell at her. You clumsy cow! How dare you paint while wearing your new gown; now we’ll never get rid of you! She cringed at the memory, not wanting to feel the ache in her chest that ne’er went away. She had been fourteen, and they had been summoned for the queen’s birthday celebration. She’d spent weeks working on a special miniature to give as a present. It was her first time to be presented at court, and she had wanted to make a good impression. She had hoped, romantic as it was, that the queen would like the painting, feel kindly toward her, and secure a good marital match for her. Something that would make her father proud.
She had been dressed and the portrait had been ready to go. But, as she waited for her family, she realized the holly berries in the artwork were not quite right. She hastened to fix them, to put just a finishing touch on the piece.
Brenna rubbed her temples, wanting to erase the memory and the shame.
She had spilled her palette, dumped a pot of pigment and three eggs onto her dress—ruining it. What a clumsy horrid thing to do.
Her father raged at her when he arrived. Servants watched as he picked up her painting—her only gift for the queen—and dunked it into the chamberpot.
“That’s all your work will ever amount to: something fit for the dung heap! The queen doesn’t want your stupid imaginations.”
Then, he’d forced her to strip naked in front of the servants and shoved one of the chambermaid’s garments over her head. Agony laced her chest, just as it had all those years ago when she was a girl. The dress hadn’t been so bad, for perhaps working in the kitchen, but it was grossly plain and out of fashion to be seen by the court.
Brenna shuddered at the memory.
The queen had been most displeased. No marriage calls came. Her father snarled at her that she’d ruined everything. He’d given away all her clothing and never bought her another dress.
She hadn’t wanted to tell her husband what it meant to her for him to buy her new garments, or how much it squeezed her heart.
Bootsteps sounded out in the hallway. Montgomery! Brenna wiped even more frantically at the big, brown spot, then abruptly stopped.
It was useless.
The dress was ruined.
Best to face him with dignity. When Montgomery took away her nice clothing as her father had done, she would be no worse off than she’d been afore he’d arrived.
She rapidly hid the erotic painting of her husband beneath the floor planks. It wasn’t the best place for it to dry, but she could not take chances on it being discovered.
Then, turning toward the door, she stiffened her spine and waited with resolve for what her husband would say. He was a man who took pride in how he dressed. The very shine on his boots told her that. He would have no use for clumsiness.
She stood rigidly upright and lifted her chin when the door opened.
Montgomery entered, filling the chamber with his presence. He wore a crisp, pressed blue tunic and flawlessly polished boots. How did the man walk around without getting dust on his shoes? Nary a wrinkle marred his hose. Perfect. As always.
His gaze flickered over her face. “My captive wife, how good of you to be in attendance.”
She clenched her jaw, waiting for him to begin his lecture.
As if oblivious of the mess she’d made, he smiled and stepped toward her.
Her legs quivered.
Leaning down, he kissed her cheek and his fingers trailed down her bodice.
“What the…” He stepped back, staring at the muddled paint on his fingers.
She forced down the little skip of fear her heart made. She would face this bravely, no matter how much he railed at her. She had borne the shame before, and she could bear it again.
“You’ve gotten paint on your dress,” he said.
“I do not expect you to understand,” she said stiffly. “I can have one of your servants return the others to the merchant tomorrow. Surely, they can be resold for a goodly amount.”
Montgomery’s brows slammed together, and he looked at her like she’d just grown a horn. “You want to return the dresses?”
Lifting her chin, she met his steely gaze. She would not let him know how good it had felt after all these years to wear nice things again. She should never have accepted the garments in the first place—it vexed her heart and was akin to betrayal of her duty to her family. It made her long for a life here instead of a nun’s lot in Italy.
“Yea, that is correct.”
He loomed over her, confusion clouding his face. “You want to return all of the dresses because you got paint on one of them?”
“You can yell at me if you wish,” she continued, heedless, reckless. It felt like her heart was breaking to let go of such beautiful things. “But it will not do any good. God made me clumsy at times and clumsy I am.”
Montgomery’s shoulders relaxed, and he gave her a smile that could have melted Snowdonia. In sharp contrast to his perfect clothing and warrior exterior, the two overlapping teeth were cute and boyish. “You think you are uncoordinated?”
She winced, waiting for his smile to turn into a snarl. “I am.”
“My dear captive wife, I am not a harsh leader to those who obey me, so listen carefully”—his fingers cupped her shoulder, and she cringed—“you are never, ever to say that about yourself again. Any woman who can paint such beautiful paintings as I have seen you do is not clumsy. Do you understand?”
Her mouth fell open. If he would have suddenly grown wings and began to fly around the chamber, she could not have been more shocked. “You–you are not angry?”
He laughed and thumbed her on the nose with the paint that was on his fingers. “’Tis only a dress, silly girl.”
In that moment, her manacles were forgiven. Warmth flowed through her like wine. All the hurts between them disappeared like smoke and she felt her heart crack open. She blinked, unsure if she wanted to feel this strange tenderness. ’Twas so much more intimate than even the copulation between them had been.
Without allowing herself to dissect her purpose, she stood on tiptoes and pressed a kiss on his lips. The paint smear on her nose transferred to his cheeks, her messy nature rubbed off on his tightly controlled perfection. “La.” Smiling, she rubbed it away with her finger.
His arms closed around her, enveloping her in his strength and his scent—that compelling mixture of spice and woods. Her heart sped, and she reached up wrapping her arm around him and drawing him closer, wanting more of this comfort, this feeling of having flaws and being accepted anyway.
She pulled him backward, toward the bed, eager to explore him. Always before, he had been the initiator, the one who touched her and loved her until she spun with passion. This time, she wanted to give him pleasure as he had given to her. Her sex was still overly warm, ripe with desire, from the portrait she had been painting; her fingers longed to touch the body she had just captured on canvas.
She kissed him aggressively, tasting his mouth, his neck, his ear.
A low growl escaped his throat, and a surge of female power whipped through her. She had thought, assumed, that his coupling with her had only been because he wished to obtain heirs. But here was a man focused on the present moment, not future children.
Desire spread through her, wetting her like gesso over canvas. She wanted him. All of him. Inside her.
“My lady,” he murmured.
Yanking at the bottom of his tunic, she pulled it free from his belt and pushed it upward so her hands could trace across the planes and valleys of his torso. She laced her fingers through the hair of his chest. The key to her manacles hung on a leather chain, as did the heart-shaped locket.
They tumbled onto the bed, his hands at the top of her bodice. He pulled the garment downward, trying to yank it off, but the chain and collar impaired the movement of her elbows and neck. Her arm caught, pinning her into the dress. The damn chains!
Pausing, he reached back. She thought he was retrieving the key, but in
stead, he plucked the knife from his belt.
“’Tis ruined already, my captive wife.”
“Wha—”
A soft rent sounded as the blade sliced through fabric. Cool air caressed her skin. She shivered.
“I’ll buy you more,” he whispered.
Wetness leaked from her woman’s core as she recalled the last memory they had together with the blade. Her nether hair, still short, was growing back, and she wondered if she should ask him to shave her again.
Sighing, she threaded her fingers into his hair, enjoying the crisp, prickly texture against her palms. His easy acceptance of the ruined dress had cracked open a portion of her heart she’d long thought was mortared closed.
She could love a man such as him. The thought gave her pause, but he leaned forward and swirled his tongue around one of her nipples before she could entertain it.
“Jaaaaames,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
Raising his head, he gazed at her. His eyes glowed with blue fire. In several skilled motions, he made quick work of the dress. The hard metal was cold against her skin and the garment fell away in slices.
Anticipation grew. She licked her lips.
He gave her a pirate’s grin and reached for the key to the manacles. She remained still, as she did every night when he performed this ritual of unlatching her.
But unlike other nights, she did not like the separation of their bodies. She wanted to touch him, to bring him closer. As he unlocked one of her wrists, she reached her arm toward him, wanting to slide her fingers over his skin.
He snagged her wrists, disallowing her the privilege.
She let out a frustrated whimper.
The pirate’s smile grew, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other, as he looped the chain around the bedpost. Because of the ring through the collar that connected the wrist manacles, her other hand drew to her throat with the motion.
Confused, she tried to sit up, wriggling against the chains, and the palm wrapped around her arm.
Undeterred he snapped the manacle back around her wrist.
She gasped. “What the bloody hell are you doing? I was not going to fight you.”
“I know.” His gaze was hot as the fires of Hades as his eyes raked over her body. Despite her awkward position, her nipples tightened.
He feathered his hands down her body. She quivered, the sensation intense and confusing.
She rattled her bonds against the bedpost, frustrated. “There is no reason to bind me thus,” she grumbled.
“No reason, save that I wish to,” he whispered, running his tongue softly across her earlobe.
“Oh.” She swallowed, uncertain at this new game. Ne’er before had he left her chained for their private time together. The sex between them had been a sacred time where their issues and strives melted away.
“Say my name again.”
“James.”
“Nay. Say it in that low, throaty voice that gives me permission to do whatever I want with you.”
Heat pricked her cheeks at her own wantonness. At the way she had wanted him earlier. At the wetness that still seeped from her quent.
He ran his thumb along her collarbone. His touch burned her skin, sending shivers down her spine. She should not enjoy his possession so much, yet she did.
“James,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
“Very good. Lift your legs into the air.”
Blushing, she obeyed.
“Open them.”
She complied, squeezing her eyes shut so she would not have to see him hovering over her. Her eyes flew open when he grasped her ankle with the same determination he had used on her wrists. The manacle clicked open. She tried to wiggle away, but he looped the chain upward, fastening it so that she was bound, legs open on the bed before him.
She felt her blush move from her face down her body, warming her. And that wicked betraying place betwixt her thighs cared not at all.
She wanted him. Still. Now. Here. This way. Anyway he wanted.
He traced one finger down her stomach and slid it between the slick folds of her secret parts.
Whimpering, she arched her back. Every move, every touch seemed heightened because of her inability to move around, as if parts of her were on fire. She wiggled her hips toward his hand, wanting his fingers on that special area where the sensations culminated.
He slid his hand aside, just out of reach of his fingers touching that one spot. She rocked further toward him, but he moved his finger down the side of her quim instead of upward where she wanted him.
“Prithee, my lord.”
“Shh.”
She quieted as he continued long, slow strokes touching and teasing and pressing and releasing her inner and outer lips. The sensation grew, burning, overwhelming. Liquid seeped down her hips; a pool of need.
She strained against the chains holding her arms and legs, wanting somehow to force him to touch that one place, her woman’s pearl. She bucked her hips. She whimpered.
Still, he moved away, obviously in no hurry to possess her as she desired. As she needed.
She nearly screamed in frustration as his fingertips brushed her pearl then moved aside. Knowing that moving her hips to follow his hand would do her no good, she tried pressing her legs together to stave off the assault on her woman parts. But the bonds kept her legs open, an easy target for his diddling fingers.
“Please, my lord.”
“Not yet.”
“But I’m ready,” she grumbled, her hips quivering.
He gave her a wicked grin. “That is for me to decide.”
“Prithee.”
In answer to her plea, he slipped his hands upward to tease her nipples in the same way he had done with the folds betwixt her legs. With a sigh, she gave herself over to the sensation, fully surrendering to his pleasure. To allowing him to lead. Wave after wave of ecstasy floated over her. Every touch burned her skin. She wanted him, longed for him.
He held her in ecstasy for what seemed like hours until she could think of naught but him. He kissed her eyelids and moved over her body.
At long last, she felt his cock at the entrance to her woman’s core, enlarged, throbbing, just as it had been in her painting. She let out a whimper as he slid into her, not slowly as he had done for the past nights of lovemaking, but quick and hard and animalistic. She breathed out a small gasp of pleasure that his need met hers. Finally!
She did not want him slow or easy. She wanted hard, quick strokes.
He pumped inside her and, at last, pleasure burst like a broken dam. Moaning, she soared in the sensation, lost in emotion as he too cried out his own pleasure.
Dear heavens. It seemed she was floating, hovering over the mattress instead of lying upon it. For long moments, she was unable to move, or even to think clearly. Her body felt languid and detached from her mind.
After a time, he kissed her cheek in the most tender of gestures, then moved to unlock the manacle and collar. He tossed them onto the floor planks.
The loud clank as they landed reverberated through her brain, crashing in on the luxurious sensations that she had just experienced. How could she have enjoyed such things so freely?
She shuddered, suddenly chilled and confused. She had just been tied with the very bonds she hated and she had not hated them at all. A maddening despair welled inside her and her eyes prickled with hot tears. How could she have? How could she? Shivers started at her toes and worked their way up her body in unartful jerks.
Drawing the bedcovers over her nude form, he hugged her tightly.
Thank the saints he didn’t talk, didn’t try to tell her it was all right.
It wasn’t all right. How could such things be all right?
She squeezed him back, snuggling into his warmth and hanging on for the sake of her sanity. Would she ever be a puppet in his hand?
As the moments passed, so did the odd, overwhelming despair and disgust with herself that she had surrendered to him so thoroughly
. That she’d begged him for release and indeed would have begged for much more if he had required it of her.
He kissed the top of her head and she relaxed, wanting naught more in life than to lay right here and forget the world existed.
He rearranged their positions so that he laid on his back and her head was cradled in a comfortable little spot between his shoulder and his chest. She snuggled into his warmth and inhaled the scent of his body, content now in this new languid state.
Her hand trailed over his torso, making circles on his skin. He was so beautiful. Magnificent. A woman would ne’er tire of lying in his arms.
His eyes closed and his breathing became soft and regular, punctuated from time to time with soft snores.
Her fingers snagged on the leather cord holding the locket. Remembering how possessive he’d been with it, she wound it around one of her fingers wondering if she dared ease open the latch. Curiosity grew in her mind. Was it from an old lover? Did it contain a lock of hair? A portrait?
Licking her lips, she eased upward on one elbow. The locket rested atop his wide chest, delicate, shiny, and silver. Beckoning her with its secrets. Usually he took it off afore they copulated.
She slid her palm toward it.
Montgomery shifted, turning onto his side.
Biting back a small gasp, she jerked back.
A soft snore escaped Montgomery’s throat. Relieved, she reached her hand slowly across him. Her fingers closed on the prize and she flipped it open.
She caught a glimpse of a portrait of a sleeping baby girl with delicate lace bows in her dark, curly hair.
Then Montgomery’s hand clamped down on her wrist.
Chapter Nineteen
“I explained already that you were not to touch the locket.” James felt his wife’s pulse throb against his palm as he held her wrist. Annoyance slid through him, both for the intrusion of his privacy and for the breaking of the peace that had come between them.
“Forgive me, my lord.” She wiggled her fingers.
Her bones seemed delicate as a bird’s leg as they danced beneath his fingers. They had shared a passionate time together—each one giving as much as the other—and he was reluctant to smash their new-formed truce. His hand loosened, and he released her.
The Pleasures of Sin Page 19