by Kris Tualla
“She broke your heart,” Dagny whispered.
Martin’s gaze fell to his cup. “That she did.”
He downed another swallow and looked at her with an intensity she wasn’t expecting. “I’m grateful tonight for that sorrow. Because now I have you.”
A quiver of anticipation snaked through Dagny’s frame.
Martin tipped her cup toward her lips. “Finish your wine. Then I’ll begin to get your body ready.”
Dagny drained her glass to hide her face from Martin, lest he see her fear. She swiped the back of her hand across her lips and handed him the glistening vessel. “I’m ready.”
Martin finished his wine as well and set the empty glasses on the table. He sat closer to her this time, his hip pressed alongside hers. The wine warmed her skin and filled her with a pleasant numbness.
“Let me know if I hurt you,” he murmured. Then he leaned over and kissed her.
The kiss started slowly, like the one earlier that day at their wedding. Dagny made the decision to follow Martin’s lead tonight, not push him, nor hold him back. So while she wanted him to use his tongue again, she did not initiate that particular action.
When he did open his mouth, the wine taste flowed between them. She lifted one hand and rested it on his chest. She could feel the heat of his skin through his linen shirt. The strong beat of his heart flowed through her fingertips, setting hers to the same rhythm.
She wondered how long a kiss could last and if it ever needed to end.
Martin shifted slightly. One hand moved under the blanket and lay on her thigh. His palm felt hot as fire. Only the silk of her gown protected her from burning.
His hand moved down to her knee. He began to pull the hem of her nightgown upward.
Dagny leaned away from the kiss, but Martin’s mouth chased after her. His other hand moved behind her head and held it close to his.
“Don’t stop kissing me,” he breathed into her mouth. “You taste like a goddess.”
His startling words distracted her thoughts. It wasn’t until his fingers reached the apex of her thighs that she gasped and jerked back. Her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
Martin’s eyes were inches from hers, watching her reaction. “Relax, Dagny. I will be gentle.”
She couldn’t meet his gaze with his naked fingers resting against her quim. “How can you stand to touch me there?” she whispered.
“Stand it?” he asked. “I enjoy it.”
Her incredulous regard jumped to his. “Why?”
His smile was soft and lazy. “Let me show you.”
Martin kissed her again as his fingers began to move. They pressed and slid all over her. Warmth spread outward from the tender spot. She realized of a sudden that she had wet herself. With a small cry, she bunched her gown in her fist and tried to dry the sensitive area.
Martin’s hand stopped her. “No, don’t.”
“I—I’m wet,” she said with a small sob of humiliation.
He nuzzled her hair and resumed his ministrations. “You are supposed to be.”
Dagny put her hands on his shoulders, holding him back, and stared into his eyes. Tears stung at her lids. “No, Martin. I think I wet myself.”
“You did not,” Martin replied as his movements became more intentional. “Your body is getting ready for me.”
He leaned in for another kiss. Dagny laid back against the pillows and kissed him with all the skill she learned from Torvald. He moaned a little.
Martin pulled his hand away. Dagny was shocked to realize that she wanted him to put it back. He lifted the blanket out of the way and laid alongside her. His fingers resumed their work. Dagny sighed.
One finger entered her. She forgot to breathe.
Martin broke away from their kiss and murmured, “You are ready. Spread your knees.”
Dagny squeezed her eyes shut and did as she was bid. As Martin moved over her, settling between her legs, her arms stiffened at her sides and her hands fisted. She was, indeed, ready.
His thickness bumped against her. His weight shifted to one arm.
Dagny knew that penises became stiff, so feeling Martin’s manhood begin to push against her wasn’t a surprise. Only it felt different than she expected. Hotter. And more blunt. Just as she was wondering if this was all there was, Martin slid inside her so deeply that his hips met hers.
First was the shock of realization that part of this man’s body was buried to its root in hers. The sting of his entry grabbed her attention, a sharp, narrow pain that was far less than she expected. A sensation of fullness like nothing she could have imagined came next, sending ripples through her womb.
Martin began to move. Out and in, out and in. His rhythm gained speed. Dagny’s fists gripped the sheet. She wanted to cry out, but remembered the open transom. Instead, she clamped her jaw shut and winced. Her breaths came in uneven bursts.
Martin gave one final push. His body stiffened and shook. A grunt escaped his lips. Dagny eased her eyes open to look at him. His face was red and twisted into a grimace that mimicked pain. Somehow, she didn’t think it was pain.
Panting, he opened his eyes.
“Are you well?” he gasped.
She nodded.
His eyes closed again. “Give me a moment, will you?”
Martin remained, suspended above her on straightened arms, until his breathing eased. Then he lowered himself to one elbow and rolled to the side.
The shock of his exit sent another wave of ripples splashing through her frame.
He fumbled for her hand. When he found it, he pried her fist open and laced his fingers with hers. He lifted their entwined hands to his mouth and proceeded to kiss her knuckles, one at a time.
“It’s done, then,” he breathed. “You are irrevocably my wife and no one can suggest otherwise.”
Martin turned on his side to face her. “Are you truly well?” he asked again.
“Yes, Martin,” she lied.
He touched her cheek, his expression tender. “Tonight was necessary. I’m sorry that it wasn’t a pleasure for you but have no fears, Dagny. I won’t enter you again until you ask me to.”
Chapter Twenty Two
Dagny faced the wall, her forehead and knees against the wood. Martin slumbered beside her. He had been visibly pleased when she declined to sleep apart from him. At the least she made him happy in that way, because she was certain her part of their joining wasn’t at all what he needed.
The large hand resting on her hip felt as heavy as the ship’s anchor. Perhaps it was only her mood that made it feel so. She tried not to let Martin know, but something was very wrong with her.
The space between her thighs throbbed. She slid her hand down and confirmed that the entire area was swollen and still damp. She had the strangest sensation that her womb was hungry with an awakened appetite that had not been appeased.
That strange appetite was now keeping her awake.
Dagny felt completely inadequate when Martin said he wouldn’t take her again until she asked him to. She had been taught that men had insatiable desires which, once inflamed, must be satisfied daily.
Torvald said as much himself. For Martin to deny himself his right as a husband worried her. Might he seek relief elsewhere as Torvald had?
Dagny cupped herself and felt the beat of her pulse in her aching flesh. If every subsequent bedding with Martin left her feeling so confused and sleepless afterwards, she would not be offering herself any time soon. While the pain dissipated quickly, and Martin’s thrusts began to stimulate the same sort of sensations his fingers began, the culmination of the activity left much to be desired.
Dagny heaved a sigh. She closed her eyes instead of staring at a wall she couldn’t see in the dark anyway. As the nuns taught her to do, now was the time to count her blessings.
She was married to Martin. Not Torvald.
Martin was kind, intelligent, honest. He was well-educated, and spoke English fluently. He was tall enough to stand over her.
And handsome. He had the bluest eyes she had ever seen. His hair was thick and healthy. He had nice teeth. He was clean.
Dagny yawned.
The hand on her hip moved to her waist and gave it a squeeze. Martin’s knees tucked behind hers. She smiled.
June 21, 1749
Martin opened his eyes, squinted at the ceiling above him, momentarily forgetting where he was. The weight of Dagny’s head on his shoulder quickly brought his awareness to the present.
Dagny’s cabin. Our cabin.
Martin was married. He had a wife. That was not entirely good news.
It wasn’t because there was anything wrong with Dagny. Quite the opposite, in fact. While Martin was initially attracted to what he considered to be her stunning beauty, it was her quirky personality that held his attention. She was unlike any woman he had ever known.
Then again, she was the first woman he ever heard of who was raised in an abbey—until she bolted for her life with a man of brief acquaintance. That required some measurable amount of strength, whether she was aware of it or not.
The fact that Torvald Haugen was a man of suspect character was unfortunate for Dagny in so many ways. And yet, it was Martin who married her and took her virginity. She slept in his arms now, and would for as long as they lived.
Dagny sighed in her sleep and turned to face the wall. Martin rolled away from her. His physical response to the memory of last night only intensified his morning stiffness; if she awoke now and noticed, he didn’t want to worry her.
Martin had never worked so hard at reigning in his passions as he had yester eve. When he walked into the cabin and saw Dagny in the bed, her puckered breasts pressing against the transparent blue silk of her gown, he nearly dropped the wine. He wanted so badly to hold them. Take them in his mouth. Feel them bare against his chest. And that was just the beginning.
He always assumed that he would be naked when he bedded his wife. The few times he swived women with his clothes on were hurried romps in Oxford. Opportunities abounded around the university, yet Martin gave in to the seductions only when he had a sheath. Fathering a bastard or being forced into marriage with a stranger were not circumstances he would risk.
The irony was not lost on him now. He was married to a relative stranger, one on whom he had forced the option.
The way Dagny responded to his touch, however, portended a lusty future. When he slid into her last night, his cock at last unsheathed, he felt like he had gone to heaven. He thrust with care, focusing on the heat and friction so his release would come quickly. When it did, he poured himself into her without reserve.
With patience, he would take her to her own release.
Patience. Why on earth did he say he wouldn’t enter her again until she asked him to?
Have I lost my mind?
Martin ran his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. Perhaps it was Dagny’s stiff arms and clenched fists. Or her eyes squeezed so determinedly shut. Her lack of movement. Or her silence. She was frightened, that was clear. Even so, Martin didn’t believe she experienced much pain despite the tightly coiled tension gripping her frame.
Martin smiled. Though her mind shouted warnings and threw up every barrier it could conjure, her quim offered an invitation. His fondling released a fountain of preparation; his entry was welcomed. When she overcame her upbringing, Dagny would be quite good at sex.
Someday.
***
Dagny turned over when Martin got out of bed.
“I believe we have slept though breakfast,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled his trousers on. “That bed is overly seductive in its comfort.”
Dagny felt a stab of disappointment. Even though they had coupled successfully last night, she still didn’t know what an unclothed man looked like. In spite of her trepidation, she was still curious.
“There are two mattresses, see?” She held up the edge of the sheet to show him. “Your blanket and sheet were under us as well.”
Martin lifted his nightshirt over his head before he turned around. Dagny’s gaze traveled over the landscape of his skin, taking in every bulge and valley of his torso. Pleasure bubbled in her chest.
He gave an approving nod. “So that’s your secret. How did you manage that?”
“Will you always sleep in your shirt?” she blurted.
Martin paused. A reaction she couldn’t decipher passed through his features. “I think it’s best that I do.”
Dagny tugged the blanket to her neck and wondered if this decision was her fault.
Martin donned his shirt. “The two mattresses?” he reminded her.
“We had two because I wouldn’t sleep with Torvald.” Somehow saying his name to Martin felt wrong. Dagny didn’t want to give Martin a reason to become jealous. Even if her husband didn’t love her, she was his wife. She belonged to him.
Martin sat and tugged his boots on. “In that case, I owe him two debts of gratitude,” he quipped with a crooked grin. “For I have never passed a more wondrous night.”
Dagny gave her husband a shy smile. She knew she was blushing; she could feel it.
Martin stood, leaned over, and kissed her lips tenderly. “I’m going to the head and give you privacy here. When I return, I’ll see about bringing you coffee and toast.”
“Thank you, that’s very considerate,” she replied. He was so thoughtful. Their marriage was off on good legs.
When Martin shut the door, Dagny tossed the blanket back and scurried to the chamber pot. She was unaccustomed to wine at bedtime, and wouldn’t get out of the bunk to relieve herself as long as she must climb over Martin. She relaxed in her comfort, then looked down at her private anatomy.
Dagny stood, poured water into the basin, wet a towel, and began to wash herself. She didn’t know what to expect, other than the faint smear of dried blood. She was no longer a virgin. She had survived the horrors of the marriage bed—though the act was nothing like what she had been told.
Her status was changed in society. Her body was changed through the experience. For some reason, she thought she should look different. She did not.
Vaguely disappointed, Dagny clothed herself for the day. She folded the silk nightdress and placed it in her chest. Then she straightened the bed and the cabin.
Martin knocked on the door. “Dagny?”
She pulled it open.
He handed her a mug of coffee. “There will be toast if we go to the dining area.”
Dagny nodded and blew on the hot liquid. She stepped into the hallway to follow him.
“I must prepare you, however. Torvald is in top form this morning,” Martin warned.
“He showed his face, finally?” she derided. “What’s he on about?
“The races. He’s asking men to sign up today and run tomorrow.”
Dagny looked up at Martin. “Will you still compete?”
He grinned down at her. “Hell yes.”
***
Torvald was holding court over a group of men in the dining area. His left cheek was bruised and his eye was blackened, but Dagny suspected he wore powder to mute the colors. Anna Solberg’s powder most likely. Dagny had no idea where Torvald was sleeping until this moment. Now she would wager money on it.
Heads turned as the small crowd became aware of Dagny’s unwelcome presence.
Torvald halted in his salesman’s pitch. “It’s the thief and her lover,” he sneered.
“It’s your sister and her husband,” Martin countered. “Did I not convince you earlier of the wisdom of showing some brotherly love?”
Heads swiveled toward Torvald. Caught by his lie, he retracted his claws. “She married without my permission, you realize.”
“And for that, I do apologize,” Dagny said clearly. Heart pounding, she set her coffee mug down and stepped closer. A path opened in front of her. “Won’t you forgive me, brother?”
Dagny sensed the men’s hostility. She was still under suspicion for the thefts in most of their minds, she k
new that. The fact that her alibi branded her a loose woman only made her more of a pariah. She lifted her chin and straightened her back.
“You have quite a bit of nerve, Dagny,” Torvald retorted. “Do you honestly expect me to forgive you for bringing shame on our family name?”
Dagny bit her lips to keep from laughing. The man was playing his role like a consummate actor in a ludicrous comedy. She jammed her fists on her hips.
“I am not a thief. That has been proven. Any other wrongs I committed have been righted. So I suppose that I truly don’t care if you do or not.”
A deep murmur rumbled around her.
Martin rested a hand on her shoulder. “Lord Haugen, my wife and I came for a bit of food. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll let you get back to your presentation.”
Dagny turned toward her husband, glad he was there to protect her even if words were the only weapons currently tossed at her. He led her to a table at the edge of the room and waved to the serving boy to bring their food. Dagny focused on her toast and jam, sipping her now-cooled coffee.
Every time she lifted her gaze, Martin was watching her. His eyes were so warm and blue, she felt like she could drown in them. He smiled.
“You handled that well,” he complimented.
“I don’t have anything to lose,” she admitted. “You married a reprobate, you understand.”
“A beautiful reprobate, mind you. I’m satisfied.” Martin sipped his coffee and winked at her over the rim of his mug.
Dagny’s shoulders slumped. “Why do you keep saying that?”
Martin appeared puzzled. “Saying what?”
Dagny glanced at the empty tables around her. “That I’m beautiful,” she whispered.
Martin’s head fell back and he laughed, drawing the irritated attention of those closest to them. Apparently reprobates and their spouses were not supposed to be entertained. Dagny kicked him under the table.
“Ouch,” he protested through his mirth. “What was that for?”
“Everyone is looking at us,” she hissed.
“And why shouldn’t they?” Martin protested. “I am married to—in my humble and honest opinion—the most beautiful woman on the ship. I say that repeatedly because it’s true.”