Table of Contents
A Tavern Wench to Bed
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About The Author
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A Tavern Wench to Bed
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Published by arrangement with the authors and copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
A Tavern Wench to Bed © 2011 by Brenda Williamson
Cover © 2011 by Elisa Luevanos
Printed in the U.S.A.
ebook layout and conversion by jimandzetta.com
A Tavern Wench to Bed
***
By Brenda Williamson
TO MY READERS:
In this third book of my dragon fighter romance series, you get to know the third and youngest Pembroke brother, dragon rider knight, Sir Henry. If you remember him from book one, then you know Henry is a fun loving, free-spirited charmer that had to have his own story. He takes nothing too seriously, that is, until he meets a woman much different then the noble ladies his brothers have married, and suddenly, settling down never looked more appealing.
As for the lady that turns his head, Sorcha is a strong-willed commoner, a tavern wench, the inheritor of her father’s dragon training business. You’ll find yourself rooting for her right off, as she persistently attempts to make it in a man’s world. She’s tough and determined to do whatever it takes, including have sex with a man. Naturally, she never dreamed that she’d fall in love with one of the handsome knights she was trying to use to her advantage. But while they come together for selfish reasons, they develop a deeper bond that comes from similar tragedies in their pasts, and it’s that emotional connection that starts them on the path to happily-ever-after.
READER ALERT!
Determined to compete in the dragon fighter tournaments, Sorcha will do anything to get a dragon knight to accept her challenge, including wagering her virtue. But beware…this story will leave you dreaming of having a steamy sex scene of your own with one breathtakingly handsome knight.
Chapter One
Sorcha stared at the old tavern sitting in the center of the village of Milstead. She studied the door hanging cockeyed on one leather hinge. It appeared dangerously close to falling. Actually, the whole rickety building didn’t look exactly as if it should be standing. Taking a deep breath, she readied her nerves. She was well experienced with inebriated men, having worked as a bar wench for years in the village she was from. Nevertheless, the new surroundings made her uneasy, especially since she planned to approach dragon rider knights with an unusual request. What she wanted went far beyond their vow to perform chivalrous deeds and she dreaded disappointment.
She let out the breath she held and took another step toward the shoddy establishment. The door suddenly swung open, startling her with its forceful slam back against the exterior wall. The mud filler between the siding planks crumbled and fell to the ground. A man stumbled out. His swift exit suggested someone had thrown him out. He crashed face down on the street. A billow of dust puffed upward and settled back into place.
Drunk and fighting. She shook her head, disgusted by the lack of control men had.
She debated whether to go around him or step over his prone body. His pained groan prevented her from moving. Was he hurt? She watched him roll over.
He rose up on his elbows and gave her an enchanting, boyish grin. Through dark lashes and half-closed his eyes, he gazed up at her as if he enjoyed what he saw. Unruly locks of dark hair framed his face, some strands hanging forward. He flicked his head back and these regrouped with the other strands.
She stared at his handsome expression. His crookedly smiling mouth had a cut at the corner. His perfect nose crinkled at the bridge as he sneezed.
“Well, aren’t youuuu the queen of beauuuuty standing so regalleee at my feet.” His slurred wording crowned her initial assumption that he was drunk.
Even so, the rich timbre of his voice had a gentle softness that caressed her senses and gave her goose flesh. Few men attracted her attention in such a physically alluring way. She quickly rubbed her arms to stop the prickling heat rushing toward her shoulders.
“I will enjoy pleasuring you with long hot kisses, precious one.” His gaze traveled the length of her as if he inventoried the areas where he planned to linger. When it reached her waist, he paused and licked his lips. Its suggestiveness squashed her lapse of judgment. Intense irritation swam through her. His lack of respect and crude attempt to charm her ruined everything.
“I’d rather have a dog lick me,” she shot back.
“How do you feel about cats?” he grinned.
“Cats?” She wondered where the conversation was going next.
“Yes.” He sat up and his hair fell forward over his eyes again. Immediately, he brushed it back. “I do a good imitation of a cat.”
His devilish smirk produced dimples that made him too appealing, but she didn’t have time to indulge in games of flirtation.
“Oh, as in licking your genitals?” she mused.
His smile grew wider. “I shall not have to master that feat as long as there are women in the land,” he declared arrogantly.
“Oh? And why is that?”
“All I need do is stroke between your silken thighs to have you begging to lick betwixt mine.”
“You barbarian. You’re drunk, soused to the gills on ale.” Hysteria was not her normal response to anything, but she was on edge.
“Aye, that I am milady, but do not hold it against me.” His tongue whipped out and ran the course around his mouth again.
Her insides twitched and dampened. “Tis lucky for you I am not in the company of a gallant knight that might thrash you for speaking so vulgarly.”
“Apologies, milady. Your beauty spellbinds me while the ale makes my tongue waggle loosely. I cannot help but imagine how luscious and bountiful your body might be with the help of my skills.”
“Skills?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I doubt you can get to your feet let alone find my legs.”
“I don’t know about that, my lovely.” He leaned forward and lifted her skirt.
“What are you doing?” Irritated and confused by the desire churning like hot oil in her belly, she stepped back, yanking her clothing out of his grip.
“I’m showing you that the amount of ale I’ve dow
ned has not incapacitated my hands.” He leaned back with a smile that invited her to enjoy his attention.
As a tavern wench, she fought off the manhandling of drunken men everyday. She habitually ignored overbearing miscreants and pompous nobles with barbaric manners. She could almost lump this one in with the rest, but his easygoing, seemingly genuine nature drew her.
“Shall we go inside and find a room with a bed? I want to offer you the sweetest pleasure you’ll ever know," he purred, reminding her of his feline licking intentions.
Sorcha felt herself succumbing to his charm. His appearance also outweighed his forwardness. He’d not be the first disrespectful man with whom she had tarried. Nevertheless, she was on a mission far removed from physical gratification. It was time to end the frivolous chatter, shake off her errant attraction and be on her way.
“Has your mother taught you no manners?” she asked, hoping to squelch his interest.
“She’s dead,” he replied, rising up from the ground.
The pain of losing her own mother resurfaced and her heart went out to him. “I’m sorry.”
He remained bent, brushing dust from his clothes, and did not reply. She detected vulnerability in his avoidance of her gaze. Then he straightened, showing his full height. His wide shoulders strained the seams of his shirt. Without an ounce of modesty, he rubbed the groin of his britches, adjusting the manly parts beneath the cloth. She took a deep breath, envisioning his strength in that area. Twinges of excitement tightened her insides. Her thoughts jumped to visions of him stroking between her thighs.
She glanced up from her brazen study of his body to meet his gaze. The amused twinkle in his eyes said he read her mind. Embarrassingly, her cheeks heated. It wasn’t often she was caught off guard by her desires. She wondered if his mother was actually dead. He’d not be the first man to lie his way into a woman’s bed.
“You truly are a pretty thing.” His tongue darted out and swished over his lips, wiping blood away from the cut at the corner of his mouth. Then he followed the path with his hand, wiping away the shine of saliva. “What do you say, sweetness, shall I make your every wish come true?”
If it were only so easy. She let out an exasperated breath. He wasn’t the man to fulfill her greatest wish.
Turning away from the scurrilous rogue’s temptations to an encounter of sweet decadence, she stepped through the doorway of the tavern. No man should have a glimpse of a woman’s desires. No man, she reaffirmed silently. Never show weakness.
The dank room bulged with a crowd of men. She surveyed the dozens of faces looking in her direction. Filthy thoughts gleamed in their dull eyes. The place reeked with stale air, permeated by unwashed men, sour breaths and belched up stomach bile. The odor worked perfectly to squelch her desire for the stranger outside.
“And who do we have here?” one man asked.
She watched the crowd part for him. His tunic, emblazoned with a red dragon on a black shield, proclaimed him a dragon rider knight from the Tulane clan. Patriarch Lord Elan Tulane had died at the hands of a rival dragon rider knight, Sir Ware Pembroke, but the Tulane crest lived on with his two sons. Which one did she face?
His swagger held all the conceit of a Tulane. Vanity showed in the large, ruby encrusted steel cross, shaped like a sword, hanging from a chain around his neck. Such a display of wealth wasn’t fitting for the poor tavern surroundings.
“Give me your name,” he demanded.
“Sorcha Bronson,” she answered, deciding not to start trouble. She needed the assistance of a dragon rider knight. His background made no difference to her if he agreed to help her. “I’m looking for a dragon fighter who’s not afraid to meet me in a challenge in tomorrow’s exhibition games. Who might you be?”
“Sir Reven Tulane.” He cocked his head looking down the length of her. “You’re a woman.”
“A very astute observation,” she replied sarcastically.
Sir Reven chuckled and smiled, asserting an attractive self-confidence that suited his handsome features. She tried picturing him naked and tied to her bed. Would restraints tone down his arrogance?
“I’m glad I amuse you. Will you accept my challenge?” she asked, irritated by the sexual thought and its interference with her clear thinking. Why would she think of sex with him, anyway? She thought of the man outside and blamed him for the tremors of frustration dancing inside her.
“Against you?” Sir Reven’s eyes widened with disbelief. “A sprite of a girl wants me to compete against her?”
“Yes. Haven’t you been listening?” She hated condescending men and found herself struggling not to walk away.
“You do understand you’d need to ride a dragon, don’t you?” He laughed again, as did the men around him. Their insensitivity angered her. She pitied any woman married to the likes of these men.
“I’m a skilled dragon rider, Sir Reven. You’ll not find it easy to best me.” She fought to hold onto her temper and her dignity.
“You say your family name is Bronson. Where do I know it from?” His smug expression told her he already knew.
“My father was killed during an exhibition dragon fight last year,” she answered.
“Ah, the dragon breeder, Kell Bronson.” He nodded. “I remember. He found himself in the way of my brother Uther’s lance. Not what I call very skilled at the sport.”
“Lord Uther went too far in a fight meant only as a demonstration. My father was an expert dragon trainer. He taught me everything I know.”
“Teaching a dragon to sit is far removed from the skills of fighting from their backs, as you very well know from your father’s demise. What say you let me teach you something useful?” He lifted a hand to her face. His fingers grazed her jaw.
She held still, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. “There’s nothing I wish to learn from you, Sir Reven.”
“I don’t know about that.” He stroked her cheek several times, seeming more aware of his own actions than her responses.
She tried to read what went on behind his mesmerized gaze. “Would you mind not doing that?” She turned her head, breaking the connection of his petting fingers.
“No, I don’t mind.” He grinned.
His arm dropped and swiftly wrapped around her waist. As he drew her close, she jerked a knife from the pocket in the folds in her cloak. She always carried the weapon to remind men like him she did not welcome such attentions.
“Unhand me, Sir, or you’ll learn how little skill I need to use this.” She pointed the sharp steel tip up and held it under his chin.
He snatched her wrist and plucked the knife from her fingers with the swiftness of an eagle. “A hellion sent by angels. I like feisty women,” he declared.
She struggled in his binding hold. “Let go of me,” she demanded, kicking at his legs.
“Let her be, Tulane!” a familiar voice ordered.
She turned her head to see the man from outside enter the tavern. The sunlight made him a silhouette against the lit doorway. A halo of sunshine crowned his head.
“Did you not hear me, man? I said, let the lady go.”
His appearance distracted Sir Reven, and she tried to dislodge herself from his grasp.
“Just hold up a minute.” Sir Reven jerked her back against him. “I’m not done with you yet.”
She wiggled to get free, but his arms tightened, squeezing the air and energy from her.
“So Pembroke, you back for more?” Sir Reven asked the man.
Sorcha knew the name Pembroke. Everyone within a hundred miles knew the name Pembroke. Her view of him as a useless nobody changed instantly.
“My departure was not of your doing, Tulane. I tripped,”
The room dimmed when someone shoved the door back into its rightful place, but there was still enough light for her to see Sir Pembroke’s face clearly. His tongue swirled over the cut on his lip and cleaned the blood away again. “Now let her go.”
“Why should I?” Sir Reven aske
d.
“I don’t think you’re to her liking. Besides, I saw her first. Your manhandling is going to bruise all the soft parts of the lady I’m hoping to explore myself.”
Sorcha looked heatedly at Pembroke. Even as her proposed rescuer, he had a way of irking her.
“First. Last. Possession is the most important,” Sir Reven declared.
“Let her go, Rev,” Sir Pembroke’s voice took on a serious tone.
The whole room went silent. Did the patrons know what came next? Were flames going to shoot out of Sir Pembroke’s nostrils like a dragon’s or was smoke going to cloud the air making them choke?
The suspense was intriguing and she found herself holding her breath.
Sir Reven’s arm around her chest loosened. She took the chance to escape him, but he snatched her by the wrist and stopped her. Men closed in around them, corralling her between Sir Reven and the bar.
His fingers tightened, pinching her skin. “Not all women are for your taking, Pembroke.”
“I can accept that, but can you?” Sir Pembroke dove at Sir Reven.
Suddenly, Sorcha was free. She knew it would be sensible to flee the tavern, but unfinished business kept her in the room. She still needed a dragon rider to accept her challenge and there was no better place to find one.
Both men both went crashing to the floor. Their wrestling match slammed them into furniture, toppling tables and breaking stools. She backed out of the way and watched silently. Others in the room cheered, no one caring who won, as long as they had a good fight to entertain them.
The two dragon knights rose, struggling to grip one another. Sir Reven grasped Sir Pembroke by the front of his shirt and pushed him into the bar alongside her. Sir Pembroke glanced her way and winked.
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