The Pleasures of Sin (22 page)

But if he broke this promise, what would keep him from breaking the other one toward her brother?

Glancing down at the key tucked into her bodice, she reminded herself that it had only been hours since she’d been free to walk about unfettered. He was not a man who parleyed with his enemies, real or conceived.

If she told him of the plan, she would for certes find herself locked up again and her sisters as well.

And, even then, she knew she would be unable to resist the sweet, insistent call of his body.

Perhaps she could talk to Nathan herself, get him to see the futility of the siege.

A workman interrupted them, drawing her husband aside to ask his opinion about repairs to the cistern.

“I have a surprise for you,” Montgomery said to Brenna when he was finished talking with the man.

“A surprise?” Her heart sank. The last “surprise” he’d given her involved four manacles and a collar.

“Why so pale, my captive wife?” He handed his quill and scroll off to a man in a feathered hat, placed her hand in the crook of his arm.

“I do not like surprises,” she said.

He led her across the bailey and out the castle’s gate. “You will like this one.”

By the time they reached the town, the afternoon sun painted the land in brilliant colors. Brenna’s dread dissipated a little more with each pace down the cobbled road. Her husband’s steps were as orderly and precise as ever, but there seemed to be an ease in his stride that bespoke good tidings.

In her heart she knew she should bring the conversation back to the issues with her family so she could perhaps glean some insight on what to do. But she was reluctant to break this peace, and guiltily she enjoyed this new game they played.

“A hint of where we are heading,” she pleaded with a laugh, slightly frustrated with his mysterious glances and complete refusal to discuss the surprise.

“Nay. Trust me.” His shoulders were relaxed beneath his perfectly cared-for tunic. ’Twas clear that he had something mischievous on his mind and anticipation, even a little excitement, grew inside her.

Exasperated at his lack of answer, she blew out a breath. She had asked six times already.

He answered with looks that waffled from stern to boyish, but he would not tell her their destination.

They turned down one cobblestone path, then an alleyway, then through a tavern. It seemed he was deliberately trying to confuse her sense of direction.

Frustrating, vexing man.

He grinned as if thoroughly amused with himself. His cute overlapping teeth showed, as did the dimple on his chin. His eyes sparkled, blue and gleaming, reminding her of the ocean. A woman could become lost at sea in his gaze.

She should pinch herself, wake up from this foolish time spent, from the games they played that made her think they might have a life together.

She would be leaving in a fortnight. There could be naught but war between them.

“Best it be a grand surprise for all this trouble,” she said with mock fierceness.

“You will like it.” He led her down yet another side street. “Now stop hounding me, captive wife,” he continued, “or I’ll place the scold’s bridle on you and lead you there that way.” His tone was light and the threat without heat.

She laughed, feeling free as a child. She had completely lost her bearings and was forced to follow helplessly along after him. “I’m going to ruin my new dress!” she admonished.

“All the better so I can cut it off of you later.” He tugged her further down the cobbled street.

She did not want to fall into the trap of enjoying his presence, and yet, she already had. His teasing manner seemed to melt places in her heart that had long been frozen. Brenna wondered about the ease that had come between them. It was dangerous. More dangerous than the tension had been.

They went through a row of shrubs and then around a building and over a fence.

“You are lost,” she accused as they headed down another alleyway and finally came to a dead end at a stone wall that reached above her head.

“Of course not. I never get lost.”

“Never lost?” She smirked at the wall. The stones were old and worn with moss growing in their midst. A rotted apple core covered with ants lay at the base and a few weeds grew from cracks in the cobblestone.

James ran his fingers along the chinks between the rocks as if looking for something. She enjoyed the flex of his buttocks, the way the muscles of his thighs tightened against his hose.

“I have an innate sense of direction,” he bragged. “Always had. Probably why I love to sail so much, to feel the wind on my face.”

A vision of him, barefoot with the wind rippling through his tunic cut into her brain. His hose would be torn, ragged from days at sea and his clothing would be wrinkled with wear. Such a far cry from the precise stiffness in the man before her now. How did someone so in love with sailing, so passionate in bed, come to adopt such a rigid persona? Did it have to do with his baby and the silver locket he wore?

It struck her that there was so much she did not know about this man she was married to. “You
love
to sail?”

Turning, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “My brother gave me a ship. Even now, I itch to return to the sea.”

“Oh.” She cocked her head to one side, unsure why his announcement flabbergasted her. She knew he was a privateer and had his own ship. But, except for rare glances she caught when he was betwixt her legs, his head thrown back in passion, he always seemed so ordered. Precise. Exacting.

Life at sea did not suit that sort of controlled existence. Waves rolled, ships pitched; the ocean could not be ironed with the same meticulousness as the maids bestowed on his tunics.

Would he be freer out on the open water? Would he smile more—show off that pirate’s grin of his?

“Why do you like to travel?” she asked, curious to know more.

He helped her over the wall and they found themselves in the midst of a garden. “Because I am free to just be alive, to adventure and explore.”

Her heart quickened at that admission. They were not so different from each other as she had thought. “’Tis the same reason I paint,” she admitted, glancing around at the various clipped shrubs. “Where are we?”

Peonies, marigolds, lilies, and cowslip were planted in lush beds. Their brilliant colors reminded her of her artist palette. Rosemary grew in spiny scrubs, their pale blue flowers delicate as a veil. Trees crowded the sky so she had no idea where she was in relation with the rest of the town.

“Just a short walk from here,” he said, not really answering her question. He took her hand and led her to a worn path. “I told you I knew where I was.”

“So you did,” she said, unsure if he was bluffing or no. His steps seemed confident.

They walked for a moment and Brenna admired the chirping of birds and the buzz of bees. The rich aroma of earth and leaves scented the air. It seemed that all of nature was alive here. Flowers and trees were as carefully tended as the bristles on her paintbrushes. The lawn was clipped into a lush, green carpet and every scrub was neatly trimmed.

She did not know such a place existed in the town.

She paused, admiring a bed of foxglove. “’Tis wondrous. Is this garden the surprise?”

Squeezing her hand, he kissed her temple. “Nay, but nearby. You will see soon enough.”

Curiosity beckoned her, waving through her mind in intense curves, and she followed her husband, content now to allow him to lead her wherever he wished. Just as she had when she was chained to the bedpost with her legs spread apart.

“Tell me of your travels. Of the ship and the ocean.”

He smiled, the look in his eyes becoming hazy and far away. “The wind bites your skin, stinging with the spray from the salt. The ship rocks, soothing you to peace and lulling you to sleep at night.”

“It sounds like a fairy’s world,” Brenna said, enthralled. Despite her intense dreams of reaching Italy, she had never traveled further than London. “I would like to go to Italy,” she said dreamily, then caught herself. He must not know of her desires to be in Italy.

“Ah. Italy. Italy smells of wondrous spices—garlic, scallions, onions, and other savory treats. ’Tis a special place with loud, unique people and a bustling supply of artists.” He plucked a flower and gave it to her then ducked around a low row of hedges and stared up at the backside of a building. “Here we are.”

The cathedral. Or rather the outbuildings and administrative offices of it.

“’Tis the sanctuary.” Astonished, she gazed upward at the turrets. She’d never guessed they were on church property, yet it all made sense now—the beautiful lawn, the peaceful gardens. They had come from some odd direction and she had been so spellbound by their day together, she’d been a little lost.

“What are we doing here?”

“Shh.” Pushing open the side door, James led her inside. The wide expanse of the eating hall loomed out, open and overwhelming in its proportions. The room was quiet and empty of people. Trestle tables stacked along the walls awaiting the next meal.

She stepped inside, then stopped, her jaw falling slack.

The walls held two of her paintings—the largest pieces of her collection. One depicted the Virgin Mary holding Baby Jesus and the other was a rendition of Saint Peter walking on water, the other disciples watching from the boat.

Stunned, Brenna stared at the portraits. Her breath caught in her throat and she could not speak. Looking at her artwork here was almost like seeing them for the first time. As if the pieces belonged to a stranger rather than being painted by her own hand.

She had tried so many times to have her work displayed, but Bishop Humphrey had always thwarted her plans.

“How?” she mouthed, when she had finally caught her breath.

James smiled, running a finger down her shoulder. “You are pleased?”

She cleared her throat. Pleased? She could scarcely believe her eyes. ’Twas as if she had stepped through some mystical doorway and her dream had come true. “I am astonished.”

The lazy trace of his finger flowed from her shoulder to her wrist. He took her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “My lady, there is no reason you cannot both paint and be a wife. You are a fabulous artist and deserve to have your work displayed in a place of esteem. Methinks that over time, the church will see fit to move your paintings from the eating hall to the cathedral itself.”

She threw her arms around him and kissed him wildly, recklessly, heedless that they were on church property and their families would soon be going to battle. Ne’er in her life had someone honored her artwork in such a manner. Her heart soared.

Laughing, he embraced her fully, meeting her kiss. “The nunnery does not suit you at all, my lady.”

For a moment, only the two of them existed and she gave herself over to complete abandon. Giddiness bubbled in her heart and she wanted to dance up and down like an overexcited child.

He wrapped his arms around her until her body was bent slightly backward and she felt she would tip over.

Their lips met with desperation, their arms and legs wound around each other like starved lovers. Heat flowed through her queynt and she surrendered to his touch.

This time between them would not last—indeed, it could not—too many events had been set into motion. She must tell him about her brother. About their plans. Get him and Nathan to reach an agreement.

Loud, shuffling footsteps sounded behind them.

They broke apart.

Brenna blushed to the tips of her toes as she realized Bishop Humphrey walked toward them, his face even more pinched than usual. A set of rosary beads draped from his thin fingers like slime on a bog branch.

Clearing his throat, he gave them both a glare of disapproval. The scent of incense surrounded him like a cloud of condemnation.

She lifted her chin, inwardly cringing and wanting to hide in one of the many alcoves of the hallway.

James grinned, clearly both unintimidated and unabashed. “Good day, good bishop. I hope the repairs to your cathedral are going as planned.”

“We”—Humphrey made a sour face, wringing his pale fingers in the cloth of his robe—“thank you for your generous donation to our cause.”

Ah. So that was it. Montgomery had bribed them into hanging her paintings.

“And how did the men and ladies of the congregation like my lovely wife’s work?”

The bishop’s pinched face tightened. “Lord Stanmoore has made an offer on the first painting,” he grumbled. “The gold will be useful should you decide to sell the work.”

Pride burst in Brenna’s heart. She wanted to let out a whoop of hooray. She
knew
others would like her work, if only she was given the opportunity.

“No problems that they were painted by a woman?” James pressed.

Brenna nearly snickered at her husband’s audacity. Humphrey’s ears were already red and glowing and it seemed rude to drag the scene out further but she enjoyed his embarrassment and wanted to gloat at his discomfiture.

If she had been allowed to show her paintings years ago, likely she could have been accepted into a convent for the use of her skill instead of having to marry.

“You will allow us to sell them and split the profits, Lord Montgomery?” Humphrey clicked his ringed fingers on his rosary beads.

It must have pained him to have to ask and Brenna could not contain her glee.

“Nay,” she started. “I do not wi—”

Montgomery squeezed her arm, cutting off her words. “Aye, for certes we can reach an acceptable bargain,” he told the bishop. “I will return on the morrow to discuss the matter.”

Brenna seethed, wanting to yank her arm from her husband’s grip. She did not want to sell anything to help Bishop Humphrey, not after the years of issues between them.

Furthermore, it irritated her that her business dealings were no longer her choice to make, but her husband’s. How unfair the lot of women.

She opened her mouth to speak, wanting to demand they take her paintings down from the walls.

“We must leave. I will return later.” James gave her a warning look, turned abruptly and steered her to the exit. “Say naught,” he gritted out in a low voice as they passed the trestles.

Annoyance steamed through her, but she bit her tongue, choking back her words. She scurried to keep up with his long paces as they quit the building, leaving Bishop Humphrey staring gape-mouthed at them.

Inside, she fumed.

As soon as they were away from the building and out of earshot, Montgomery hauled her close to him, pulling her upward so she had to stand on tiptoe. Her brows drew together in a scowl as she realized he was angry too. He loomed over her. “You will not dishonor me by arguing with me in front of that man.”

“How dare you agree to sell my paintings without my consent,” she shot back hotly.

“As your husband, ’tis my right.”

“As the artist, ’tis
my
right to decide where my work should be sold. And I do not like that man!”

Of a sudden, his shoulders relaxed. He reached up and smoothed down a curl that had worked its way out of her cap. “Peace, Brenna. I do not like him either, but there are more important issues than him if you become known as an artist. Selling a few paintings for the church will help. Lord Stanmoore has many grand feasts to show off their estates and home. Your work is of an excellent quality and likely you could become well-known not just here, but all over the continent should he wish to commission more of your paintings. This is a bustling merchant town and many foreigners visit the cathedral here.”