Читать книгу The Pleasures of Sin - Jessica Trapp - Страница 9

He would have revenge.

Through the eye slits in his helmet, James of Montgomery glowered at the hostile crowd gathered near the steps of the chapel for the wedding. Lecrow, the lord of this keep and the bastard who had ambushed him this morn, knelt between two guards, tied in place by ropes. He was a squirrelly, gray-bearded man with fanatical eyes. James vowed silently to see the man beaten and made a public example of in the streets of London.

“Easier to keep guard inside,” he said to his men as he flung open the church doors and led them into the darkened sanctuary. His position as an earl allowed him to be married near the altar instead of on the outer steps. He latched his hand firmly around his wife-to-be’s wrist and dragged her in his wake.

“Bring her father to the front to witness the ceremony,” he barked at the two men holding Lecrow.

His duty was to bring peace to the region and he intended to crush the fight out of the old man by showing him that despite his little ambush, the wedding would go on. Just as the king had commanded. The town’s prized port—currently under the command of the Baron of Windrose, but spelled out in the wedding contract to be turned over to James—would be a huge boon to his shipping trade.

He paced past the rows of pews. The others followed. They prodded Lecrow with the point of a sword, and he shuffled forward on his knees.

“You won’t get awa—” Baron Lecrow started.

One of James’s men drew a dagger and held it to Lecrow’s throat, effectively silencing him.

James nodded approval and turned to the woman he was to marry.

Thankfully, his new wife was the strong, stubborn one instead of the weepy, teary-eyed blonde, as he had feared. This one may not enjoy being married to him, but at least he doubted he’d have to listen to tedious pleas for mercy on the wedding night. He had no use for the sniveling cries of women. And he had no intention of granting mercy.

Three of his men lay dead from this morn’s attack.

Jacob, Robert, and Collin. Good men all.

Guilt ate at him that he had led them to their deaths like defenseless sheep.

’Twas his duty to enforce the king’s law and bring to heel the rebels who threatened the peace of England. The port was being used to smuggle in wine and weapons and needed tighter control. The wedding was arranged to bring stability to the region: both this woman and the prized port would be his.

The king had warned him of possible treachery, but he had not expected an outright attack.

Anger curled through him like a living demon as he thought of the price his men had paid.

The ambush had been a betrayal of the lowest kind. Her father had beguiled him to come here to Windrose, rather than his grander castle at Montgomery. His bride-to-be had sent him a sweet perfumed message.

And it all had been a ruse to kill him.

He could scarcely imagine this warrior-like queen standing beside him would write something so flowery and delicate.

Tightening his grip on his bride-to-be’s wrist, he vowed by all that was holy that both she and her family would learn what it meant to bow to his rule. To live under The Enforcer.

Every step down the chapel’s aisle sent another shot of fury pulsating through him.

“Slow down,” the woman beside him whispered. Her enormous silver-blue gown rustled. “My slipper—oh, drat it all to hell—” She stumbled slightly, kicked off one of her pointed velvet slippers and righted herself.

The bride-to-be’s father glared at him with narrowed eyes. He strained against the ropes.

The urge to take the man by the tunic and hang him from the large oak just on the other side of the sanctuary door snaked fiercely through James. But, nay. The man was a political prisoner, and the king himself must deal with his treason.

His hand tarried to the hilt of his sword, in case her tripping was a ruse to get him off guard so her father could attack. He would not be caught unaware again.

A heavy veil obscured her features, but he could feel her glowering at him. “I am coming. There is no need to drag me.”

“Mind your tongue, wife.”

She propped one hand on her hip, causing her enormous butterfly headdress to tilt and ruin the serene loveliness of the silver-blue gown. “I am not your wife yet.”

He bared his teeth at her, vowing both the stubborn old man and his rebellious daughter would be cowed afore this was over.

“You will be, wench.” Squeezing her wrist, he pulled her the last few feet down the aisle. Did none in this family know when they had been squarely defeated and have the sense to submit?

A harpist and violist played an off-key wedding song, as if they hadn’t had adequate time to tune their instruments.

The priest standing in front of the altar cleared his throat. He had a huge nose and watery eyes, which he rubbed from time to time on the sleeve of his robe. “Ready to begin, my lord?”

James nodded. “Make haste, priest. This helmet itches my neck.”

The clergyman opened his Bible. “Dearly beloved…”

Not releasing her wrist, James peered down at the woman standing beside him. She stood as straight as any warrior, proud and sturdy. She was covered from head to toe in fabric just as he was clad in armor. Mother-of-pearl buttons lined her sleeves like tiny shields.

She didn’t try to pull away from his grip, but she didn’t stand any closer than she had to either. Her bones felt small within his grasp, and yet, strength of will radiated from her.

Yes, this marriage was a battlefield. And it would be true justice to bend her will to his. King Edward had demanded this union to bring peace to this turbulent region, and he would definitely start by conquering his own wife.

As Father Peter droned on with the wedding ceremony, Brenna seethed with anger that her new husband had hauled her here like a prized sow. Coldness from the floor tiles seeped into her one bare foot. Damned barbarian.

She twisted slightly to peer up at him.

He was the largest man she had ever seen—nearly seven feet in height with shoulders as wide as a bull’s.

Huge. Enormous. Utterly grotesque. He reminded her of one of the fearsome warriors from her paintings. Only he was fully clad in battle gear, not naked as most of the figures in her artwork were.

He smelled of leather, blood, and the heady scent of male musk. Blood splattered across his blue surcoat, right at eye level.

A tiny bit of relief flowed through her that he didn’t flinch when Father Peter mumbled her name. Thank the stars he did not realize he had been duped into marrying the wrong sister. Their union had been arranged by that bastard King Edward so mayhap he did not know the name of his future bride. Or mayhap he could not hear well with the helm on.

“I worship thee with my body,” she gritted out when prompted, wishing she could grasp the dagger hidden in the bodice of the wedding gown to bolster her nerve.

Standing beside him here at the altar made her feel tiny, even shorter than usual.

She averted her eyes from the bloodstains on his surcoat and tilted her head back, wishing she could see beneath the shiny silver helm that concealed his features. She swallowed, thinking of her sister’s assessment of his scarred face. Bloody hell. Was there nothing about the man that wasn’t daunting? ’Twas no wonder children ran from him.

Hail Mary, full of grace, she began silently, unsure if she was saying a prayer or her last rites. Gwyneth said he’d murdered his last wife…

She’d have one chance with the dagger. And if she failed, only God knew what her punishment would be. With luck, he’d have her hung. But The Enforcer was not reputed to be a man who merely hung those who crossed him.

She squelched the shudder that threatened to quake her shoulders. Mayhap he was enormous and forbidding, but at the plunge of her dagger, he would bleed like any other beast.

“Kiss your bride,” Father Peter said, squinting up at the man’s covered face. He rubbed his watery eyes and gave Brenna a sympathetic look.

“My lady,” her new husband taunted, his voice muffled because of the helmet.

Her heart pounded against the steel blade betwixt her breasts and gooseflesh popped up on her arms. By force of will, she remained stock-still in front of the altar, fighting the urge to flee. Nay, not kiss the beast!

“This is no love match,” she sneered, fighting for a measure of control. “We have no need to kiss.”

The warrior’s palm covered hers, rough and large. Claiming. “The kiss seals our bargain.”

Her stomach cramped. He’d been holding her wrist all through the ceremony like a manacle. She glanced down and, for an instant, was surprised to realize he had man-hands, not paws like a bear. He had long, blunt fingers with thick calluses. He was a privateer; no doubt his hands had been roughened from pulling the rigging on a ship. His grip was firm and strong, but not biting or painful.

Fresh from battle, his hands should have been filthy, but instead were clean as if freshly washed for the wedding. She wondered at that small measure of respect.

He pulled her closer and she checked the urge to withdraw her hand. Best to make him think she was cowed and submissive.

Damn beast. Loathsome, unholy barbarian. Brenna ducked her head to keep him from noticing her glower.

“As you wish, my lord,” she said through clenched teeth. Tonight, she vowed, ’twould be his life that would be spilt, not her virgin blood.

His chain mail clinked as he released her to remove his helmet.

Patience, girl, patience, she coaxed herself. Soon he will be without his guard and you can use the dagger.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his warriors grip their sword hilts tighter. They stood around the perimeter of the sanctuary, also still in full armor.

Unbuckling the lower strap, her husband slowly lifted the helm.

Husband. The word sent a new shot of fury through her. Being a wife was akin to death for an artist. A passel of brats. A household to attend. Duties. Duties. More duties.

But, by the rood, she wouldn’t be married very long. She would be a widow by the first cock’s crow. She allowed herself a small smile at that thought. Widows had freedoms that maidens did not.

Montgomery’s helmet rose. Her first impression was a strong jawline chiseled with cold precision. She widened her eyes and leaned her head back so she could peer directly at the monster she would soon slay. Nary a stray whisker protruded from his close-shaven cheeks.

She gulped.

He was not a beast.

He was perfect.

Too perfect.

Like a beautiful painting with no passion. As if he had no tolerance for human flaws.

His black hair was thick and as close-cropped as a Roman warlord’s. Cobalt-blue eyes gazed down at her, shining with hard resolve. He had a broad aquiline nose, angular cheekbones, and a severe mouth that could have been carved from stone. Even his eyelashes were blunted into perfect midnight crescents, as black as his soul.

A shiver raced down her spine. Gwyneth had told her wrong information: no scars marred this man’s perfection.

He was breathtaking. Magnificent. The handiwork of an arrogant artist, too prideful to show a blemish that would make the work a true masterpiece.

She’d ne’er seen a man like him afore.

Kill him? How could she destroy such beauty?

Biting the inside of her cheek, she hardened her resolve. Beautiful or no, she would not become the chattel of a man to be raped and beaten at will. Nor would she leave her family at his mercy.

Even with her back turned, she felt her father’s intense, expectant glare from the front bench in the chapel. This was her chance to finally redeem herself in his eyes—to put to rights the rift that had formed betwixt them. Then she could leave for Italy with his blessing.

Gwyneth sat beside her father on the pew, wringing her hands. She wore a loose blue wool surcoat with a deep red underdress. ’Twas obvious she was trying to look as plain as possible—in place of one of her elaborate headdresses, she wore a wimple—but her beauty was like the sun, too brilliant to hide.

Adele, with her uncanny ways, had managed to escape from the ceremony.

Tension pulled across Brenna’s shoulders.

At once she found herself glad of the severity of her new husband’s perfection. If he had even some tiny flaw that caused him to seem more human and less cold, she might have found the task of destroying him impossible.

“Wife,” he said, reaching for the hem of the silver veil covering her face. “You are mine.” A touch of harshness laced his voice.

Her knees knocked when he lifted the pearl-sewn fabric away, but the hidden dagger pressed her flesh again, steeling her. Unless he had fangs, she could surely survive his kiss.

He cupped her chin and tilted her face up to his.

She scowled at him and shifted her feet restlessly when he did not move closer to kiss her.

His gaze roved her face, lingering on the scar that ran across her cheek.

She thought he’d seen her scar earlier, but perhaps his helm had blocked his view and now he was having second thoughts about forcing such an ugly woman to marry him. Ha. Served him right.

“Hasten and be done with it, husband,” she sneered. Mayhap she should snatch the veil from her head, and give him a look at what he’d married. Mayhap he’d run like Lord Brice.

But, as satisfying as that would be, she still needed to get him alone and unarmed if she was to kill him.

“They said you were comely,” he stated.

His words stung. There was no reason for them to sting, but they did.

“Well. I’m not.” She glared at him. Of course such a handsome man would expect a comely wife.

He thumbed her scar and she hardened her resolve. Yay, she’d kill him and take delight in the act. ’Twas no secret she was unsightly, but for him to stand there in his perfection and inspect her scarred cheek like damaged goods was excruciating.

“As I said,” she ground out, jerking her face from his grip, “there is no reason to kiss.”

He caught her chin betwixt his fingers and brought her face back to his. Interest lit in his eyes.

A curl of heat formed low in her groin. She’d seen that look a thousand times bestowed on Gwyneth. And on serving maids. And even on Adele.

But ne’er had she herself been the recipient of such a gaze. The intensity nearly took her breath. So this was what it felt like to be desired. Wanted. ’Twas exhilarating.

He continued to stare at her, a deep crevice forming betwixt his brows. “Beg me to kiss you, captive wife,” he said, his voice husky and compelling.

Caught in his spell, she opened her mouth to obey, then gasped, suddenly understanding. ’Twas not desire for her that had caught his interest, but the need to conquer, to cow her, to bend her to his will.

The demon! She glowered at him. However this day ended, ne’er would she be a witless slave for him to command. “I’ll beg you for naught, barbarian. Now or ever.”

The interest in his eyes burned into a blue inferno. His lips touched hers, hot and soft—neither cold nor stone as she had expected. His breath was sweet, clean as if he’d been chewing mint leaves, and the masculine musk of his skin was heady as fine wine.

Her stomach flipped. She stiffened, wanting to pull away. The act was done. The bargain sealed.

His lips lingered on hers.

She tried to step back, but his arms around her shoulders and lower back prevented her from moving from the cage of his embrace.

“Open your lips for me, captive wife,” he murmured against her mouth. “I want to taste what is mine.”

Her breath quickened, and heat flooded her cheeks. Ne’er had a man wanted to kiss her.

The sensation was as intoxicating as a well-made brushstroke after a series of mishaps while she was painting.

Her father growled, and shame spun through her, hot and prickly. His rage bore into her back.

She pressed her lips closed.

“Ah,” her husband said, pulling slightly away, “not as compliant as I was led to believe then. Mayhap we should go straight to the wedding chamber and see to your taming. You respond well enough to my kisses.”

Of all the vile things to say! She nearly choked at his words, then drew back her hand and slapped him. The sound cracked across the sanctuary’s air. “I’m no pet to be tamed, knave.”

Her father snorted.

Montgomery pressed his palm to his cheek. The gleam in his eyes turned from amused captor to merciless conqueror.

Her heart caught in her throat. No wonder children ran from his pathway. Whirling, she lifted the hem of her skirt to flee.

Like a flash of lightning, his hand lashed out and grasped her wrist. He spun, dragging her in his wake down the chapel’s aisle.

A few of his warriors guffawed.

Damnation! He was going to kill her! No husband of worth would take such insolence from his wife.

And this man was a conqueror.

“I—uh—that is—I did not mean—” she began, trying to buy herself time. She needed to appease him so she could get him alone to use the dagger.

“Silence, wife. I will deal with you in our chamber. By the time I am finished, you will wish you had agreed to amuse me by begging for kisses.” Armor clanking, he paced toward the church’s exit. “Soon, you will beg for much, much more.”

Wincing, she dug her toes into the carpet to slow his pace. Unlike her own simple kirtle, the voluptuous houpelande entangled her legs and hindered her movement. He kept walking and she stumbled forward. Her headdress wobbled and the pins smarted against her scalp as they strained to hold the enormous contraption on her head.

He slowed just before she fell to her knees.

“Bastard,” she muttered, righting herself.

“What was that?” he asked. His tone was mild, but a feral gleam shone in his cobalt eyes.

She licked her lips, trying to reconcile the soft warmth of his kiss with the harsh, severe man before her. She hadn’t intended to slap him, but ’twas too late for regrets. She opened her mouth to repeat the curse, but thought better of it.

“Naught,” she bit out.

Scowling, he pulled her forward until she bumped against his torso. He was as solid as the boards she painted. With his free hand, he ran his thumb up her collarbone, then curled his palm around the back of her neck.

Her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest, and she nearly made a desperate attempt for her dagger. But, nay. She was not so addle-headed to give away her one tiny advantage whilst he wore armor and was surrounded by his men.

She twisted aside, wanting to run. She knew he would follow, but mayhap if she could get him alone, she could salvage some element of surprise and use l’occhio del diavolo.

“Cease struggling, captive, ere I turn you o’er my knee here in the chapel.”

One of his men laughed.

“Nay! Do not manhandle my daughter!” Her father lurched to his feet, throwing off the men who guarded him. He stepped forward, defiant despite the ropes. His short beard and gray hair looked disheveled, and his nose twitched as if he’d smelled rotten eggs. He wore a simple tunic and hose in colors that would have blended with the forest. Dirt crusted his knees.

“My patience is thin with you too, old man.” Montgomery paced forward, and Brenna’s heart sank into her stomach.

At that moment, Gwyneth stood up, wailing in a loud cry. “Please, sir, I beg of you, do not hurt her.” She raced forward and threw her arms around Brenna, breaking Montgomery’s hold and nearly toppling her off-balance. Her wimple slid aside and her long blond hair came unwound and spilled around them.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Brenna felt as if she was enclosed in a spider’s web. She struggled to unwrap herself from her sister’s tentacles so she could breathe.

“I’ll kill you for this!” her father threatened, fighting against his wrist bonds.

Montgomery went into a fighting crouch. He still wore armor whilst her father was bound, unarmed, unprotected, and not nearly as large as his opponent.

“Do not be daft, Papa!” Freeing herself from her sister, she snagged hold of her husband’s armored forearm.

The guards contained her father.

Montgomery whirled, and their gazes locked.

Gulping, Brenna gathered her courage. Gwyneth may have been wrong about his looks, but, verily, he was a savage. “Please leave my family be. I’ll go with you. Punish me as you will.”

With his thumb, he touched the soft place at the front of her neck. The dress was much lower cut than her own clothes, and his fingers looked frightening against her bare skin.

He stared down at her, and she squirmed under the intensity of his gaze. “And you will submit willingly to whatever punishment I design?”

She blinked, her heart pounding faster. What would he require of her? She’d affronted his honor in front of his men. If he beat her, she would be lucky to survive.

His thumb did not hurt her neck, but she could feel every motion either of them made. Feel her heartbeat. Feel herself swallow.

His touch made her want to wrap her arms around herself to keep from shivering.

Straightening her spine, she shook off her alarm. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Little liar.”

Arrogant pig. Of a truth, she would have no remorse at all when she could finally stick him with the dagger.

“Bah!” her father said, spittle spewing from his mouth. He glared at her. “You little whore. You want him, don’t you?”

Stunned, she stared at her father. It felt as though he’d kicked her in the stomach. How could she tell him about the knife? About Gwyneth?

“Fath—”

He cut her off with a jerk of his head. “You were more than willing to marry my enemy.”

Her cheeks prickled. No matter what was between them, how could her father think that she would simply marry the enemy? Why was he so hot and cold to her? He had just defended her a moment ago…at once, she hated Montgomery for his part in making her father turn further against her.

“I did not want to marry at all, Father,” she said quietly.

Montgomery’s lips turned downward in a nearly imperceptible frown, and she found herself amazed that stone could show any emotion at all.

“Enough, old man.” He motioned toward the man holding the crossbow. “Gabriel, find a tower to lock him in.”

Gritting her teeth, Brenna forced herself to be patient.

She gasped as her new husband clamped her wrist and yanked her forward.

The monster!

Anger flared inside her. She glared at his back as he stalked out of the chapel into the damp spring air, irritated that she was forced to either follow or be dragged.

Dark clouds gathered in the east and the scent of rain hung heavily in the sky. She contemplated yanking the dagger out of her bodice and stabbing him in the back. No doubt, his men would cut her down afore she could even blink. And slay her family asides.

Nay, she must wait until Adele gave the signal.

The castlefolk lingered nearby watching, but no one stepped forward to help her.

“Paulin,” she called to a servant.

He shrank back, hiding partially behind the cistern and pulling his hat over his face. Others averted their eyes.

Damnation! Do they all think I am a traitor?

Glowering at her devil of a husband, she vowed that by day’s end all here would know where her loyalties lay, and his life would be forfeit. She would go to Italy as a heroine instead of a shamed woman.