The Pleasures of Sin (19 page)

With a breath of relief, Brenna moved toward him. She tried to tell herself that the thrill trembling in her belly was only the remnants of edginess. But the desire to melt into his arms, to forget the anxieties of the day, flowed through her as seductively as holding a new paintbrush.

His lips met hers and he reached beneath his tunic to take out the key to her bonds.

Days later, drawing on her memory of how Montgomery looked fully enlarged with passion, Brenna painted in the sketch of a man climbing onto a bed to kiss a sleeping woman. The chains were bound to Brenna’s forearms with twine to keep them out of the colors.

She smiled at the parchment; this painting was darker, richer still than her others had been. She’d been working for hours and her brain felt a little cloudy with obsession.

She wanted to be ready when she could steal time to meet Brother Giffard again.

Against her will, her legs grew restless as she painted the man’s member. It was such an interesting sight, how the flesh protruded between his legs.

So masculine.

So large and interesting.

She took a deep, satisfying breath. Copulating with Montgomery had given her artwork a new layer or realism and complexity that made her heart soar with joy.

Wetting her lips, she added a crescent-shaped scar onto the man’s left shoulder. Just like the one her husband sported.

Of a truth, her lord’s body fascinated her. She tapped the side of her paintbrush on the edge of the table. It was not just his body, but the man himself.

During the days, he hired and managed workers to bring the land into good repair. New whitewash appeared on the castle’s walls and new thatching on the roof. He cared for the keep in ways her father had neglected.

Every night, he removed the chains and kissed her until she felt frenzied with passion and gently made love to her. If he didn’t replace the chains every morning, she might actually start to like him. She tamped down that daft thought. She needed to escape. She could not live her life trussed up like a harem slave.

But, he didn’t treat her like a slave: for the past three days, a new garment had arrived every morn—something she had not had in years. She marveled at the fine workmanship and the bright colors. He listened to her concerns about the household and had implemented some of her ideas to make meals smoother. She’d seen her sisters from a distance on several occasions but had still been unable to contact them. They seemed well.

She gnawed the end of her paintbrush; surely he gave her clothing as another way of owning her—so she would not embarrass him with the rags that were her own garments.

Even so, she could not stop herself from luxuriating in the way the silk felt against her skin. The one she wore now was particularly fine—a deep green with little roses embroidered into the neckline and down the sleeves. With its long, trailing sleeves and square cut bodice, it was her favorite so far.

She wished she had been able to change garments before she began to paint, but the chains prevented that and she had to use what minutes she could steal to work on her more passionate art.

Turning her attention from the man in the painting to the background, she added shawls and a table and then, with a few brushstrokes, a broken vase appeared.

She stopped and leaned forward on her stool, scrutinizing her work; she had not intended to paint a broken vase. Frowning, she let out a small huff of frustration. Sometimes she got carried away and things seemed to just paint themselves onto the canvas, like little fragments of another time and place.

Dipping her brush into the blue tempera, she decided to change it into a lady’s kerchief. Broken vases did not suit the erotic mood of the painting.

Annoyed that the unwelcome vase had stopped her concentration, she glared at it and leaned forward. The manacle around her wrist clipped her artist’s palette and in slow motion, it tumbled from the table into her lap. Paint splattered her bodice and onto her new skirt.

Bloody hell! She snatched the palette, flung it onto the table and grabbed a rag.

Crimson, yellow, and blue spotted the green silk. She wiped frantically at the colors. The stain widened.

Of all the horrid things.

Lurching to her feet, she took water from a pitcher, dipped the rag in it and wiped more.

The colors darkened, became one huge smear of brown instead of several spots of individual colors.

She groaned. Not her new dress. Now her favorite one.

In her mind, she heard her father yell at her.
You clumsy cow! How dare you paint while wearing your new gown; now we’ll never get rid of you!
She cringed at the memory, not wanting to feel the ache in her chest that ne’er went away. She had been fourteen, and they had been summoned for the queen’s birthday celebration. She’d spent weeks working on a special miniature to give as a present. It was her first time to be presented at court, and she had wanted to make a good impression. She had hoped, romantic as it was, that the queen would like the painting, feel kindly toward her, and secure a good marital match for her. Something that would make her father proud.

She had been dressed and the portrait had been ready to go. But, as she waited for her family, she realized the holly berries in the artwork were not quite right. She hastened to fix them, to put just a finishing touch on the piece.

Brenna rubbed her temples, wanting to erase the memory and the shame.

She had spilled her palette, dumped a pot of pigment and three eggs onto her dress—ruining it. What a clumsy horrid thing to do.

Her father raged at her when he arrived. Servants watched as he picked up her painting—her only gift for the queen—and dunked it into the chamberpot.

“That’s all your work will ever amount to: something fit for the dung heap! The queen doesn’t want your stupid imaginations.”

Then, he’d forced her to strip naked in front of the servants and shoved one of the chambermaid’s garments over her head. Agony laced her chest, just as it had all those years ago when she was a girl. The dress hadn’t been so bad, for perhaps working in the kitchen, but it was grossly plain and out of fashion to be seen by the court.

Brenna shuddered at the memory.

The queen had been most displeased. No marriage calls came. Her father snarled at her that she’d ruined everything. He’d given away all her clothing and never bought her another dress.

She hadn’t wanted to tell her husband what it meant to her for him to buy her new garments, or how much it squeezed her heart.

Bootsteps sounded out in the hallway. Montgomery! Brenna wiped even more frantically at the big, brown spot, then abruptly stopped.

It was useless.

The dress was ruined.

Best to face him with dignity. When Montgomery took away her nice clothing as her father had done, she would be no worse off than she’d been afore he’d arrived.

She rapidly hid the erotic painting of her husband beneath the floor planks. It wasn’t the best place for it to dry, but she could not take chances on it being discovered.

Then, turning toward the door, she stiffened her spine and waited with resolve for what her husband would say. He was a man who took pride in how he dressed. The very shine on his boots told her that. He would have no use for clumsiness.

She stood rigidly upright and lifted her chin when the door opened.

Montgomery entered, filling the chamber with his presence. He wore a crisp, pressed blue tunic and flawlessly polished boots. How
did
the man walk around without getting dust on his shoes? Nary a wrinkle marred his hose. Perfect. As always.

His gaze flickered over her face. “My captive wife, how good of you to be in attendance.”

She clenched her jaw, waiting for him to begin his lecture.

As if oblivious of the mess she’d made, he smiled and stepped toward her.

Her legs quivered.

Leaning down, he kissed her cheek and his fingers trailed down her bodice.

“What the…” He stepped back, staring at the muddled paint on his fingers.

She forced down the little skip of fear her heart made. She would face this bravely, no matter how much he railed at her. She had borne the shame before, and she could bear it again.

“You’ve gotten paint on your dress,” he said.

“I do not expect you to understand,” she said stiffly. “I can have one of your servants return the others to the merchant tomorrow. Surely, they can be resold for a goodly amount.”

Montgomery’s brows slammed together, and he looked at her like she’d just grown a horn. “You want to return the dresses?”

Lifting her chin, she met his steely gaze. She would not let him know how good it had felt after all these years to wear nice things again. She should never have accepted the garments in the first place—it vexed her heart and was akin to betrayal of her duty to her family. It made her long for a life here instead of a nun’s lot in Italy.

“Yea, that is correct.”

He loomed over her, confusion clouding his face. “You want to return
all
of the dresses because you got paint on one of them?”

“You can yell at me if you wish,” she continued, heedless, reckless. It felt like her heart was breaking to let go of such beautiful things. “But it will not do any good. God made me clumsy at times and clumsy I am.”

Montgomery’s shoulders relaxed, and he gave her a smile that could have melted Snowdonia. In sharp contrast to his perfect clothing and warrior exterior, the two overlapping teeth were cute and boyish. “You think you are uncoordinated?”

She winced, waiting for his smile to turn into a snarl. “I am.”

“My dear captive wife, I am not a harsh leader to those who obey me, so listen carefully”—his fingers cupped her shoulder, and she cringed—“you are never, ever to say that about yourself again. Any woman who can paint such beautiful paintings as I have seen you do is not clumsy. Do you understand?”

Her mouth fell open. If he would have suddenly grown wings and began to fly around the chamber, she could not have been more shocked. “You–you are not angry?”

He laughed and thumbed her on the nose with the paint that was on his fingers. “’Tis only a dress, silly girl.”

In that moment, her manacles were forgiven. Warmth flowed through her like wine. All the hurts between them disappeared like smoke and she felt her heart crack open. She blinked, unsure if she wanted to feel this strange tenderness. ’Twas so much more intimate than even the copulation between them had been.

Without allowing herself to dissect her purpose, she stood on tiptoes and pressed a kiss on his lips. The paint smear on her nose transferred to his cheeks, her messy nature rubbed off on his tightly controlled perfection. “La.” Smiling, she rubbed it away with her finger.

His arms closed around her, enveloping her in his strength and his scent—that compelling mixture of spice and woods. Her heart sped, and she reached up wrapping her arm around him and drawing him closer, wanting more of this comfort, this feeling of having flaws and being accepted anyway.

She pulled him backward, toward the bed, eager to explore him. Always before, he had been the initiator, the one who touched her and loved her until she spun with passion. This time, she wanted to give him pleasure as he had given to her. Her sex was still overly warm, ripe with desire, from the portrait she had been painting; her fingers longed to touch the body she had just captured on canvas.

She kissed him aggressively, tasting his mouth, his neck, his ear.

A low growl escaped his throat, and a surge of female power whipped through her. She had thought, assumed, that his coupling with her had only been because he wished to obtain heirs. But here was a man focused on the present moment, not future children.

Desire spread through her, wetting her like gesso over canvas. She wanted him. All of him. Inside her.

“My lady,” he murmured.

Yanking at the bottom of his tunic, she pulled it free from his belt and pushed it upward so her hands could trace across the planes and valleys of his torso. She laced her fingers through the hair of his chest. The key to her manacles hung on a leather chain, as did the heart-shaped locket.

They tumbled onto the bed, his hands at the top of her bodice. He pulled the garment downward, trying to yank it off, but the chain and collar impaired the movement of her elbows and neck. Her arm caught, pinning her into the dress. The damn chains!

Pausing, he reached back. She thought he was retrieving the key, but instead, he plucked the knife from his belt.

“’Tis ruined already, my captive wife.”

“Wha—”

A soft rent sounded as the blade sliced through fabric. Cool air caressed her skin. She shivered.

“I’ll buy you more,” he whispered.

Wetness leaked from her woman’s core as she recalled the last memory they had together with the blade. Her nether hair, still short, was growing back, and she wondered if she should ask him to shave her again.

Sighing, she threaded her fingers into his hair, enjoying the crisp, prickly texture against her palms. His easy acceptance of the ruined dress had cracked open a portion of her heart she’d long thought was mortared closed.

She could love a man such as him. The thought gave her pause, but he leaned forward and swirled his tongue around one of her nipples before she could entertain it.

“Jaaaaames,” she murmured, closing her eyes.

Raising his head, he gazed at her. His eyes glowed with blue fire. In several skilled motions, he made quick work of the dress. The hard metal was cold against her skin and the garment fell away in slices.

Anticipation grew. She licked her lips.

He gave her a pirate’s grin and reached for the key to the manacles. She remained still, as she did every night when he performed this ritual of unlatching her.

But unlike other nights, she did not like the separation of their bodies. She wanted to touch him, to bring him closer. As he unlocked one of her wrists, she reached her arm toward him, wanting to slide her fingers over his skin.

He snagged her wrists, disallowing her the privilege.

She let out a frustrated whimper.

The pirate’s smile grew, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other, as he looped the chain around the bedpost. Because of the ring through the collar that connected the wrist manacles, her other hand drew to her throat with the motion.

Confused, she tried to sit up, wriggling against the chains, and the palm wrapped around her arm.