The Pleasures of Sin (7 page)

He glanced down at his chest and she knew that beneath his tunic he would have a long red gash and a small hole above his heart where
l’occhio del diavolo
had stuck him.

A tremble began in her knees and quivered up her legs to her stomach, so strong that she could scarcely hold herself upright. Of a truth, they were mortal enemies, bonded together by the church in marriage.

Unfit partners.

An unholy match.

If only she had been able to enter a nunnery as she had wanted! That life was sterile and dry, but at least she could have worked her way into a position of power and then used her spare time to paint and enjoy her artwork. Painting crosses and halos would be a form of torture, but even at its worst, it was painting. And, likely she’d have novices to mix the colors.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed her regrets behind her, placed her hands palm down on the bed, her fingertips nearly touching his thighs, and stretched her neck across his lap. The bed rustled with the movement. His thighs were warm and firm and she could feel the vitality pulsing within them. He wore soft spun hose of high quality. From this position, every fiber of his muscles seemed to bulge through them. He smelled of sandalwood and maleness and some other scent she could not discern.

Lifting the wimple slightly in the back, he looped the metal around her throat, his fingers sure and steady as if he’d done this a thousand times before. She grimaced at the cool hardness of the collar on her skin. Her pride stung, and she set her jaw so that no more tears would fall.

Her mind spun, trying to find ways to make the best of her circumstances and to change things to her favor. Surely the blacksmith could forge a key. Or she could write to her brother Nathan and he would know a way out.

There was a small snap and a click as the manacle was locked in place. She gritted her teeth and set her jaw, tamping down the urge to yowl with outrage. His hands loosed and she was allowed to raise her head. She swallowed against the iron. The ring was thin and strong. It wasn’t tight, but the weight felt heavy against her neck.

“Sit up,” he commanded, shifting his position slightly to take hold of one of the smaller metal loops.

She complied, smarting at his tone and her mind still whirring with ideas on how to set him off guard.

“Give me your arm.”

Resisting her pride, she did so, allowing him to snap the manacle around her wrist without incident.

“No pleading?”

Bowing her head slightly, she regarded him through her lashes. “Nay, my lord,” she said, trying to attain the proper conquered demeanor.

“Good.”

Bastard. She burned at the arrogance of his tone.

He took her other wrist and she forced herself to not withdraw it. This was her right hand and once it was bound, she would be unable to hold the brush steady enough to paint. A knot formed in her stomach. What if she was never able to get free? What if the manacles crippled her hands?

She forced herself to stay compliant. Fighting The Enforcer would be a battle of wills, not a battle of strength. If she resisted, no doubt she would be whipped before being locked into the fetters. If she told him how much her painting meant, he might even break her fingers.

The lock clicked into place and she swallowed. She
would
find a way free. And a way to paint again. She had to. Painting was her escape. Her sanctuary. Her sanity.

“Stand up, and spread your arms.”

Heat rose in her cheeks as she slid off the bed. The loop around her neck fell against her collarbones and the hard metal rubbed her skin with every move she made. The two ankle bands hung lifelessly downward, still unattached to her legs.

Montgomery scrutinized his handiwork, running his fingers around the manacles. The sensation of the pads of his fingers running across her skin was a cross between a tickle and the rough feel of sand.

She shivered. “Surely three bands are aplenty. There is no need for five.”

“Place your foot on the bed.”

“It is unnecessary for—” she started.

“Nay,” he said not allowing her to finish. “Lift your leg.”

Her cheeks prickled even further as she obeyed, feeling like a mare going through her training.

“Prithee,” she said softly, holding out her hands and letting the chain dangle between them. “I already have arm hobbles.”

The red mote was gone, but his eyes were unreadable as his gaze flicked to her face. His smooth, well-shaved jaw neither tightened with annoyance nor slackened with compassion.

She held her breath for a moment, hoping that he debated her request.

He shook his head and patted the bed, indicating where she should place her foot.

She let out her breath. No mercy would be forthcoming.

“Hold my shoulder for balance if you need.”

The smug coxcomb!

Glaring at him, she shifted her weight and bent her knees for balance so she would definitely not have to hang on to him while he bound her. She raised her leg and placed it beside him, focusing on staying upright without help.

His lips twitched, the first sign of emotion he’d given since this ritual had begun.

Was he laughing at her, or had she been mistaken?

The manacle snapped closed, and she wavered. She bent her knee further. Do not fall. Do not fall, she willed her body.

“Other leg.”

With an effort, she lowered her limb, proud that she had not needed to clutch him like a puppet. She shifted her weight onto the manacled leg, feeling the metal circle move about her ankle, and began to raise her unbound foot.

She hated him. Hated him! If she could think of a way to crugal him on the head she would have.

His gaze snapped to her face as if he had suddenly read her mind and she wobbled to one side.

Just do not fall. Do not fall.

“Do not make this harder on yourself than it is already. Use my shoulder for support,” he commanded, taking hold of her calf. “Wobbling or falling because your pride does not wish to touch me will only hurt you.”

Forcing her face into a bland mask, she gave him a tight smile that felt more like a grimace and placed her hand on his shoulder. If she stumbled now, she’d never recover even a shred of her pride—better to use his body for support.

She felt steadier on her feet using him as a brace. His shoulder was undoubtedly the thickest, most solid one she’d ever seen or touched—not that she’d had much experience touching men’s shoulders, but she
had
painted plenty of them. The muscle formed a tight knot under his tunic, unenhanced by the pads that were so popular these days.

Once the manacle was locked, he allowed her to set her foot back on the floor. Her skin tingled, as if burned from his touch. A shudder went through her. He was the devil, and this was hell.

“Can you walk?”

Brenna looked down at the chains, which made a large spider web in front of her body. She stretched out her arms and the links made tiny metallic clinks. There were two sets of chains that radiated out from the wrist manacles. One set slipped through a loop at her collar, and she could stretch either her right or left arm out fully, but not both of them at the same time. The second set connected the wrist manacles to a metal loop near her bellybutton, which was connected by another chain to her collar as well. The leg chains slipped through this loop so that she would not be able to lift her hands unless her feet were fully in the air.

Her chest constricted as the extent of her bonds sank in.

Helpless. Unable to run.

“Walk to the hearth, captive wife,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and turning her toward the fireplace on the opposite side of the chamber.

She smarted at his command and almost shook her head in refusal. She
would
find a way free.

“If you cannot walk, I will adjust the length of the chains.”

She glowered at him. “You do not care if I walk or not; please do not condescend to me by pretending otherwise.”

He took her chin in his hand and lifted it. “Do not presume to tell me what I care about and what I do not.”

Jerking her chin from his hold, she turned and stalked to the hearth. The chains made small sounds and it felt awkward to be unable to stretch her legs out fully, but she had no trouble moving about so long as she did not try to run or hurry. At the hearth, she whirled around and placed her fists on her hips. “Satisfied?”

“Very well. Now walk back.”

When she returned to him, he nodded in approval. She wished she could wrap the chains around his throat and throttle him.

“Am I to remain thus for all of my life?”

His lips lifted into a wicked half smile, and he ran his finger along her collarbone in a claiming gesture. “If it pleases me.”

She bit her tongue to keep herself from retorting. A hot glaze of anger clouded her vision and her hand itched to slap him as she had in the chapel. She moved her arm slightly and realized that even if she had enough daring to do so, she no longer had the physical ability. She could not fully lift her arm to his cheek without leaving the rest of her limbs at awkward, unbalanced angles.

“I wish you would have beheaded me yesterday,” she said.

“Me too.” He fastened the locks’ key onto a leather cord that hung around his neck. “Instead we are bound together ’til death do us part.”

She swallowed, wondering what would happen next. Would he toss her on her back and demand his marital rights? All he would have to do was tether the chains to the bedposts, and she would be exposed and lifted for him to do his worst. She would have no hope of fighting him off. A long shudder ran through her at the thought of that indignity. Lifting her chin, she vowed to face whatever evil he had planned for her with self-respect.

“If you mean to swive me, I won’t fight you—”

“Good.”

“—but do not mistake that for consent.”

He tucked the key within his tunic and scrutinized her for a long moment as if wondering what to do with her. “We will save that discussion for tonight.”

Her stomach twisted into a knot.

His gaze flicked to the bodice of her dress as if he could see beneath it. His lips turned down slightly as he took in the three paint spots and loose embroidery.

Well. She lifted her chin. How dare he look down on her clothing when he was naught but a barbarian.

Slowly, Montgomery curled his hand around the nape of her neck. He leaned close so that his breath tickled her ear and she could smell the male musk of his skin.

She shivered, a confusing heat spiraling through her. The same as she’d had in the chapel. Mentally she shook herself. Had she been locked away so long, so starved for attention that even a brute such as this moved her?

“Did you really mean you would not fight me?” he whispered.

“Nay—Yea—nay—” she stammered, then stopped, realizing she sounded like a fool.

His lips grazed her ear sending a line of heat streaking through her belly. She started to pull away then remembered she was going to retain her dignity and not put up a pointless fight. For a long moment she just stood there while his lips ran softly across her earlobe. The hair on her nape prickled.

A betraying desire welled inside her. Ne’er in her life had a man touched her thus.

She’d expected rutting violence, for him to toss up her skirts and plow into her. Something she could block out of her mind through sheer willpower. But this…this seemed so much more intimate. Soft, warm kisses.

Her teeth chattered.

Abruptly, he pulled away. A half-smile graced his face and once again she was struck by how perfectly handsome he was. She lifted her hand to her ear touching the slightly damp spot where his lips had been. Inside, anger and confusion swirled in a dangerous whirlpool.

“You should not have done that,” she said.

“Why?”

Flustered, she grasped for her fury. “Because I am chained like an animal!”

“Only so I can sleep, eat, and walk without concern where the next dagger thrust will come from. Save for your bonds, we may as well try to get along as well as any other married couple.”

“I cannot even move about!”

He shrugged. “The bonds are light and smooth. In time you will become accustomed and not even notice them.”

She held her arm out angrily. “Not notice them!”

He shrugged. “On my travels I have seen many women in such.”

Shocked, she willed herself not to allow her mouth to gape. “Ladies wearing chains?”

“Nay, slave girls.”

She glowered at him. “I’m no slave, sirrah.”

“The women learn to move so that it does not interfere with their duties,” he continued as if she had not spoken.

Duties? Did he mean
wifely
duties?

“I won’t be your whore.”

He laughed aloud and the sound infuriated her. “You will if I so desire it.”

“You dam—”

Before she could get the curse out, his lips topped hers, claiming. Possessing. Dominating all her senses with his presence. His tongue slid into her mouth, licking the front of her teeth.

Heat shot through her. Her brain went fuzzy. His tongue danced with hers, and she waffled between the urge to bite down on it or to surrender to its caress.

When he released her, she grasped her bodice, trying vainly to still her thrumming heart. Her brain felt befuddled, and she realized she was panting. Whether from fury or some base need she did not know.

She glanced at the door, desperate to put some space between them. To give herself a chance to think.

He must have sensed her confusion and had mercy on her reeling emotions, because he latched her wrist and pulled her toward the exit. “Come, captive wife, so I can introduce you.”

“Introduce me?”

“Aye. To my men and their ladies.”

Her pride forced her spine to stiffen. “I am no festival monkey to be paraded around.”

“Nay, you are my wife. As such, you will obey me.”

“I am in chains!”

“Which, I have explained,” he said as if speaking to a child, “will not interfere with your duties.”

He emphasized the word “duties” in a way that left her again wondering exactly what duties he was talking about. He paused. “Then again, mayhap you would prefer to finish what we began here. There are other duties asides attending my men that I will require of my wife.”