The Pleasures of Sin

by Jessica Trapp

  They laid in silence for a moment.

  “Who is she, my lord?”

  Irritated at her impertinence, he heaved a breath. “’Tis not your concern.”

  The bed ropes creaked as she sat up and traced a finger down his shoulder. Her touch reminded him of a gentle spring rain, soft and intoxicating. She kissed him on the arm. “Prithee, my lord. Do not force me out.”

  He growled at her.

  Undeterred, she rubbed her cheek against his bicep. The gesture was so gentle, so loving, it felt foreign.

  “’Twas a long time ago,” he said, not wanting to examine the memories that still burned inside him. His child. The daughter he had lost. Her tiny body had gasped out its dying breath before it sagged in his palm, dead and lifeless as his wife who had just birthed her.

  Guilt welled inside him.

  If only he’d arrived moments sooner. If only, months earlier, he had not shown mercy to the man responsible for her death. Compassion was a weakness he could not afford. People died.

  “What was her name?” Brenna whispered, sprinkling little kisses on his cheek and down his jaw.

  He didn’t want to tell her. He didn’t want to say anything. He didn’t want to open that gateway to the painful memories. He didn’t want—

  “Aislin.” The sound of his own voice shocked him. It was more of a rasp, the sound of the past being torn open.

  “Your daughter?”

  “Dead.”

  “Oh.” She did not press him further for explanation, as if understanding that he needed some privacy in his thoughts.

  Instead, she hugged him tightly, as he had done her when he had unchained her after their intense coupling. She fluttered light, butterfly kisses on him that seemed to want to reach inside of him and heal the broken parts, as a mother would comfort a child.

  A welling of emotion rose inside him, stinging the backs of his eyes. He’d never told anyone about the baby. Not even his brother or sister-in-law knew about her. The feelings seemed too raw, too burning, too sacred to share. Whenever he’d felt any manner of compassion toward one of the criminals he punished, he’d remembered the pain mercy had brought him.

  “I was betrayed,” he said at last. “I showed compassion for a man and did not kill him as he deserved. In return, he paid me back by tracking down my wife and murdering her. She was pregnant.”

  As if she could soak up his raw emotion like a paint spill, Brenna patted him on the chest. She did not pry, but he knew her ears were open if he wished to speak of it. The sensation of floating in a sea of comfort engulfed him, allowing him to open his mind to the harsh memories of the past.

  “The baby lived for a short while.” He could still smell the blood, still feel the delicate movements she’d made, still hear her gasp. His child had been strong, but too small. The birth had been too early.

  “I washed her body and packed her in linens. The next day we landed in a port of a bustling city. I found an artist and forced him to paint her.” A lump formed in his chest, nearly crushing him. Ne’er before had he spoken of such intimate events. “I did not want to forget the importance of returning measure for measure.”

  Brenna paused in her kisses and moved so that she could stare down at him. Her hair formed soft curls around her face that bounced when she cocked her head to one side. “Why did you spare my life, my lord?”

  The fouled beheading had been an unspoken thing between them. Even now, he was not quite sure why he had stayed his hand on that day.

  Reaching upward, he thumbed her cheek. “You are too lovely to slay, my captive wife. And much too interesting in bed.”

  A flush of good spirits spread through him as a pretty blush pinkened her cheeks. It was much more pleasant to dwell on his beautiful wife than events of the past.

  Her fingers traced down his chest and caught the silver heart.

  He drew in a breath, but did not stop her.

  She flicked open the locket.

  “Brazen wench. I said I will not kill you so you begin already to test your boundaries,” he grumbled, but it was without heat even to his own ears.

  Compassion shone in her eyes as she gazed at the portrait of Aislin. “She’s lovely. Her hair is thick and dark like yours.”

  Closing his hand around hers, James lifted and kissed Brenna on the lips. She melted against him as she had when she had been bound to the bed, only this time the emotion between them was seeped with something deeper than the sheer, hot passion they shared.

  “The gossips are wrong; you didn’t murder your wife,” Brenna said. It wasn’t a question. That she understood the unspoken burden he bore caused another lump in his throat. She touched him gently, running soothing hands over his shoulders.

  James brushed his fingers over her cheek, humbled by the concern gleaming from her eyes. “I cared for her—but I was reckless and selfish. She was a peasant and our marriage was doomed from the start. We were not supposed to marry, but she became pregnant and I could not allow our child to be labeled a bastard. She was young. Pretty in an unusual way, much like you. I forced her to marry me. Forced her to go to the continent with me. She hated the ships. She hated the cold. She hated traveling. I left her in one port with friends while I completed the voyage. She should have been safe, but she wouldn’t stay.” His voice broke. “A man I had released years earlier found her. He dragged her further north and held her hostage, torturing her until I arrived.”

  Anger curled inside him as he remembered the bastard who had held his pregnant wife, cold and naked in a dungeon, raping her at will.

  He’d killed the man with his bare hands, taking joy in the act and then dragged the body through the streets and fed it to the dogs. “I should have secured her, locked her in a chamber until I finished my business and could travel home with her.”

  Brenna blinked, as if understanding something for the first time. “Did you chain me so that I would not escape and venture out alone?”

  “’Tis dangerous times for a woman to travel without escort, Brenna. Whate’er our issues, you are my charge now.”

  “I thought you only wanted to humiliate me, that you hated me.”

  “I do not hate you, Brenna. I—” He didn’t have words to complete the sentence. Like you? Love you?

  Nay, he did not love her. He was not ready for love, not when the memory of his wife and child still burned in his chest, leaving a hole where his heart should have been. But Brenna was fascinating. Interesting.

  “I have known many noble ladies, my captive wife, and for the most part they are obsessed with gossip and clothing and naught much else. I am a wealthy man, oft gone on the king’s business so I assumed it would not be difficult to make an amicable match with whomever I married.” He smiled at the word “amicable.” Their relationship had been anything but.

  He slid his arms around her, rolling her until she was pinned beneath him on the mattress and the locket was caught between their bodies.

  She gazed up at him with soft eyes, as if bringing all of him inside herself to warm the cold corners of his soul. Cherished. He felt cherished.

  This woman was not like other noblewomen. She was passionate. Intense. She saw things others did not see.

  Where others accused him of murder, she had looked at the locket and seen through the gossip’s fodder. She wasn’t interested in gossip—she was interested in art. While she seemed to love the expensive new clothing he’d bought her, she’d been even more delighted when he’d opened her painting trunk.

  Her sisters and father had mistreated her, but she’d bargained for their lives. He’d embarrassed her by forcing her to walk the castle bound like a prisoner, but still, she responded to him, giving herself to their passion.

  “’Twas my recklessness that killed my wife and child. I went a little insane for a time afterwards, giving myself over to all manners of passion and drink. My brother and sister-in-law saved me from myself and since that time I’ve lived a life of contained duty.”

  And
right now she looked at him with such trust in her eyes that it made him feel dirty for the things he’d done to her.

  If he wasn’t careful, he could begin to feel for her.

  Feelings are for ninnies, he heard his father begin, but Brenna’s voice sliced through the taunt as if she wielded the dagger.

  “Do you regret sparing my life?” she teased.

  He gazed down on her, taking in the way her lids half closed and her mouth was yielding and wet. “Not at the moment.”

  Her lips curved into a slight smile and her fingers threaded into his hair pulling his face closer to hers. Their mouths touched, and he felt her soften and surrender to him, a look of complete trust on her face.

  It tore at his heart. Another woman had trusted him like that and he’d let her down. Brenna had plenty of reason not only to mistrust him, but to hate him, yet there was no mistaking the look in her eyes.

  “Make love to me, my lord,” she murmured against his lips.

  He drew back, almost shocked. Not at her passion, but at her choice of words. Make love.

  “You don’t hate me either,” he stated, mystified by the realization. He’d nearly beheaded her. Whipped her. Humiliated her. How could one woman contain such an amount of passion that even such deeds did not diminish it? That amount of passion both baffled and intrigued him. When he had been so passionate, he’d been reckless, selfish, and it was only by supreme containment that he’d reined himself in. Yet, her passion was neither reckless nor selfish. She gave up her freedoms for her sisters. She gave of herself to him.

  He feared what going back to that sort of passion would bring to him, but, silently, he vowed to never let this one down. In an easy motion, he rocked his hips, pushing his already-hardened member inside her.

  Her queynt was warm, wet, ready for him.

  He kissed her eyelids. “Forgive me, Brenna, I cannot love you. I do not have a heart left.”

  She did not defy his claim but wrapped her legs around his waist, giving herself to him. Before, she’d been chained and could not have stopped him even if she had wanted to—which, he had been sure she didn’t—but this time, she controlled her willingness. She controlled how much she lifted her legs and how much she drew him into herself.

  He felt shattered by the simple act of passion. He did not deserve such.

  Their lovemaking was slow and luxurious, a far cry from the frenzied pace they had set earlier that night. The locket felt warm between them, and he felt his own heart beat against it. A heart he thought incapable of ever feeling anything again.

  Chapter Twenty

  Brenna awoke more content and happy than she had in years, mayhap even her whole life. Enjoying the delicious soreness in her body, she stretched her arms and legs.

  And realized that for the first time in weeks, she was not chained to the bed and forced to lie there until her lord and master arrived to see her dressed and fettered.

  Lord. Master. Those words took on a different meaning in light of last night’s passion and the sharing of words between them.

  James had mastered her body in a way that she’d never thought possible. He’d been tender. He’d been fierce. She blushed remembering the wanton way she responded to him, and her heart broke thinking of the baby he’d lost.

  Mayhap she could give him another baby.

  She rubbed her temples. Where had that thought come from? Shaking her head, she padded over to the washbasin and splashed cold water on her face. The man was making her daft.

  It was only a matter of time before he discovered something that led him to the fact that she was the painter of The King’s Mistresses, or until her father showed up, or any number of things that would prove this truce between them was only an illusion.

  But it hadn’t felt like an illusion last night. There had been warmth and a measure of care between them.

  He still loved his wife. He said he could not love again because he had no heart left. A streak of jealousy shot through her. Had he ever shared passion with his wife the way he had with her?

  She dressed quickly, still amazed Montgomery did not show up and snap the manacles around her arms as he had done every morning. She stretched her arms up and out and down, reveling in the feeling of freedom.

  Montgomery was wrong. No matter his words, they had shared something special last night. He had felt it too or he would not have left her unbound this morning. Something had changed in their relationship—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  She made her way to her painting desk and sat on the stool. Being unfettered, able to move in freedom, felt marvelous. She stretched again, just because she could.

  Would he leave her thus?

  The urge to paint while unbound overtook her. She reached for her mortar and pestle to begin making the tempera.

  And saw the key.

  It was in the middle of her cluttered painting desk atop a stack of parchment.

  She picked it up, fondling the cool metal between her thumb and forefinger. Being free was one thing. Being given the key was another.

  Warmth flowed through her. If their relationship was always as it had been yester eve, their marriage would be tolerable.

  Nay. Not tolerable. Wonderful!

  She gazed out of the window into the bailey.

  Below, her husband directed the repair of an outbuilding used to house hay for the winter. He’d spent gold making updates and changes to the castle. His own gold. He’d showed more concern for the keep than her father had.

  Sunlight glinted off his dark hair. It had grown somewhat longer these past weeks and was not so stiff and orderly as it had been. It looked a little unkempt and reminded her of what they had done together in the bed. The reflection sent heat into her woman’s core.

  She watched him, enjoying the way the line of his back moved as he walked in his precise no-nonsense manner. He directed the workers with such ease of command.

  He smiled at the men from time to time, and it seemed obvious that they were not working hard out of fear, but because of a genuine desire to please him.

  As she had wanted to last night.

  That wayward thought brought a rush of blood to her cheeks. She had wanted to please him last night. She’d been so far gone with lust, she would have done anything he wanted just to experience the rush of fulfillment.

  But she should not want him thus. She wanted to go to Italy, be free of the duty of a keep. And she definitely did not want children. Right?

  Turning away from the sight of her husband and the perplexing feelings he brought up, she mixed the tempera in a mortar with some leftover eggs from yesterday. They were still fresh enough for use, but she would have to head to the chicken yard later for more.

  Once the colors were ready, she positioned her parchment to paint.

  Her fingers itched to capture the joy of last night’s coupling, but she did not dare work on another miniature for Brother Giffard in broad daylight when James could interrupt at any moment.

  Free from the burden of trying to formulate something to sell, she relaxed her mind and allowed herself to paint whatever her imagination brought forth.

  A man appeared on the parchment—strong, sturdy. He held a broadsword in one hand and had a fierce look on his face. The scene was passionate, compelling. At the bottom, shards of glass littered the floor along with a broken vase.

  She stopped.

  Another broken vase.

  Bloody hell.

  Swiping at the vase with a rag, she smeared the paint on the parchment. Why had this odd thing appeared twice in her artwork? The vase had only started showing up after she began coupling with Montgomery. Were they some warning against her passion? An omen for some future disaster?

  Unease prickled her neck and she could not shake the premonition that it meant something important.

  Irritated that her blissful mood was broken, she shoved her paintbrushes into a jar of spike lavender oil.

  The door swung open. Adele limped inside,
followed by Panthos and Duncan. St. Paul was missing from her entourage; perhaps he was mousing as cats were wont to do.

  “Adele!” A leap of joy burst in Brenna’s heart and she raced across the room to hug her sister. It had been weeks. “I feared he would ne’er let me speak with you again!”

  Smiling, Adele hugged her back. “Are you well?”

  Brenna blew out a breath, not knowing how to answer. Her sister’s presence brought back the guilt of enjoying her husband’s touch in full force. “Montgomery is not odious, if that is what you are asking.”

  “He raped you.”

  “He—” Their relationship was too complex to explain. Brenna patted her sister’s arm. “I am well. But, I have missed you terribly. Is Gwyneth all right?”

  “Montgomery has set a wedding date for her. And for me as well.”

  “A wedding date!”

  “Aye.”

  Concern burrowed into Brenna’s mind. “He will give you a choice of husbands,” she said confidently. Thus far, he had been fair in his dealings.

  “The husbands have already been chosen. Neither Gwyneth nor I had any say in the matter.”

  “But he—” Brenna’s throat clogged. Promised. She would speak with him. Surely her sister misunderstood.

  Adele closed the door and glanced around. “Are you alone?”

  “Yea.”

  “Nathan has sent word.” Adele’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “He is coming with a full force of men to siege the castle.”

  A sinking sensation pitted in Brenna’s stomach. “Siege,” she repeated numbly.

  “Aye. There is passage arranged for the three of us on a ship leaving two weeks hence. We will head straight for Italy.”

  Italy.

  Her dream.

  Adele swept her hand toward the painting desk. “You will finally be able to study art on the continent as you have always desired. Why the odd look on your face, sister?”

  Memories of the way James had felt betwixt her legs, slowly sliding in and out of her queynt, flooded her mind. She coughed to cover her reaction. “What will happen to Montgomery?”