Читать книгу The Pleasures of Sin - Jessica Trapp - Страница 11

Her fascination evaporated, and she fought the urge to take the dagger and defend herself. Was he really planning to turn her over his knee? She glanced at his hands; they were huge and thick. No doubt they would sting like the devil. If only her sisters and father’s lives were not at stake. If only the men were ready and the signal given.

Gathering her courage, she stepped toward Montgomery. Her heart thumped against her ribcage and she feared the worst.

When she reached him, he took her chin between his fingers and turned her face this way and that. She forced herself to remain compliant. Fighting him physically would not win her victory. She had one chance—and that was to throw her knife—something she could not do at this close range and with him fully clothed and in armor.

Icy fear gripped her gut.

After what seemed like hours, he released her chin. “Very good. Your compliance serves you better than your insolence. Help me out of this armor. ’Tis bloody hot.”

Releasing a breath of relief that he was not planning to carry through with spanking her, she fought the urge to smile. Getting him out of his protective coverings would definitely make killing him easier.

But, ’twas best not to appear too eager or he would suspect something was afoot.

She silently vowed not to let her tongue or her irritation get the best of her. She would wait until Adele’s signal and follow Panthos through the woods as they had planned.

Montgomery held an arm out so she could unfasten the buckles of his vambrace and pauldron. As the plates fell away, she found herself marveling at the size of his limb, which was still encased in chain mail. His thickly muscled arm flexed, and the mail made a tiny metallic sound.

Standing this close to him, she could hear him breathe, a soft whispering that seemed fragile in contrast to the hard, sturdy man before her. Life was like that: frail and uncertain, even for a man of his size. ’Twas why she found capturing fleeting moments in oils and tempera so appealing.

She removed his other arm’s armor then moved to unbuckle his cuirass. Her fingers slid across fasteners on his side, and she felt entranced by the thickness of his chest. Slowly she removed the metal plates piece by piece. As she worked, she grew more and more awestruck by the artistry of his body. With each layer more and more of his masculinity was revealed.

She’d helped her father and brother plenty of times with their armor—’twas part of a noblewoman’s duty.

But always before it had seemed a dull chore, a drudgery disguised as duty. This man enthralled her like a deadly viper. Both beautiful and lethal.

She finished with the cuirass and helped him out of his chain mail shirt and gambeson until his chest was bare, save for a crucifix of springy hair and a silver heart-shaped locket that dangled on a plain leather cord. The fancy, filigreed piece of jewelry looked out of place against the masculine contours of his torso.

Curious, she reached for it.

“Nay.” His hand closed around the locket hiding it from her view before she could touch it. Power seemed to pulse through him like a tangible thing. Fearsome, loathsome even. Marvelous in its intensity as he protected the piece of jewelry from her eyes.

Was the locket a family heirloom? A gift from a lover? She could not fathom why a hardened warrior would wear something so delicate.

Without a word, he removed the locket, wrapped it in a cloth, and set it aside before she was able to inspect it. The warning look in his eyes disallowed question or comment.

She blinked and forced her attention back to the task of inspecting him. If she was to slay him, she did not want to think of him as anything other than a beast, and small silver lockets made him all too human.

She traced a finger along his shoulder. Ne’er in her life had she seen a man such as he. He was wider even than she had imagined. While other men might enhance the width and thickness of their arms and shoulders with pads and fabric, he had no need.

The sheer manliness of his body made her want to run her hands along the sinewy texture of his muscles, just to verify that he was, indeed, human, and could be killed. Dueling thoughts of repulsion and fascination ripped through her.

She counted the thin scars on his biceps. Four crisscrossed the muscle on one side and seven on the other. Proof of the many battles he’d fought.

And likely won.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she realized she would have to be very, very cautious. His fingers likely could snap her spine in half like a brittle twig. She’d only have one chance with l’occhio del diavolo and she prayed its aim would indeed have the eye of the devil.

A thin layer of perspiration covered his tan skin making his shoulders look glossy, as if they had been highly polished with a cloth.

Standing in front of him, she tried to imagine where his heart was. No movement on his chest indicated its beating. Mayhap he had no heart at all.

His face was stony and unreadable, but his eyes were like glittering waves on the blue ocean as he gazed at her. “Kneel and remove my boots.”

She smarted at his tone, and sank to her knees.

Hate swelled in her heart. He was the most vile, loathsome blackheart she’d ever known. For certes, undressing him was part of her punishment for slapping him in the chapel. Get your enjoyment from this, devil. Tonight will be the last time you command me. She narrowed her eyes at him, but held her tongue.

Mentally, she counted the hours until sunset when the signal would be sent. When that time came, she wanted him as vulnerable as possible. Even wearing only half a suit of armor, he looked capable of killing a man in cold blood.

Or a woman.

She suppressed a shudder, remembering what her sister had told her about the lad who spilled ale on his paltock.

From her position on the floor, he looked even taller than before. Grasping his large black boots by the heels, she pulled off one then the other.

The muscles in his legs were enormous—like Grecian pillars. The chain mail gave little clinks and the mattress creaked as he stood and indicated for her to remove his chausses and the metal codpiece that protected his privates.

“I do not think I should,” she started. Her mouth felt dry as sand and her heart raced as she speculated what he looked like beneath the metal protector. She had some knowledge of the shape of a man’s sex—she’d bathed with her twin brother Nathan when they were children: ’twas like a stubby sausage.

She stood abruptly, not wanting to let on about her curiosity. Her inquisitiveness was something her father oft railed about. And it was evil itself to even want to look at a man she hated so much.

“You should remove the rest yourself. You have no need for my assistance.”

“’Tis part of what I require of you, wife. I have called for water, next you will bathe me. As a proper wife would.”

Bathe him?

She swallowed. Was it her imagination or did the codpiece move slightly of its own accord?

Spellbound, she stared at it to see if it would move again.

It did!

Of all the devilish things!

Mayhap her paintings had not been accurate at all if a man’s member was thick enough to move a piece of metal with its swelling. She’d based her miniatures on what she could remember of her brother when they had been mere children.

But this…this was interesting. Perhaps she could paint it when she safely reached Italy.

Her gaze flicked to her art supplies stacked neatly in the trunk. In a safe cleft beneath the floor planks under her desk, a half-finished work depicting a naked gladiator was hidden along with a number of other unfinished or inferior paintings. Montgomery had been correct that artists sometimes hid their work.

That gladiator piece was the first one she’d been so bold as to do a complete frontal view of a male figure. Unsure of the exact size and color of a man’s member, she had not finished it. It did not seem right to paint a vague sausage-shape as she had done with her other erotic art.

At once the thought of having Montgomery unclad was more than simply making him easier to kill. Doing so would allow her to finish the painting with an edge of realism. That would, for certes, allow her to study with her brother’s tutors when she reached Italy.

Emboldened by the thought, she untied the strings holding the codpiece and lifted it away. A large bulge lay beneath it, straining against the chain mail chausses. Eager now, she slid these down his legs until he was clad only in his hose.

She skimmed her hands over the ties, slowly undid the stays and peeled them down his long, long legs. The crisp hair on his thighs prickled against her palms. She felt hot, dizzy. And completely curious.

Without allowing herself time to think, she pulled the strings on his brais and let them slide to the floor.

She gasped as his member sprang loose. ’Twas so much larger than she’d expected. Much different than the ones she’d painted. It bobbed in the air seeming to defy the laws of nature that pulled things downward. Not like a flabby sausage a’tall!

Amazed, she stared at it and as she did, it seemed to grow even longer.

Hell’s fires. All her paintings had been wrong! She’d painted men’s members afore, but they looked nothing like this. She’d gotten the color wrong. And it had a slight purplish tint at the end and a very interesting vein that bulged down the length.

Reaching out, she touched it with one finger.

Her new husband hissed and she lurched. Straightening, she looked up at him.

She’d been so entranced by the size and sturdiness of his body, she’d ignored Montgomery the man.

He gazed down on her, his intense cobalt eyes blazing. His dark brows drew together in an enigmatic scowl that made her wonder what he was thinking.

Shivers raced down her spine. The dagger felt hard and steely betwixt her breasts.

“I’ve never had a woman inspect me like a prized stallion.”

She stepped back to put some distance between them, and composed her face. “I was not.”

Montgomery chuckled, the sound throaty and warm.

She felt her cheeks heat, and tore her gaze away from his to glance around at the bare walls of her room.

Of a truth, she had been looking over him that way. But only for the sake of her art, she told her seared conscience.

Reaching out, he grasped her hand and drew her forward.

A frisson of heat skipped through her, seeming to land right in her woman’s core. She scowled, wondering what she should do.

Turning her face to one side, she peered into the bailey and hoped for the signal.

Naught but men and horses and servants were in the field.

Catching her glancing out the open window, James marched over and drew the curtain closed.

Devil take it! She’d have to find a way to open them a crack if she was going to see the candle in Adele’s window.

Night was still hours away though. She had time.

Montgomery’s male member bobbed in the air, pointing the way as he walked back to her. It had lost some of its size and stiffness but was still rather impressive. Brenna found it impossible not to watch, wanting to memorize the look of it for her paintings.

“You are very curious for a virgin.”

Her gaze snapped to his face. His lips lifted in a smug, half-smile. Arrogant. He’s beautiful and he knows it. Absolutely flawless and exquisite.

Like Gwyneth.

Unlike herself.

Swallowing, she raised her hand self-consciously to the scar on her cheek and was glad she still wore her headdress and wedding veil to cover up her hacked off hair. Between her fascination and her anger, she’d forgotten how most men reacted to her looks—or lack thereof.

He stepped toward her and touched the scar, running his index finger along the bumpy ridge from her nose to her ear.

She shivered and ducked her head.

Catching her chin between his fingers, he turned her face back up to his. “What happened?” He appeared more interested than put off by her disfigurement.

“I’ve had it since I was a child. My curiosity has oft gotten me into trouble,” she said, sidestepping the question.

He smiled. “I like your curiosity, and you are a child no longer. We have all the day and night for you to examine me all you wish.”

She blinked. Her heart sped and she wondered at the game he played. It had been her expectation that he would jump on her straightaway and force her to his will, not calmly play the part of a suitor by allowing her to explore his body to her satisfaction.

A knock sounded, interrupting the awkward moment between them. Thank heavens.

A man carrying a wooden tub entered along with a line of servants with buckets of steaming water.

Heedless of his nakedness, Montgomery indicated for them to place the bathing tub beside the bed. He propped one hip against the mattress and crossed his arms, watching dispassionately as the men poured the water into it. His mannerism was so casual that if he hadn’t been bare arse naked in front of her, she would have thought he was dressed and ready for a parley with the queen.

She felt her cheeks prickle. Having been used to dealing with the erotic subject of her own paintings, it had been years since anyone had truly disconcerted her. If the servants thought it odd that he was naked, no one said anything or gave any indication by wink or look. Did their master often parade about unclad?

After the men left, Montgomery stepped forward and slowly lowered himself into the steaming tub. He had to bend his knees a great deal to fit.

Silver swirls climbed into the air and drops of water slithered down his large body as he splashed some on himself. Droplets caught in the crisp black hair on his chest. His member had softened and it bobbed gently on the surface of the water.

She found herself wishing she could paint him here like this.

“Do you have soap?” he asked.

“Yea, um. Yes.” She glanced around, trying to not be completely befuddled that a naked warrior was in her chamber. As if he’d jumped out of one of her paintings—only the live one had a full male member and bullocks attached. “I’ll get some.”

As she walked across the floor planks to her dressing screen, she looked down the bodice of her gown to see the top of the dagger’s hilt to gain courage. The knife was well hidden in the folds of her wedding dress. How odd to be fully dressed—and dressed so elaborately—whilst he was naked.

Once behind the screen, she unpinned the butterfly headdress, set it on a small table, and refastened the veil on her head to cover up her cropped hair. How did her sister wear such contraptions without having an awful headache?

Taking a rag and a cake of soap, she brought them to the edge of the tub. Her heart began to pound as she realized he expected her to scrub him.

Such an opportunity to explore the male body! The knowledge would add life to her paintings. She tamped down a niggling of guilt that she would be using him in this way. Her father oft railed at her that she should focus on important matters. She should be thinking of escape and saving her family, not artwork.

Trying not to seem too eager, she bent and wetted the rag in the side of the tub. The back of her hand grazed his leg, and even more interest sparked inside her.

No matter how beastlike the man within it, his body would be a joy to capture on parchment—nay, on canvas. Parchment would be too crude for such a subject. Brother Giffard assured her that canvas was aplenty in Italy.

Rounding to where she stood behind him, she rubbed the cake of soap on the rag and squeezed the cloth out across his shoulders. The water trickled down the curve of his spine. He leaned forward and she ran the washcloth up one side of his back and down the other in a slow circle.

“Mmmmmmm,” he said.

She smiled. Getting him relaxed and off guard was good.

Leaning forward, she pressed her hand lower in the hot water. She allowed her greedy fingers access to his skin, trying to memorize every fiber and muscle so she could transfer it to the canvas later. Heat rose inside her. Who knows but this might be her last chance to ever see a naked man so close.

In her mind, she knew it was evil that she did not feel properly ashamed or beset with nerves. Surely God would forgive her this one sin. She tamped down her guilt: she would save her confession for when she reached the convent.

Water slopped on the bodice of her gown as she worked her hands over Montgomery. She soaped his neck and rinsed it, then moved to the side of the tub so she could reach his torso. The area betwixt her legs seemed wetter than usual, and she felt a little dizzy.

His skin was not as soft as hers, and his chest hair felt interesting against her palm. Crisp and slightly rough. His firm muscles, alive with vitality, flinched under her touch. She dipped her hand lower.

Montgomery drew in a sharp breath as her hand touched the inside of his thigh.

“Of a truth, wife, you please me greatly. I had thought we were ill suited.”

Shocked at his words, she paused in her ministrations. The pulse in his thigh beat against her palm.

She swallowed, forcing herself to continue washing him in long strokes, running the cloth up his chest and over his neck. His member stiffened, and she felt a heady rush of power that she could have such an effect on him.

Soaping up the cloth again, she ran it over his shoulders, mentally counting the hand spans across his shoulders. The lye smell of soap mingled with the scent of warm male skin.

More water wet the front of her gown as she leaned across him.

How weird to be performing such a task dressed as she was. The houpelande was a far cry from her two tattered kirtles. She had not worn anything so fine in years and this seemed a bizarre task to do in such a garment. The musky scent of the wedding gown’s ermine trim intensified as water dripped on it.

Montgomery had a bumpy crescent shaped scar on his right shoulder and four freckles on his left. Those would make nice touches on her next miniature.

Standing, she fanned her face. The chamber seemed over-warm. Wetness seeped from her woman’s core. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have lusted after a man and planned murder in my heart.

Montgomery rose from the tub, skin glistening. Rivulets of water wiggled down his chest and arms.

Dear saints! His sex had become enormous. Her prayer cleared like incense on a windy day. Her nipples tightened, and more heat pooled in her groin.

He chuckled.

A prickling sensation crept up her cheeks. Heavens, her eyes must be wide and round as feasting goblets. She blinked, trying to regain her composure.

“You’re not afraid?”

“Afraid?” she said dumbfounded.

“Of having me inside you.”

The gentleness in his tone disconcerted her. “I—uh—” At once she realized that she was not scared because she had not been thinking of the sex act itself, only on the beauty of his male member. Of how she would mix the colors to paint it. She would need lead white, cinnibar, and massicot.

She hid a grimace. She had no need to be afraid of copulation because she planned to slay him afore the night went that far. Bowing her head, she started her confession again. Forgive me, Fath—

“Come, wife, you have had enough of knowing my body. ’Tis time that I saw yours.”

“Nay!” She caught herself and smiled tightly at him. If her clothing was removed, he would see the dagger. Their plans would be ruined. Her father would be hung. Her sisters raped.

She could not allow herself to go weak now.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she coaxed. “I seem to be more nervous than I had first thought. If only you could lie on the bed that I might touch you a little longer. As you said, we have all the day and night to consummate this union.”

The gleam in his eyes was predatory, but he walked to the bed. The tight round muscles of his buttocks flexed in a fascinating erotic dance. He lay across her mattress, propping his head up slightly on a pillow and lacing his fingers behind his neck.

Her mouth went dry. She took in his chest, trying to discern the exact location of his heart.

It seemed a shame to kill a man so perfect in form. Mayhap—

At that moment, a loud scream and frantic barking sounded outside the chamber.

She gasped. ’Twas Adele and Panthos!

Quitting the bed, she raced to the door and yanked it open. In the tower’s stairwell, Adele was being pulled down by two burly soldiers. Her cane lay on the stones, and her dark hair flailed around her as if in a windstorm. Her skirt flapped about her knees.

“Adele!” Brenna screamed. “Cease! Cease!”

Ignoring her, the men laughed as one dove atop her sister and yanked her skirt up above her thighs. To one side, a man held back the snarling mastiff.

“Adele!” Brenna lurched into a run to rescue her sister. She slammed into something that felt like a wall. Montgomery! She blinked, stunned for a second, then sidestepped him.

He caught her and pulled her back. “Nay!”

“They are hurting my sister!”

Holding her by one wrist while she fought to get away, he peered down the hallway.

Adele scrambled for her cane, and one of the men struggled to get his breeks down. The mastiff spun and bit the man holding him who, in turn, kicked him, but neither let the other go.

Frantic, Brenna struggled against her new husband.

“Cease!” Montgomery bellowed out. His voice rang through the hallway bouncing off the castle’s walls.

The men looked up. Montgomery gave them a deep glare and made a short swipe across his neck with his finger. The message was clear: continue and be slain.

Brenna gasped, surprised at his action. He was a beast. What would he care about her sister being raped when all of them were there to conquer her family’s castle? This union was naught more than legalized rape.

Adele wobbled to her feet. She was unsteady without her cane. She gazed around dazedly and caught Brenna’s eye. “Do it!” she commanded. “Do it now!”

Brenna had no doubt what she meant.

“’Tis our only chance.”

Panthos barked, lunging upward to her. The men wrestled the dog to the ground.

Stark reality slammed onto Brenna. There were only two things that would happen in the wedding chamber—either she would be swived or The Enforcer would be killed. If she didn’t destroy this man, ’twould be both her and her sister lying beneath Montgomery men. And no doubt Panthos would be put down.

“Do it!” Adele cried. “Afore they rape and murder us all! We can get away if we act now! I know the way out and men are waiting!”

Now was her best chance, whilst Montgomery was naked, unarmed and unsuspecting.

Without another thought, Brenna yanked the dagger from her bodice, and lunged it at Montgomery’s heart.

“What the—” Montgomery twisted aside, as lithe as a tiger caught off guard.

The knife struck skin, slicing in a clumsy arc across his chest and glancing off his shoulder blade to stick shallowly in his flesh.

He grunted. A thin red line oozed blood down his chest.

Her heart lurched into her throat and she backed away, realizing what she had done. She’d been too close. This was not how she had practiced; she should have thrown the dagger, not lunged at him. Her stomach felt sick and her knees liquefied as if they had turned into water.

He scowled at her, dumbfounded, his hand grasping the hilt of the dagger. “Christ Almighty, wench.”

Her underarms prickled and her palms turned clammy. Terrified, she turned and fled down the hall.