Читать книгу The Pleasures of Sin - Jessica Trapp - Страница 10

She’d slapped him! In front of his men, no less. The little wench.

Years ago, the first lesson he had learned as The King’s Enforcer was that without respect, one could not lead. Faded scars crisscrossed his back—tokens of the mutiny from the one smuggler he’d been merciful with.

He would not make that mistake with his own wife.

If he hadn’t seen the look on her face when her father had called her a whore, he’d be tempted to bend her straight over his knee and give her the spanking she so soundly deserved.

But even in his anger, he hadn’t missed the stung, hurt look in her eyes.

Ne’ertheless, she would learn who was master here. His tunic needed washing, his body needed bathing, and his boots needed polishing. Acts she could perform. Furthermore, he was hungry; she would feed him.

Tallow candle smoke stung James’s eyes as he stalked down the hallway towing his hellcat wife in his wake. Her silver-blue wedding dress swished along the rushes as she scurried to keep up with him.

They reached her chamber in the north tower, and, barking a command for one of his men to bring a bathing tub and heated water, he pushed the door open and drew her inside. The door slammed with a loud, shutter-rattling bang.

He released his wife, and she scampered away to the window seat embrasure as if her dress were on fire. She sat there staring at him, willfulness in her emerald eyes. The butterfly headdress and trailing veil covered her head, allowing him only the barest glimpse of her copper colored locks, which curled out the sides.

Yards and yards of dazzling blue material trimmed in ermine surrounded her slight body—but the wedding gown looked too delicate for her strong spirit. It might have fit her, but it did not suit her at all. The thin scar across her face reddened slightly in color as if blood coursed through her in an angry rush.

Dragging her off to her chamber hadn’t diminished her insolence one bit.

Scrutinizing her chamber, he debated where to start her training.

Three windows were built into the stone wall: two small ones and a large one with a window seat that his new wife sat upon. The room contained minimal furnishings for a noblewoman: it had a bed, a rough trestle table with two drawers, a three-legged stool, and a dressing screen.

Oddly, a maze of religious paintings were scattered all around the floor and walls. Boards and parchments leaned around the perimeter of the room with depictions of religious scenes of the Annunciation and baptism of Christ. His gaze went back to the trestle.

Pots of color pigment, oils, eggs, rags, and an artist palette crowded the desktop and five or six paintbrushes spotted the floor beneath it.

Paintings. He had been so focused on collecting his new bride when he’d burst into the room before, he had not even noticed that she was an artist.

For an instant, he thought of the small, exquisite miniatures that the king wanted him to look for. If his new wife was the artist of those, then there was no reason to even attempt at creating a marriage or establishing his place as her lord—his duty would require him to haul her to London and deliver her to his liege. Surely the painting was only a coincidence—she was a noble daughter from a good family, a virgin with no carnal knowledge. Still—

Taking her by the upper arm, he lugged her off the window embrasure and pointed around the room. “Who painted these?”

She straightened her spine. “I did.”

He scrutinized her for a moment, then picked through the artistic rubble on the desk. Every brush he turned over made her twitch as if barely contained outrage jumped beneath her skin.

Tough.

She may as well get used to him. And used to him touching her things. And touching her as well.

The desk was made in the fashion of a rough-hewn trestle table with two crude drawers beneath the surface.

Keeping his hand wrapped around her upper arm, he opened a drawer and searched inside. It was unlikely that the artist the king wanted to hang was a woman, and even more unlikely that it was his new wife. But he had learned to be thorough. She flinched as he opened the second drawer and slipped his hand inside.

Several smaller paintings, done on parchment, lay among the supplies. All of them contained figures with golden halos above their heads.

Leaving her standing in the midst of the chamber, he methodically made his way around the room searching for hidden paintings or any clues. More religious art. More depictions of the birth of Christ, of angels, of the Virgin Mary. Nothing of a sexual nature. No pictures of the king and his court in poses of compromise.

“Only religious work? No other paintings?”

Lifting her chin, she managed to look down on him even though she was at least a head and a half shorter. “I was supposed to be a nun.”

He lifted the bedskirt and peered under the bed. A small satchel lay amidst the cobwebs. He fished it out and scrutinized Brenna who glared at him as he opened it. A wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread, and other meager supplies lay within. Confused, he held up the sack. “What is this?”

“Naught,” she said, swallowing.

“Were you going somewhere?”

“To a convent.”

“You will not be a nun. You are my wife,” he said flatly.

She jerked her head to one side and set her jaw. “Only because it was forced upon us.”

“There would have been no force if you and your family would have done their God-given duty to the king.”

“Men make their own rules and claim God’s authority.”

“Mayhap. But ’tis God’s law that a woman obey her husband.”

“I am sure God makes allowance for women married to cruel demons.” With a huff, she sat on the three-legged stool and tinkered with one of the paintbrushes sticking out of a pot of liquid. “In the Bible, Jael was praised for nailing her husband’s head to the ground.”

His neck prickled at her words, and he determined to keep a close rein on her. ’Twas obvious by the way she had twitched and flinched as he touched her brushes that her artwork meant something to her. Until she learned deference, she would do no more painting.

Walking to the door, he called to the guards in the hallway to bring him an empty trunk. He would tame her piece by piece: reward compliance but discipline uppityness.

The men returned shortly carrying a medium-sized trunk. It was plain, but functional.

When they had left, he set the chest on the floor in front of her desk and nudged it open with his boot. He took the foodstuffs out of the pack then dumped the rest of its contents, including her tiny hog’s hair brush and a couple of gold coins, into the gaping space. “Package up the art supplies in the desk.”

“What?” Her eyes widened, and she looked like he’d slap her.

“You will have no more time for such dalliances. You now have a household to run, a husband to care for, and heirs to bear.”

Brenna cringed as sheer loathing shot through her and it was all she could do to remain still.

She hated him!

His fingers on her painting supplies made her feel violated, and now he wanted to dismiss her life’s work like a piece of garbage. Her heart beat rapidly against the dagger, and she wondered the best way to divest him of his weapons and armor so she could use it.

He paced toward her. His movements, like himself, were precise and efficient with no time wasted on leisure.

She wondered if the act of intimacy with him would be as calculated.

Bloody hell. What was she thinking? She was not going to swive him. She was going to kill him.

He came to stand directly in front of her until his armored codpiece was right in her face, and he crowded out the space around her.

She glanced out the window to avert her gaze from the molded steel plate covering his member. It was so…large.

“My lady,” he said, “do not make this difficult for yourself. Pack your supplies.”

The foul beast! Outrage curled in the pit of her stomach. She wished her sister would hurry and give the signal that it was safe to slay the monster.

But it was not even dusk yet.

Angrily, she scooped up her precious brushes. She could not best him by sheer strength—she would force herself to wait for good opportunity. She set the brushes in the trunk, lining them up in neat rows. Likely if she did not do this deed herself, Montgomery would scoop up her supplies and toss them unsorted into the box. The colors would be ruined, the brushes splayed by his thick, brutish hands.

He picked up a pot of blue pigment and rolled it between his fingers. “It was unwise to challenge me in front of my men.”

She wanted to snatch the pot out of his hand and dash its contents in his face. “And it was unwise to kiss me in front of my family.”

“We’ve just been married. I am your family now.” Seething, she picked up her palette and spatula and placed them near the brushes. She would not let him rile her temper or make her do something stupid. She would wait until the appointed time. And that was that.

“Peace, wife,” he said. “This marriage can work in your favor, or it can work against you. ’Tis your choice.”

“My choice?” Outraged, Brenna sucked in a breath and set two pots of color pigment in the chest. The clay jars clanked together. She grabbed two more and then started tossing half-finished parchments on top of them.

He stalked around the room, looking in corners and crevices and behind the bed. Even though he wore armor, his movements were fluid and panther-like, a testimony of his strength and fortitude as well as the precision and quality of his battle gear.

Mud from his boots flaked onto her cleanly swept floor. The clinking of his chain mail grated on her ears.

He pulled up a corner of the mattress and peered beneath it. “Where are your hidden paintings?”

Her pulse quickened and her hand squeezed. Did he know about the erotic work? She nearly jumped as slime dripped through her fingers. Bloody hell. She’d crushed one of the eggs she used to make her tempera.

Shaking the egg goo from her hand, she snatched a rag from the desktop and began wiping off the now ruined painting at the top of the pile in the trunk. Blasted man.

“I have no hidden paintings,” she gritted out.

“All artists have hidden work—things they are ashamed to let the world judge, but too dear to their heart to toss aside.”

She glanced up and realized he was watching her. His blue gaze was as fierce as a stormy ocean. Gooseflesh popped on her arms.

“Why do you care what I paint?” she asked fiercely.

He stepped toward her, looming over her. “I do not. I care about your respect and obedience to me.”

She checked the urge to damn the consequence of yanking the dagger out now. But she must be patient if she intended to live. And she did intend to live.

“Respect must be earned,” she countered. Her voice came out much softer than she had intended. Almost squeaky.

“True enough, my lady. But I’ll not have you slapping me in front of my men.”

She ducked her head, so she would not have to look at him. Smoothing the gigantic blue skirt over her knees, she composed herself. Acting the hellion would not accomplish her goal.

When she lifted her face again to his, she forced herself to soften her tone. “Fair enough. I will not do that again.” You’ll be dead.

“And I’ll have your apology.”

Gritting her teeth, she sucked in a deep breath. Patience, she told her seething emotions. Wait for the signal. Wait until your sisters have men in place.

He lifted one dark brow, his blue eyes watching her intently as if trying to conquer her with his gaze. He stood much too close. “Now, wife.”

“Forgive me.”

He gave her a small smile that looked more like a grimace. How had she thought he was perfect? He was irritating, irksome. Too large. Too controlling. Likely he’d be fingering all her painting brushes and oils again in a minute, smudging the work surface and muddling the pigments. She silently vowed she’d scour down all her supplies once she got rid of him.

Turning, he marched to the edge of the mattress, ripped back the bed curtains and sat down. ’Twas a relief to not have him so near.

Her bed linens did not have lace and bows as Gwyneth’s did. They were neither frilly nor overly feminine, yet he still looked very out of place against the pillows and cushions. The bed sagged against the weight of his armor and the red curtains fluttered.

She turned her gaze to the large painting of the battle between the archangel Michael and the devil. She was fighting the devil too.

The sound of Montgomery slapping his thigh in slow, calculated strokes cracked through the room. “Cross me again, and I’ll turn you over my knee and give you the spanking you deserve.”

Drawing on her inner strength, she gazed at him disdainfully, giving him her best you-are-beneath-me glare. “I’m no child to be spanked, sirrah.”

“Nay, but you are a wife who needs to learn to behave.”

Turning back to her task, she scrubbed harder at the slimy egg stuff, squeezing her rag so tightly her knuckles whitened. Two of her dress’s mother-of-pearl buttons snagged on the trunk and nearly popped loose. “I am packaging my art supplies as you demanded, am I not?”

“You said you would submit to any punishment I set forth as retribution.” Brushing the curtains aside, he leaned against one of the bedposts.

“I did not mean I would calmly allow you to spank me.”

He glanced at the closed wooden door. “Do you break our bargain already? Shall I fetch your father and finish what we began downstairs?”

The anger in her stomach gelled into a cold knot of fear. He could still have her father and sisters murdered. Her hand paused above the parchments she’d sat in the chest. “Nay.”

“You said, ‘punish me as you will,’ did you not?”

That was what she had said. She raised her chin, wanting to deny it, and knew she could not.

A blue flame sparked in his cobalt eyes—rich and warm and intense. For a second, his face was so breathtakingly masculine and flawless, she longed to be able to pick up one of her brushes and capture the blue of his eyes, the length of his lashes. She squelched the wayward thought.

Crooking his finger, he beckoned her toward him. “Come here, captive wife.”