The Pleasures of Sin (16 page)

Brenna awoke to a throbbing headache and a whirling mind as unnaturally bright light glittered across her face. She ached. Her head, her shoulders, her back.

Miserable. Absolutely miserable.

Squinting her eyes in the brightness, she saw her husband sitting by the window at her desk, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle. He wore leather breeks and naught else. His relaxed vulnerability touched a heartstring and his wide chest and thick biceps fascinated her, making her wish she had a paintbrush in her hand.

His hair, normally so orderly, was mussed on his head. It was longer than it had been at the wedding, but his face was perfectly shaved. She groaned at the memory, her cheeks flaming. It wasn’t just his face that was shaved. She resisted the urge to peek under the bedcovers at her bare sex to verify she had not imagined the entire evening.

A scrick, scrick, scrick bit through the air; he appeared to be sharpening
l’occhio del diavolo
against a leather strap.

Her face flooded with heat at the memory of that knife against her queynt. He had…shaved her. Touched her. Pleasured her.

She watched him for a moment, captivated by how smooth his strokes were, at how sure his hands were on the hilt. Warmth flowed into her at the memory of how he’d caressed her with the same precision, with the same surety. As if he knew of some inner secret passion that she herself did not know.

Her heart warmed as she remembered that he had apologized for keeping her chained so long. That he had taken his time in bathing her to make up for the time lost. That, despite her father’s escape, he had given her back her paints for the price of a kiss.

There were still things to work out between them, but mayhap their marriage would not be so heinous after all.

He paused holding the blade just above the leather. “Good morning.” His rich blue eyes were spellbinding against his tanned skin. Beautiful.

She felt her nipples tighten, and she wondered what he would do if she threw back the sheet and offered herself to him again.

Would he be shocked? Appalled?

Or would he caress her again as he had last night—seeking out her secret places and making her gasp with delight. Would his staff rise to wondrous heights?

Contemplating this pleasant thought, she swung her leg to move off the mattress, wanting to go to him, to touch him.

Her foot caught and a loud clank rang through the chamber.

Gasping, she looked down—a manacle was wrapped around her left ankle, chaining her to the bed.

Bloody hell. Her kind feelings toward him shattered like stained glass under the assault of a rock.

“You chained me?” she burst out.

“Of course, my captive wife,” he said impassively, going back to sharpening the knife. “We are no more in love today than we were yesterday when you were attacking me and trying to escape.”

“You–you–” Words failed her, and she nearly screamed. How could he do this! After what they had shared. She had dared think that somehow their tryst had meant something.

What a stupid, naive ninny she was. He was the one who had experienced dozens of lovers, not her.

Resisting the urge to duck her head beneath the covers in humiliation, she drew the sheet up to her neck and stared at the curtains swinging around her bed.

To him, she was simply another conquest in his bed. He had used his skills as a lover to bend her to his will.

And, damn the man, it had worked. She wished it did not hurt, but it did.

She wished he would leave so she could get dressed and put some sort of covering on her naked body. And pretend last night had never occurred. Pretend she hadn’t just planned to offer herself to him like some lovesick slave before her master.

Pretend the sheet didn’t rasp against the bare skin of her shaven sex.

She glared at him, but he bent over the knife, stroking it back and forth across the leather. Unruffled. Unaffected by yesterday’s activities.

She should have stabbed him. Why didn’t she stab him!

Irritated at her own weakness, she stiffened her spine, determined to carry on as if naught had occurred. As if the sound of the blade sliding across leather didn’t scrape her nerve endings raw.

Shame curled through her gut and she wanted to hang her head that she had thought things might change between them.

But she was as captive today as she had been before.

“How do you feel?” he asked, glancing up for a moment.

Vulnerable. Embarrassed. Confused
.

“Fine.”

The light from the window streamed across his face, kissing his generous lips.

She smoothed a springy curl of hair behind her ear and lifted her chin. He would never know of how she’d lusted for him just moments earlier. She
would
find a way free from this entanglement.

“There is no reason to chain me,” she said curtly.

He tilted his head to one side. “Naught has changed between us.”

Despite her vow to carry on as if naught had happened, his plainspoken declaration felt like a blow in the stomach. Mayhap nothing had changed for him, but she felt vulnerable and fragile in ways she had not known possible.

“Who were you meeting on the wall walk?” The question was asked coolly, but she recognized the tension across his shoulders. He was as on guard as he had been yester eve when she held
l’occhio del diavolo
.

“No one,” she answered, matching his tone in composure.

“I found this in the stairwell.” He lifted a parchment off the desk. The parchment she’d given to Brother Giffard to send to Nathan.

Devil take it!

She rubbed her temples, irritated with herself, irritated with Montgomery. And irritated that Brother Giffard had not sent the missive weeks ago when he had the chance.

Evidently he’d dropped it when they had met last night. Brother Giffard had sent her a message to meet on the wall walk—Father Peter was on a rampage and the chapel had been unavailable. He had secured a little gold for the painting she’d given him earlier. The amount wasn’t enough for passage on a ship and Brenna had been ranting at the unfairness of her husband leaving her paints locked away when Montgomery had come into the bailey. She had flown down the stairs to make it back to her room before he caught her without her guard, and before he discovered whom she was conversing with.

She had tripped in the narrow stairwell, her steps encumbered by the chains, and had bumped her head.

“Who were you giving this to, Brenna?”

Her heart skipped. If she implicated Brother Giffard and he was questioned, all hope of arranging passage to Italy would be lost.

“I wasn’t giving it to anyone—I wrote it weeks ago, hoping to pass it off to one of my sisters or someone going into the town.”

“I see,” Montgomery said, but it was unclear if he believed her or not. “Why was Damien not with you? Why did you say it was not his fault when I was angry with him for sleeping?”

Her heart sank lower and lower until she wanted to kick herself for her outburst yesterday. She had grown fond of her young guard and his outrageous mustache and had sought to protect him when she’d seen Montgomery loom over the lad. She’d slipped his watch, given him some herbs to help him sleep, because Brother Giffard and she were not meeting in the church where they could have some privacy.

Montgomery’s eyes seemed to probe into her soul, ferreting out her secrets.

“Brenna.” He moved right beside her and ran his finger up the side of her neck. “If you have a lover, I will kill him.”

A harsh laugh welled in her throat. “I do
not
have a lover, as you well-proved yester eve!”

An odd look gleamed in his eyes and she wished she could tell what he was thinking.

“Why were you in the tower?”

Running her fingers lightly over the bed covers, she debated for a moment what to hide and what to reveal. Mayhap her best course was to be as forthright as possible.

“I found it wearisome to be followed around twenty-four hours a day, so I fed Damien a potion to help him sleep.”

“Where did you get this potion?” Montgomery cut in.

“Sometimes I have trouble sleeping, my lord.” She kept her voice deliberately non-inflammatory. “My sister makes it for me—”

“Which one?”

“Adele—”

“Have you spoken with her?”

“Nay—”

“Was she the one in the tower?”

His battery of rapid-fire questions left her reeling. “Nay! I was carrying the note myself and dropped it when I fell rushing back to my chamber.”

“Why were you rushing?”

“My intention was only to escape Damien for a bit, and when I saw you had returned, I panicked.” It was close enough to the truth, and she held her breath, praying he would believe her.

He nodded in his precise, calculating manner.

Relief flowed through her. She wiggled her leg, rattling the chain. “May I get up?”

Before he could answer a knock sounded.

“Enter,” Montgomery commanded. He stood, laying the strop of leather across her desk and tucking
l’occhio del diavolo
into his belt. Clearly, he had been expecting someone.

A caravan of trunk-carrying servants entered followed by a pudgy middle-aged merchant and a round-faced woman.

Montgomery indicated a place for the trunks.

What the bloody hell? Was this more of Montgomery punishment? She glowered at them.

The man bowed low, making a sweeping gesture with his hat. He was richly dressed in an elaborately embroidered paltock and finely made hose. “We came as soon as the rains would allow.”

“We’ve brought the finest of our silks and velvet,” the woman added. She pointed at a trunk, and a tall, bald servant wearing a well-stitched tunic opened it. Taking out a piece of blue velvet, she held it to the light.

“’Tis as good a weave as one can find anywhere, even in Paris or Italy,” the man said, puffing out his chest.

Montgomery glanced at Brenna. “Well, wife?”

Brenna squinted at the lush material, confused.

He waved his hand toward the two strangers as they opened a second trunk. “They are clothing merchants.”

She gave his back a sour look. “I’m not daft.”

“Our garments were in disrepair from the soggy journey,” he said, digging through the linens in one of the trunks. He pulled out a fine piece of green silk and draped it over his bare forearm.

She’d had to wear the same blasted unwashed dress for weeks and now he wanted to parade in front of her that he was having new garments made because a little rain got on them! What a peacock! She’d realized that he was meticulous with his clothing—every stitch perfect, every seam precise. No doubt fawning maids ironed those perfect creases with hot flatplates and smoothing stones every morning. But this was beyond anything she’d ever seen.

“What do you think of this?” he asked, holding up a scrap of silk trim embroidered with small roses.

“It is lovely,” she said sourly.

“Excellent.” He pulled cloth of gold from the pile of fabrics nestled in the trunk. “What else do you have?” he asked the merchant, who was busy folding and unfolding other pieces of fabric.

Soon the room was aflutter with color as they showed all sorts of fine silk and velvet in every length and size. Reds, blues, greens. ’Twas as if they were painting cloth rainbows in the room. They showed embroidered trim and linings of ermine and fox and mink.

Brenna rubbed her temples. Why Montgomery needed new clothing was beyond her. Even in its travel-worn state, his tunics were better than anything she’d worn for the past seven years.

She wiggled the toes on her manacled foot, irritated she could not get up and leave the room. No doubt it was testimony to his arrogance to have merchants come to their chamber while she was chained to the bed.

He lifted several more swaths of fabric, keeping some and discarding others. As always, his motions were keen and direct. Intense.

And finicky. Ne’er had she seen a man so versed in the weaves and makes of different material. He picked out flaws that she didn’t even notice. What silliness. He was worse than Gwyneth.

Exasperating. That’s what he was. And furthermore, she needed to pee.

Wanting them all to go away, she closed her eyes to pluck them out of her sight.

“Fifteen dresses then,” she heard Montgomery say. “With undertunics and chemises too. Something for both everyday wear and things suited to go before the queen.”

She opened one eye. “Dresses?”

He whirled to her, the movement as sharp as men training for battle.

Ignoring the tug of the manacle around her ankle, she sat up in the bed. “You are ordering these for me?”

“Of course.”

Her world spun. Her last new dress had been years ago, shrouded by painful memories. And-fifteen? ’Twas an unheard of number of garments for one woman. Even when her father had taken all of hers, she had only had five. Realizing her jaw hung slack, she closed her mouth and relaxed back onto the pillow. “Why are you being nice to me?”

He looked taken aback by the question.

“Well?” Heedless of the discomfiture of others in the room, she rattled the chain around her ankle. “There is no reason for it. We are no more in love today than we were before,” she said, parroting his earlier words.

The merchant and his wife exchanged a look, then rapidly began rooting around in the smaller trunks.

Montgomery opened his mouth to answer, but the woman quickly pulled out several yards of a silky green fabric that was so fine it was nearly transparent. “How about this, me lady? ’Twould look lovely with your eyes, yes?”

The fabric swirled into the air catching the light from the window and reflecting out a thousand colors. It was the most amazing cloth she’d ever seen. Nearly magical.

“My wife speaks truth,” the merchant rushed before anyone could speak. “If you will just stand, me lady, for the measurements.”

Brenna looked helplessly at Montgomery. She was naked beneath the covers: she had neither long hair on her head to cover her breasts nor curls of nether hair to cover her sex.

“Stand up,” he said curtly. “I will not have my countess dressed in rags.”