The Pleasures of Sin (26 page)

Heart pounding, Brenna struggled as muscular arms surrounded her like steel bands and cut off her air. Bile rose in her throat.

Her captor dragged her further and further into the trees, away from the abbey, away from the little huts, away from the safety of the road. Branches scraped her face. Her shoes fell away and mud squished between her toes.

She fought harder, kicking and biting. Nay! Nay!

“One word and I’ll slit your throat,” a hard voice whispered as a knife appeared and cold metal was placed against her neck.

Terror shot down her limbs as if streaks of lightning had invaded her body. Eyes wide, she stared down at the blade. It was a short dagger with a gilded handle, a small pommel and a single ruby in its hilt. Too delicate for this man’s brute hands.
L’occhio del diavolo
.

James.

She stopped fighting, surrendering to his arms as she had done for so many nights. And her wicked, stupid, mindless woman’s core cared not a whit that the knife was held to her throat in rage instead of for pleasure. Her body only remembered the slicing off of her clothing for fiery lovemaking and the scraping of hair from her slit for passion. Warm, creamy wetness flowed from her queynt in an artless, aching need.

“James,” she mumbled against his palm, her heart soaring that she had found him, that she could confess at last and they could begin their relationship again.

His hand loosened when she did not scream. “Do not call me that.”

“My lord,” she tried again.

“Nor that.” He yanked her roughly through the trees. “’Tis ‘master’ I’ll hear from your lips and that while you are on your knees begging me for mercy.”

All erotic need disappeared at his words, at the blackness of his tone. The chime of bells, more distant now, signified the calling of the nuns to morning mass. But they would not miss her—she was always in the studio with the paints during this time, indulged by the woman whom she had just discovered had given birth to her.

Fear tightened her chest, crushing the breath from her lungs and causing her legs to not move properly. She slipped and slid, his hold and fast pace made walking awkward. Her bare feet sank in the mud and issued sucking noises as he headed across the countryside.

Memory flashes of how he’d dragged her down the chapel’s aisle coursed through her, as biting as the remembrance of her father and the blue vase.

“Cease dragging me,” she mumbled against his palm.

The knife pricked her skin. “Shush, dear wife, mine. And quit fighting me. You cannot hope to win.”

“I’m not fighting you, dolt; I’m trying to keep up!” The vehemence in her tone must have shocked him because he loosened his hold slightly.

Turning, she saw his face. Half-healed purple bruises marked his cheek, and three deep scratches made an uneven “w” across his forehead and temple.

Mercy. Without thinking, she reached to touch him, an ache forming in her chest. This was her fault.

He slapped her hand away, fury snapping in his eyes. Even though the blow had not been fierce, the movement cut into her as if he’d plunged the blade into her heart.

She’d never seen him so cold, not even when he’d stood over her with a whip in his hand. Then, he had been intent on securing the safety of the keep. Now, he looked like he could kill her without flinching. Without remorse. As if the civility had snapped inside him and only the beast remained. Full of hate and dark passions.

His hair was wild about his head—long and un-combed. In no way or fashion was he tightly contained as he had been before. Guilt rose in her throat that she was the cause of such change in him.

“I–I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her heart felt leaden in her chest. “I know you are angry with me, but—”

“Nay, I am not angry,” he said mildly; the icy hatred in his eyes belied his words. The mottled purple bruise on his cheek shifted in color. “I am furious.”

Bile rose in her throat as she realized exactly how unpredictable this situation was. He led her into an olive grove. Her teeth chattered, and she glanced around wondering if she should try to run. If she did, he would only catch her.

“I–I was leaving to clear your na—” she stammered.

“Silence!” he roared. “Ere I cut your lying tongue from your mouth.” The red mote glowed in his left eye.

Cringing, she wrapped her arms around her stomach, praying for guidance on how best to protect the child within her. Should she confess her pregnancy? Was his anger at her so deep that he would harm the babe?

“Do not fight me or I will knock you unconscious and carry you on my shoulder.”

He was like a wounded animal, half-crazed in fury. His hands clenched and unclenched.

Gathering her courage, she gazed up at him. Once she had thought of him as only a beast, but he had proved otherwise. He was honorable, more honorable than she had been. The whole purpose of this journey was because she believed in his honor. She would not waver from that now, no matter how insane he acted. Surely the husband she had known was still inside him.

He might slit her throat, but he was not the sort of man who would beat her for the pleasure in it.

“Just hear me ou–”

Her words were cut off as he ripped a strip of fabric from the neckline of her kirtle and stuffed it unceremoniously into her mouth. “I told you already to keep silent.”

She gagged against the cloth and tried to push it out with her tongue.

“Cease.”

She obeyed, glowering at him. Why did the man have to be so vexing? So irritating. She had escaped from the abbey for his honor and he was acting like an ogre.

“Listen to me!” she yelled against the gag, but the words were too garbled to be understood.

He tied the gag into her mouth with another strip torn from her kirtle. The bands bit tightly into the corners of her mouth. One strand of hair pulled, feeling like a sharp bee sting.

Annoyed, she snarled at him. Mayhap she’d spent too many nights lonely, painting him in her mind as a hero to be pined over rather than the man he was.

With a long-suffering sigh, she followed him as he latched onto her upper arm and headed through the woods.

Surely he would calm down in time and allow her to explain.

“Welcome to the voyage to hell,” James drolled as he pushed Brenna up the ramp to his waiting ship, a long vessel with three large sails and two smaller ones. She whimpered against the gag as he shoved her before him across the deck and down the steps to his cabin. With quick strokes he untied the gag.

“Jame—”

He closed the door on her, locked her inside and went back to the main deck so he could not hear her beat on the door. He did not want to listen to any pleas for mercy. She was his prisoner and he was taking her to London to face the king’s wrath. Period.

His crew ran flawlessly around hoisting sails and pulling up the anchor. They set sail in record time.

He inhaled the soothing scent of salt spray as he leaned over the rail of the ship contemplating the confusing feelings Brenna brought up. He wished he could banish her from his mind, but even now his thoughts lingered with her and his body burned with desire to claim her.

The blasted wench had fallen asleep against his chest as they rode for the docks and his waiting ship. A trickle of drool had ran down her chin from the side of the gag, but all the same, she’d relaxed against his torso. If she would have fought him, he would have known what to do, but he had no answer for her simple act of trust.

Staring out into the brilliant waters he steeled himself against those thoughts. She was a betraying bitch. And that was that. There was no room for softness toward her in his life.

He stroked the hilt of
l’occhio del diavolo
. The devil’s eye dagger was an apt name—their marriage seemed to be cursed with ill-fated luck. He propped one bare foot against the lowest rail and looked out across the ocean toward the bright blue sky.

Gentle waves licked up the side of the vessel as the ship sailed toward England. The vivid blue waters stretched out miles ahead of them as the rugged coastline of Italy disappeared into the distance. The sun beat down, hot and relentless. The wind ripped his tunic. His bruises were mostly healed and pained him little.

On the ocean, he felt alive.

He was glad to be sailing toward home, toward England and toward regaining his honor.

At that moment, Brenna lurched up beside him, pushing him slightly aside. She looked green and shaky. Hanging onto the ship’s rail, she bent in two.

He grabbed for her, irritated she’d escaped from the locked cabin where he’d left her. Vexing wench. Did she ne’er learn when ’twas time to surrender?

She shook her head as he pulled her away from the railing.

Her cheeks puffed out and, with a gagging sound, she vomited all over him.

Blast.

Seasickness.

No escape at all.

With a look of disgust, James observed his ruined tunic.

“S–s–sorry,” she said, with a little sniffle. “I was headed for the railing.”

She looked so vulnerable his heart gave a little twinge. Seasickness was a nasty illness that he would not wish on even his worst enemies.

He stifled the urge to comfort her by telling her that it would pass after a day or two. But, of all things, he would not feel sorry for the betraying bitch. That path led to death. And dishonor.

“How did you get out of the cabin? The door was locked.”

Reaching up, she plucked a hairpin from her hair and handed it to him. “I studied how to pick locks while I was at the convent. I’ll not be locked in chains again or locked in my room.”

He took the pin and eyed her suspiciously. “Why are you divulging your secrets to me?”

“I do not want to escape from you. I want you to trust me when I tell you I was leaving the abbey to find you.”

Lies, lies. More lies.

Snarling at her, he latched her arm, turned on his heel and headed to the cabin to wash. “If you have learned all about locks, then you will have to spend every moment by my side.”

“James, I came to find you—I
want
to be by your side.”

What utter hogwash! “Silence,” he growled. If he allowed one inkling of pity to overcome his heart, he would be unable to take her to London so she could face the king’s wrath.

“Please, James!”

“I told you not to call me that. You must listen. I swear I knew naught of your imprisonment. I am so sorry for these scars. Ne’er would I have marred such perfection or hurt you this way—or in any way.”

The lying little hoyden. He stopped and glared at her. If he didn’t need her alive to go before the king, he’d be sorely tempted to toss her overboard. “One more word and you’ll spend the remainder of the journey gagged, understand?”

“Bu—”

He lifted a brow as if to ask if she planned to finish the word. He had no patience for her schemes.

With a sullen look, she nodded and fell silent.

Brenna both seethed and worried as she fell into step beside her husband. Why was he being such a dunderhead? If only they could discuss the matter so she could explain that her mission was the same as his—to see the king and regain his honor.

Every time she looked at his face, at the scar that made a huge “w” across what had been perfect features, another stone of guilt sank into her heart. She’d scarred his face the same way her father had scarred her own. Such evil.

Once they reached the cabin, he ripped off his tunic and washed himself. She rinsed out her mouth and scrubbed her teeth with the edge of her finger. Now that the sickness was gone, she felt hearty again. Rubbing her belly, she wondered what she should do. The pregnancy brought on these strange waves of nausea—not necessarily in the mornings as she had been told. ’Twas no wonder she had not fully acknowledged she was breeding.

The silence grated on her nerves. Should she blurt out that she was pregnant? Would he gag her if she told him? Would he be angry? Be happy?

She watched him warily.

Perhaps she could seduce him. Perhaps if she could get him to make love to her, some of his pent-up anger would lessen and then they could talk. Then she could explain.

Tentatively, she approached him and touched his bicep. The muscle felt firm and warm beneath her fingers, reminding her of all the many nights she’d spent in his arms. She drew a little circle on it, a sign of her interest.

He whirled toward her, his lips drawn into a snarl. Water dripped from his torso where he had sponged himself. “Playing the whore will get you naught. You disgust me.”

The harshness of his tone bit into her. She gasped and withdrew her hand as if it burned. “I just tho—”

“I told you to remain silent.”

Placing her hand over her mouth, she stared at this stranger she was married to. Her heart ached. The purple bruise on his cheek darkened and she wondered how much the injury still pained him. But there was no way to ask. Clearly he was still attached to his fury.

He turned away as if the very sight of her revolted him. His back was laced with red whelps that undulated in a macabre dance as he bent and drew a fresh tunic out of a trunk.

A quarry of guilt sank into her chest. “I’m so sorry,” she mouthed to his scarred back. He didn’t turn around to see and she did not dare speak the words aloud.

Tears wet her eyes and trickled down her cheeks as he drew the tunic over his body. Those stripes should have been hers—she was the painter, not he.

The pain he had suffered must have been enormous to cause welts so large. What animals would have done such to him? A wave of sheer hatred for her father and all his schemes passed through her. She had been naught but a pawn—he did not even care for his own grandchild—would have sold it off like a mule.

Slowly, she sank into a chair, wanting to sink her head into her hands and weep unabashed.

For the next three days, James did not speak with Brenna at all except to bark orders at her to get dressed or to follow him up to the main deck or to the galley. The voyage back to England would take several weeks and he refused to become entangled with her lies. Already he could feel himself weaken toward her.