The Pleasures of Sin. Jessica TrappЧитать онлайн книгу.
some tiny flaw that caused him to seem more human and less cold, she might have found the task of destroying him impossible.
“Wife,” he said, reaching for the hem of the silver veil covering her face. “You are mine.” A touch of harshness laced his voice.
Her knees knocked when he lifted the pearl-sewn fabric away, but the hidden dagger pressed her flesh again, steeling her. Unless he had fangs, she could surely survive his kiss.
He cupped her chin and tilted her face up to his.
She scowled at him and shifted her feet restlessly when he did not move closer to kiss her.
His gaze roved her face, lingering on the scar that ran across her cheek.
She thought he’d seen her scar earlier, but perhaps his helm had blocked his view and now he was having second thoughts about forcing such an ugly woman to marry him. Ha. Served him right.
“Hasten and be done with it, husband,” she sneered. Mayhap she should snatch the veil from her head, and give him a look at what he’d married. Mayhap he’d run like Lord Brice.
But, as satisfying as that would be, she still needed to get him alone and unarmed if she was to kill him.
“They said you were comely,” he stated.
His words stung. There was no reason for them to sting, but they did.
“Well. I’m not.” She glared at him. Of course such a handsome man would expect a comely wife.
He thumbed her scar and she hardened her resolve. Yay, she’d kill him and take delight in the act. ’Twas no secret she was unsightly, but for him to stand there in his perfection and inspect her scarred cheek like damaged goods was excruciating.
“As I said,” she ground out, jerking her face from his grip, “there is no reason to kiss.”
He caught her chin betwixt his fingers and brought her face back to his. Interest lit in his eyes.
A curl of heat formed low in her groin. She’d seen that look a thousand times bestowed on Gwyneth. And on serving maids. And even on Adele.
But ne’er had she herself been the recipient of such a gaze. The intensity nearly took her breath. So this was what it felt like to be desired. Wanted. ’Twas exhilarating.
He continued to stare at her, a deep crevice forming betwixt his brows. “Beg me to kiss you, captive wife,” he said, his voice husky and compelling.
Caught in his spell, she opened her mouth to obey, then gasped, suddenly understanding. ’Twas not desire for her that had caught his interest, but the need to conquer, to cow her, to bend her to his will.
The demon! She glowered at him. However this day ended, ne’er would she be a witless slave for him to command. “I’ll beg you for naught, barbarian. Now or ever.”
The interest in his eyes burned into a blue inferno. His lips touched hers, hot and soft—neither cold nor stone as she had expected. His breath was sweet, clean as if he’d been chewing mint leaves, and the masculine musk of his skin was heady as fine wine.
Her stomach flipped. She stiffened, wanting to pull away. The act was done. The bargain sealed.
His lips lingered on hers.
She tried to step back, but his arms around her shoulders and lower back prevented her from moving from the cage of his embrace.
“Open your lips for me, captive wife,” he murmured against her mouth. “I want to taste what is mine.”
Her breath quickened, and heat flooded her cheeks. Ne’er had a man wanted to kiss her.
The sensation was as intoxicating as a well-made brushstroke after a series of mishaps while she was painting.
Her father growled, and shame spun through her, hot and prickly. His rage bore into her back.
She pressed her lips closed.
“Ah,” her husband said, pulling slightly away, “not as compliant as I was led to believe then. Mayhap we should go straight to the wedding chamber and see to your taming. You respond well enough to my kisses.”
Of all the vile things to say! She nearly choked at his words, then drew back her hand and slapped him. The sound cracked across the sanctuary’s air. “I’m no pet to be tamed, knave.”
Her father snorted.
Montgomery pressed his palm to his cheek. The gleam in his eyes turned from amused captor to merciless conqueror.
Her heart caught in her throat. No wonder children ran from his pathway. Whirling, she lifted the hem of her skirt to flee.
Like a flash of lightning, his hand lashed out and grasped her wrist. He spun, dragging her in his wake down the chapel’s aisle.
A few of his warriors guffawed.
Damnation! He was going to kill her! No husband of worth would take such insolence from his wife.
And this man was a conqueror.
“I—uh—that is—I did not mean—” she began, trying to buy herself time. She needed to appease him so she could get him alone to use the dagger.
“Silence, wife. I will deal with you in our chamber. By the time I am finished, you will wish you had agreed to amuse me by begging for kisses.” Armor clanking, he paced toward the church’s exit. “Soon, you will beg for much, much more.”
Wincing, she dug her toes into the carpet to slow his pace. Unlike her own simple kirtle, the voluptuous houpelande entangled her legs and hindered her movement. He kept walking and she stumbled forward. Her headdress wobbled and the pins smarted against her scalp as they strained to hold the enormous contraption on her head.
He slowed just before she fell to her knees.
“Bastard,” she muttered, righting herself.
“What was that?” he asked. His tone was mild, but a feral gleam shone in his cobalt eyes.
She licked her lips, trying to reconcile the soft warmth of his kiss with the harsh, severe man before her. She hadn’t intended to slap him, but ’twas too late for regrets. She opened her mouth to repeat the curse, but thought better of it.
“Naught,” she bit out.
Scowling, he pulled her forward until she bumped against his torso. He was as solid as the boards she painted. With his free hand, he ran his thumb up her collarbone, then curled his palm around the back of her neck.
Her heart threatened to beat its way out of her chest, and she nearly made a desperate attempt for her dagger. But, nay. She was not so addle-headed to give away her one tiny advantage whilst he wore armor and was surrounded by his men.
She twisted aside, wanting to run. She knew he would follow, but mayhap if she could get him alone, she could salvage some element of surprise and use l’occhio del diavolo.
“Cease struggling, captive, ere I turn you o’er my knee here in the chapel.”
One of his men laughed.
“Nay! Do not manhandle my daughter!” Her father lurched to his feet, throwing off the men who guarded him. He stepped forward, defiant despite the ropes. His short beard and gray hair looked disheveled, and his nose twitched as if he’d smelled rotten eggs. He wore a simple tunic and hose in colors that would have blended with the forest. Dirt crusted his knees.
“My patience is thin with you too, old man.” Montgomery paced forward, and Brenna’s heart sank into her stomach.
At that moment, Gwyneth stood up, wailing in a loud cry. “Please, sir, I beg of you, do not hurt her.” She raced forward and threw her arms around Brenna, breaking Montgomery’s hold and nearly toppling her off-balance. Her wimple slid aside and her long blond hair came unwound and spilled around them.
Oh, for heaven’s sake.