The Pleasures of Sin. Jessica TrappЧитать онлайн книгу.
And touching her as well.
The desk was made in the fashion of a rough-hewn trestle table with two crude drawers beneath the surface.
Keeping his hand wrapped around her upper arm, he opened a drawer and searched inside. It was unlikely that the artist the king wanted to hang was a woman, and even more unlikely that it was his new wife. But he had learned to be thorough. She flinched as he opened the second drawer and slipped his hand inside.
Several smaller paintings, done on parchment, lay among the supplies. All of them contained figures with golden halos above their heads.
Leaving her standing in the midst of the chamber, he methodically made his way around the room searching for hidden paintings or any clues. More religious art. More depictions of the birth of Christ, of angels, of the Virgin Mary. Nothing of a sexual nature. No pictures of the king and his court in poses of compromise.
“Only religious work? No other paintings?”
Lifting her chin, she managed to look down on him even though she was at least a head and a half shorter. “I was supposed to be a nun.”
He lifted the bedskirt and peered under the bed. A small satchel lay amidst the cobwebs. He fished it out and scrutinized Brenna who glared at him as he opened it. A wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread, and other meager supplies lay within. Confused, he held up the sack. “What is this?”
“Naught,” she said, swallowing.
“Were you going somewhere?”
“To a convent.”
“You will not be a nun. You are my wife,” he said flatly.
She jerked her head to one side and set her jaw. “Only because it was forced upon us.”
“There would have been no force if you and your family would have done their God-given duty to the king.”
“Men make their own rules and claim God’s authority.”
“Mayhap. But ’tis God’s law that a woman obey her husband.”
“I am sure God makes allowance for women married to cruel demons.” With a huff, she sat on the three-legged stool and tinkered with one of the paintbrushes sticking out of a pot of liquid. “In the Bible, Jael was praised for nailing her husband’s head to the ground.”
His neck prickled at her words, and he determined to keep a close rein on her. ’Twas obvious by the way she had twitched and flinched as he touched her brushes that her artwork meant something to her. Until she learned deference, she would do no more painting.
Walking to the door, he called to the guards in the hallway to bring him an empty trunk. He would tame her piece by piece: reward compliance but discipline uppityness.
The men returned shortly carrying a medium-sized trunk. It was plain, but functional.
When they had left, he set the chest on the floor in front of her desk and nudged it open with his boot. He took the foodstuffs out of the pack then dumped the rest of its contents, including her tiny hog’s hair brush and a couple of gold coins, into the gaping space. “Package up the art supplies in the desk.”
“What?” Her eyes widened, and she looked like he’d slap her.
“You will have no more time for such dalliances. You now have a household to run, a husband to care for, and heirs to bear.”
Brenna cringed as sheer loathing shot through her and it was all she could do to remain still.
She hated him!
His fingers on her painting supplies made her feel violated, and now he wanted to dismiss her life’s work like a piece of garbage. Her heart beat rapidly against the dagger, and she wondered the best way to divest him of his weapons and armor so she could use it.
He paced toward her. His movements, like himself, were precise and efficient with no time wasted on leisure.
She wondered if the act of intimacy with him would be as calculated.
Bloody hell. What was she thinking? She was not going to swive him. She was going to kill him.
He came to stand directly in front of her until his armored codpiece was right in her face, and he crowded out the space around her.
She glanced out the window to avert her gaze from the molded steel plate covering his member. It was so…large.
“My lady,” he said, “do not make this difficult for yourself. Pack your supplies.”
The foul beast! Outrage curled in the pit of her stomach. She wished her sister would hurry and give the signal that it was safe to slay the monster.
But it was not even dusk yet.
Angrily, she scooped up her precious brushes. She could not best him by sheer strength—she would force herself to wait for good opportunity. She set the brushes in the trunk, lining them up in neat rows. Likely if she did not do this deed herself, Montgomery would scoop up her supplies and toss them unsorted into the box. The colors would be ruined, the brushes splayed by his thick, brutish hands.
He picked up a pot of blue pigment and rolled it between his fingers. “It was unwise to challenge me in front of my men.”
She wanted to snatch the pot out of his hand and dash its contents in his face. “And it was unwise to kiss me in front of my family.”
“We’ve just been married. I am your family now.” Seething, she picked up her palette and spatula and placed them near the brushes. She would not let him rile her temper or make her do something stupid. She would wait until the appointed time. And that was that.
“Peace, wife,” he said. “This marriage can work in your favor, or it can work against you. ’Tis your choice.”
“My choice?” Outraged, Brenna sucked in a breath and set two pots of color pigment in the chest. The clay jars clanked together. She grabbed two more and then started tossing half-finished parchments on top of them.
He stalked around the room, looking in corners and crevices and behind the bed. Even though he wore armor, his movements were fluid and panther-like, a testimony of his strength and fortitude as well as the precision and quality of his battle gear.
Mud from his boots flaked onto her cleanly swept floor. The clinking of his chain mail grated on her ears.
He pulled up a corner of the mattress and peered beneath it. “Where are your hidden paintings?”
Her pulse quickened and her hand squeezed. Did he know about the erotic work? She nearly jumped as slime dripped through her fingers. Bloody hell. She’d crushed one of the eggs she used to make her tempera.
Shaking the egg goo from her hand, she snatched a rag from the desktop and began wiping off the now ruined painting at the top of the pile in the trunk. Blasted man.
“I have no hidden paintings,” she gritted out.
“All artists have hidden work—things they are ashamed to let the world judge, but too dear to their heart to toss aside.”
She glanced up and realized he was watching her. His blue gaze was as fierce as a stormy ocean. Gooseflesh popped on her arms.
“Why do you care what I paint?” she asked fiercely.
He stepped toward her, looming over her. “I do not. I care about your respect and obedience to me.”
She checked the urge to damn the consequence of yanking the dagger out now. But she must be patient if she intended to live. And she did intend to live.
“Respect must be earned,” she countered. Her voice came out much softer than she had intended. Almost squeaky.
“True enough, my lady. But I’ll not have you slapping me in front of my men.”
She ducked her head, so she would not have to look at him. Smoothing the gigantic blue skirt