Submit to the Warrior

by March, Tatiana

  ‘It will be easier for you if you don’t fight me,’ Navarro warned her. ‘I want your lands, and this time I won’t be denied.’

  ‘This time?’ she echoed. ‘Have there been others who managed to escape?’

  The silence lasted so long she thought he wouldn’t reply, but finally he gave a brief nod, his expression grim.

  ‘The Countess of Glenstrachan was promised to me, but she married another while I was on my way to claim her.’ He reached out and curled his hand over her elbow. ‘With you, I’ll not take such chances. You’ll stay by my side until we are wed, and your chaplain will remain under guard.’

  He raised his arm. Upon his gesture, two knights lined up behind Brother Thomas, who knelt in prayer at the center of the room, his solemn voice mingling with the moans of the injured.

  As Navarro’s steely fingers captured her, an odd sense of disappointment niggled inside Morag, dulling her bitter defeat. Why would it matter to her that Navarro had planned to marry someone else, and had won her as a consolation prize? The Countess of Glenstrachan was rumored to be a beauty, with long golden hair, and eyes the color of a summer sky. Suddenly, it appeared to Morag that her own short auburn locks and hazel eyes were woefully lacking in charm.

  Despite her reluctance to marry, it hurt her pride to know that the knight only wanted her because of the lands she could provide him.

  She followed meekly as Navarro ushered her across the room and propped her into a chair at the end of the long table. Then he sat down beside her, called over the scribe and dictated a letter to inform the king about Stenholm’s death. Morag flinched at the words that confirmed her betrothal. And yet, even as she gritted her teeth to hold back a pointless cry of refusal, curiosity swirled inside her, mixing with her fear. She had heard enough gossip to know that some women enjoyed what took place in the bedchamber.

  Each time Navarro glanced in her direction, a knot of apprehension tightened inside her. Once before, she’d been taken in by masculine beauty and a charming smile. All her girlhood dreams had been shattered. She didn’t want to be drawn to this man, didn’t want to hope it would be different this time, didn’t want to feel the forgotten yearnings.

  She closed her eyes and suppressed the tears of helpless defeat.

  Her freedom from the control of a husband had lasted less than a day.

  Chapter Two

  Stefan Navarro settled at the long table in the great hall and tried to hide his impatience. After changing into a pair of woolen hose and a doublet in thick black velvet, he had toured the vast room, offering a few words of encouragement to each of his wounded knights. The steward had provided him with an account of the income and assets of the Stenholm estates. He had inspected the castle keep, including the chapel and the bedchambers on the two floors above.

  All the while, upon his command, Lady Morag had followed him, as silent as a shadow, and as disturbing as a thorn lodged beneath a suit of armor.

  Why hadn’t the king told him? Stefan had expected a matron with jowly cheeks and a sagging middle. Instead, he found an ethereal beauty, not much more than twenty. Lady Morag possessed a willowy grace that made his loins heavy and added to the restlessness he always felt in the aftermath of a battle, but beneath his desire stirred an unfamiliar need for acceptance that unsettled him even more.

  ‘How long must I wait?’ he asked. ‘When will the chaplain be done burying the dead?’

  ‘The ground is frozen. It will take time to dig graves for two dozen men,’ Lady Morag replied.

  He shot a glance at her. The look of relief on her face told him she hoped the task would take until spring.

  ‘We’ll be wed by nightfall, whether the bodies are in the ground or not,’ he declared, frustrated by his baffling wish for her to be eager to become his wife.

  Why shouldn’t she loathe and fear him? He’d killed her husband. And yet, from the moment he saw her walking across the great hall, he’d yearned to touch her. The urge had been so strong that he had barely dared to look at her, until he knew that he could control his impulse to pull her into his arms.

  ‘You have no children?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’m thought to be barren.’ Her chin inched up in defiance.

  ‘It’s a mistake to think the prospect will keep me from taking you in marriage.’

  ‘I can’t give you an heir.’

  ‘I’ll worry about that after I’ve spent a year trying.’

  The color drained from Lady Morag’s face. Stefan had expected her to blush with embarrassment at the reference to the marriage bed. Instead, she appeared to tremble with fear. He cursed his reputation for cruelty. He had never resented the macabre tales of murder and torture that circulated about him the length and breadth of the country. They gave him an edge in battle. Now, he wished his prowess in killing wasn’t such a legend.

  ‘I understand it is customary for a bride to be entitled to a boon on her wedding day,’ Lady Morag said. Her voice faltered, and Stefan knew she had forced herself to speak.

  He leaned forward. ‘Aye. What is it you wish?’

  ‘The boy, William...’

  ‘What about the lad?’

  ‘He was sent to Stenholm when he was ten, to be trained as a knight.’

  ‘And how old is he now?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Almost old enough to join the men.’ Stefan cast his eye toward the benches where his knights rested, but couldn’t locate the boy. Rolf and Bruce, the most handsome of his knights, had a gaggle of girls flitting about them. He lifted his brows in amusement and received a pair of satisfied grins in return. ‘The lad must be outside, helping with the burials,’ he said, returning his attention to Lady Morag.

  ‘He isn’t ready to join the men.’

  The vehemence in her voice made him frown. ‘What is it you wish from me?’

  ‘William is fearful.’ Her hands kneaded together on the scuffed tabletop. ‘He suffered cruelty when he was young, and the terror has never left him. I wish for you to take him in. Train him to be your squire, protect him from harm.’

  Stefan narrowed his eyes at the unwelcome emotion that churned inside him. Jealousy. Never once in his life had he suffered the agony of longing for attention from a woman who showed no interest in him.

  ‘What is the boy to you?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Is he your husband’s bastard?’

  ‘No!’ The word exploded from her lips. Stefan studied her, puzzled. Her amber eyes burned bright, and a few freckles stood out against the pale skin. The thin line of her mouth spoke of determination. She seemed shaken, but not mournful. Afraid of him, but not too afraid to make demands to protect her servants.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of the boy, if it pleases you.’

  She gave him a long look, then lowered her gaze. ‘It pleases me a great deal,’ she murmured, her words barely audible.

  Stefan leaned back, satisfied. She was pleased with him. It was a start.

  * * *

  Morag knelt beside Stefan Navarro in the chapel and tried to understand the storm of emotions that raged inside her. The fear she had felt for Angus Stenholm had been like a cold layer of ice around her heart. The King’s Arrow stirred a different kind of anxiety within her, a sense of upheaval that trapped her like a tangle of bristly briar.

  His presence made her short of breath and sent ripples of heat racing along her skin. Each time he looked at her with those dark sooty eyes, alarm jol
ted down her spine. She stole another furtive glance at the man who knelt by her side, and in some secret corner of her mind, a flicker of pride mixed with the resentment of being forced into marriage.

  Tall and broad shouldered, her betrothed made a magnificent sight. Even though he possessed no title, Navarro dressed in the costly fabrics reserved for noblemen. The slashes in the black velvet doublet allowed the white linen shirt beneath to spill through, and the ruffles at the neck emphasized his bronzed skin. He wore simple black hose and didn’t seem to feel the need for the extravagantly padded codpieces that were the current fashion.

  At the altar, Brother Thomas cleared his throat, pulling Morag’s attention back to the ceremony. Behind her, knights lined in orderly rows, their feet shuffling on the stone floor, and, farther back, castle servants huddled in worried groups, barely daring to whisper.

  In a lilting voice, Brother Thomas began the wedding speech. As Morag said her wows, the walls of the chapel around her shimmered like an uneasy dream. She heard Navarro speak the words that made her his property, and the floor beneath her swayed, the finality of her fate so daunting that she lost her sense of equilibrium.

  A strong arm curled about her waist, urging her up to her feet. Without thinking, she leaned into the solid muscles that supported her. Navarro’s protective touch added to her confusion. She had learned to fear such power, not seek its shelter.

  ‘Everyone is fatigued from battle,’ Navarro told her, easing his hold as she recovered her balance. ‘And it’s a day of funerals. There’ll be no marriage feast. I’ve ordered supper to be sent up to the bedchamber, and hot water, so I can have a bath. Sweat and dirt from the siege itch on my skin.’

  ‘Bath?’ she repeated, as though of a simple mind. ‘Bedchamber?’

  ‘Aye.’ He trapped her with another sooty-lashed look. ‘Your first duty as my wife will be to prepare me for the marriage bed.’

  Hot and cold waves rolled over her, the way they did in the summer when she plunged into the chilly loch on a sweltering day. Her gaze flicked up to Navarro’s face, and she saw the look of male hunger in his eyes. Her eyes drifted downward, past his broad chest and his flat stomach, to settle on the soft leather codpiece that provided modesty beneath the hem of his short doublet.

  He had no idea.

  The thought raced through Morag’s mind. The King’s Arrow had married a widow, and he was expecting a woman experienced in the art of sensual pleasures. How would he react when he discovered he’d married a virgin who had never experienced anything but pain and violence from a man?

  * * *

  Morag could barely breathe as she stood clutching a bedpost, watching the King’s Arrow disrobe. He removed his clothing piece by piece, dropping the discarded garments on a stately oak chair that occupied a shadowed corner of the room. His eyes held hers, and she couldn’t have moved away, any more than a hare blinded by a hunter’s blazing torch could escape.

  His chest spanned wide, matted with curly black hairs and punctuated by two flat brown nipples. The muscles on his arms flexed as he bent to unbuckle his shoes, which he allowed to clatter to the floor. Next, he stripped off his hose and the linen braies beneath, and stood in front of her in all his naked glory.

  Despite the effort Morag made to contain her curiosity, her eyes darted down to the part of him that had been covered by the codpiece. She didn’t manage to stifle her gasp. The breathless sound broke the silence in the room. As Navarro took a step toward her, the thick rod of flesh that jutted up from his groin swayed with the movement.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he told her, amusement in his voice. ‘Men and women were created to fit together, and I don’t expect us to be the exception.’

  Words failed her. In her three years with Stenholm, Morag had never quite understood the source of the laird’s cruelty and frustration. Now she did. She uttered an incoherent cry of denial, shaking her head, sliding her feet backward along the floor in retreat.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Surely...I can’t.’

  ‘You can, and you will.’ Navarro spoke easily, without emphasis. ‘But not until I’m clean.’ He turned to face the big wooden tub filled with steaming water, and lifted one foot at a time to step inside. Clutching the edges, he sank down with a hearty sigh.

  What to do? Morag swept a panicked glance around the room. She had intended to refuse to participate in his bathing, but her jittery mind held on to his last words. Not until I’m clean. The longer she could keep him in the bathwater, the more she could delay...whatever he expected her to perform in the hated four-poster bed that dominated the room.

  ‘Very clean,’ she said, and heard the timidity in her voice. ‘Extremely clean,’ she added with more force. ‘Spotless, sparkling, pristine,’ she shouted with a touch of hysteria.

  Her bridegroom sent her a puzzled look. A frown lined his brow, and she could tell that he hesitated over how to proceed with her. ‘I see a washcloth and soap on the table,’ he said, pointing to the small wooden stand by the wall.

  As if released from a trance, Morag rushed to retrieve the items. There would never have been such a clean body in the history of mankind. She rubbed a thick coating of the olive oil soap imported from Venice into the cloth and sank to her knees beside the tub.

  Gathering her courage, she leaned closer and pressed the washcloth to his chest. His presence seemed to surround her. Refusing to look at his face, she concentrated on the dark whorls of hair that covered his chest and began to wash them with tiny dabs of the cloth, covering no more than one square inch of his skin at a time.

  When Navarro curled his big hand around her wrist, she would have jumped, but his grip locked her in place, kneeling on the floor beside him. A startled cry burst from her lips and rose to echo around the dark stone chamber.

  ‘That is not a very efficient method of washing,’ he told her.

  ‘Not efficient, but thorough,’ she replied, her heart pounding in a frantic beat.

  The water in the tub sloshed about as he lifted his other hand and cupped it beneath her chin, forcing her to face him. ‘Are you afraid of me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, relieved to have the truth out in the open.

  ‘There is no need.’ His mouth tightened as he raked his gaze over her features. Then he sighed in obvious frustration and released his hold on her chin. Leaning back in the tub, he closed his eyes. ‘Get on with it. Wash me.’

  Morag set to work with the cloth. Her hands shook so badly she had to steady them against his chest, bringing the cloth to a firmer contact with his skin. Navarro remained perfectly still, so still he might have gone to sleep, but she could hear the sound of his ragged breathing and felt the tremors that rippled through his muscles.

  She recognized the signs of male lust and understood he knew how to control his urges. Little by little, Morag conquered her panic. A cloud of steam enveloped her, and the rhythmic motion of her hand over the ridged contours of his chest soothed her frayed nerves.

  ‘Move on,’ the knight murmured. ‘Otherwise, you’ll wear a hole through my skin.’

  Obediently, she shuffled along the tub and started on his left knee. ‘You need to lift your foot out of the water,’ she told him.

  Without opening his eyes, Navarro draped one foot over the edge of the tub, sending a cascade of water splashing on the skirt of her gown. Ignoring the soaking, Morag wrung out the washcloth and swept it along the length of his calf, continuing past the knee, carefully stopping where his
powerful thigh disappeared into the water. To her relief, he didn’t order her to carry on farther down. She finished, and waited for him to adjust his position so she could wash his other leg.

  As her anxiety eased, the fine male form stirred her senses. The hard muscles had no give. If it hadn’t been for the warmth of his skin and the crisp hairs that covered it, she might have been polishing a marble statue. Strange sensations unfurled inside her. Her breasts felt full and tingly. When she arched her back, the fabric of her gown rubbed against her nipples, sending rays of pleasure all over her. Low down in her belly, an odd tug made her restless. She squirmed against the sensation, but the slight pressure between her legs when she moved only added to the odd tension that had seized her.

  ‘Lean forward, so I can wash your back,’ she instructed.

  Without a word, Navarro obeyed. Morag raised her hands, which seemed to have acquired a life of their own. Slowly, they swept along the curve of his shoulder, all the way down, and up again, repeating the motion, tracing his shape. It felt as if the man who was now her husband had somehow managed to put a spell on her.

  Knowing that Navarro couldn’t see her from his hunched position, she gave up fighting the attraction that was building up inside her. Her touch grew bolder. She leaned closer and breathed in his scent, the dusky smell of sweat and dust now replaced by the spicy aroma of the fine Venetian soap. For one shattering moment, temptation seized her to press her lips to the glistening skin and taste it. Darker than hers, his body carried a dozen scars that bore witness to his life as a fighter.

  ‘Your hair,’ she said, and wondered if her voice revealed her agitation.

  Navarro sat up in the tub and bent forward to dip his head in the water. When he straightened, Morag started lathering his hair. The fragrant block of soap slipped from her fingers and disappeared beneath the surface. As she reached for it, her eyes fell on his manhood jutting up in the water.