Knight of Seduction

by Cheryl Holt

  Anne wasn’t entirely clear on what would occur when Hugh arrived, but Blodwin’s comment was crude and insulting, and the premier benefit to Anne’s position as Hugh’s wife was that she no longer had to put up with Blodwin.

  She stomped to the door, yanked it open, and shoved Blodwin out. The group of housemaids had lingered, trying to eavesdrop on their quarrel.

  “All of you are excused,” Anne said. “Please go, and take Blodwin with you.”

  There were exchanged frowns, then Father Eustace scolded, “You being foolish, child. As usual. I must pray with you. I must bless your womb so that you give Lord Hugh many, many children.”

  “My womb is fine,” Anne snapped.

  A servant, an older woman named Dorag, who’d always been kind to Anne, stepped forward. “Let us stay, Lady Anne. How about if it’s simply Megrine and myself? This can be an upsetting time for a bride. Let us help you.”

  Megrine added, “Wouldn’t you like to look pretty for Lord Hugh? I can comb out your hair.”

  Anne gnawed on her bottom lip, fuming, then relented. “All right. Just the two of you. No one else is to bother me.”

  She returned to the bedchamber, with Dorag and Megrine hurrying after her. They closed the door, and Anne spun to them. To her disgust, she felt like weeping.

  “What’s this?” Dorag asked on seeing Anne’s stricken expression. “Tears? We’ll not have any crying. Not with a handsome stallion like Hugh coming to your bed.”

  “I don’t want him,” Anne miserably wailed.

  “Not want Lord Hugh? Let’s not even think it.”

  “I don’t know what I am to do.”

  “Well, Lord Hugh will show you, and I’m sure he’ll be quite adept at explaining himself. I’m betting he’s ridden a few mares in his life.” She leaned in and winked. “Which means you’re a very lucky girl.”

  Megrine chuckled. “No fumbling, bumbling bridegroom for you, Lady Anne. It’s much better when the fellow has some experience.”

  “If you’re confused about anything,” Dorag said, “ask him what he wants. He’ll tell you.”

  She produced a small flask from under her skirt, along with a tiny cup. She pulled the cork and poured a dark liquid into the cup, then handed it to Anne.

  “What is it?” Anne inquired.

  “It’s wine with a bit of my special bride’s powder mixed in. It will relax you; you won’t be so distressed.”

  Anne studied it, then shrugged. She was anxious to the point of being ill and was desperate to calm herself.

  With no argument or hesitation, she tossed down the contents, and Dorag poured her a second dose. She downed that, too, as Dorag and Megrine smiled shrewd smiles.

  “Now then,” Dorag said, “let’s get you ready for your husband.”

  The two women went to work, chatting about nothing as they efficiently stripped off Anne’s clothes. Megrine had brought a jug of warm, fragrant water—it smelled like roses—and she emptied it into a bowl.

  They dipped cloths and swabbed Anne’s skin, their soft strokes making her ripple with sensation. They washed her nipples over and over, until they were sharp tips. Her pulse pounded in them, and they ached in a new and exotic way.

  The potion Dorag had mixed in her wine was quickly taking effect. Anne’s limbs were relaxing, her body warming. Colors seemed brighter, noises more intense. Her torso felt alive, begging to be touched.

  She was happy and not the least bit worried about Hugh or anything else.

  Megrine untied her braid, then combed through the lengthy tresses over and over until they were flowing down Anne’s back in a silky wave. As Megrine toiled with her hair, Dorag added a rouge to her lips, a line of black coal to her eyelids.

  “My, my,” Dorag murmured. She stepped away and grinned.

  Megrine joined her, and they assessed Anne, preening with pride at how well they’d done their job. Anne, for her part, being overly intoxicated by the wine, suffered no shame at her nakedness and no urge to hide herself.

  “You’re a beautiful bride, Lady Anne,” Dorag beamed. “Lord Hugh will be very pleased.”

  “And very, very lusty at the sight of you,” Megrine agreed. They giggled with merriment.

  “Will it be awful?” Anne asked.

  “Awful!” Dorag huffed. “Who told you such a thing? That witch, Blodwin, I’m guessing.” She clucked like an outraged hen. “It will be marvelous, Anne, and you’ll grow to love Hugh for it.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I know so.”

  Dorag patted Anne’s shoulder. “Now then, we’d usually put you up on the bed, naked and shivering as the day you were born, but we have a gift from your husband.”

  Dorag gestured to Megrine, and she produced a package Anne hadn’t noticed when they’d arrived. She opened it and found a robe sewn from a red fabric she’d never seen before.

  “My goodness,” Anne gushed, “it’s magnificent. Where did he get it?”

  “He didn’t say,” Dorag replied, “but I’m supposing he brought it from the Holy Land or one of those other countries where he’s traveled so frequently.”

  “This gift means,” Megrine said, “that he was pondering you on the entire journey home.”

  Dorag slipped Anne’s arms into the robe, and Megrine tugged on the belt.

  “So, Anne,” Dorag pointed out, “your husband is not the beast he’s proclaimed to be. He’s kept the drunken revelers out of your bedchamber, and he’s allowed you to cover yourself so that you’re not overly embarrassed.”

  “He’ll turn out to be a fine man,” Megrine concurred.

  “Thank you.” Anne smiled at them.

  “You’re welcome,” they responded in unison.

  Anne hugged them tightly.

  “I wish my mother was here,” she whispered.

  “She’s here in spirit,” Dorag whispered back, “and she’d be so proud of you.”

  Dorag led her to a chair, settled her down, then offered her a final cup of her bride’s wine. Anne drank it, then the pair left.

  She snuggled down to wait, still nervous, but no longer afraid.

  * * * *

  “Kneel down and remove your robe.”

  “No.”

  “You will not defy me!”

  Hugh stumbled to a halt and listened.

  He’d just entered Anne’s room, and he’d expected to find it quiet. Those were the orders he’d given to the servants. But she was quarreling with someone in the bedchamber beyond.

  “I will bless your body,” a haughty-sounding man informed her. “It is my sacred duty.”

  “You may paw at Blodwin and Rosamunde if you like,” Anne retorted, “but you’ll not touch me.”

  “Do as he says, Anne.” Blodwin. “Stop making a fool of yourself.”

  “Ow,” Anne yelped, as if she’d been poked with a needle.

  Hugh walked over and peered in. Anne was on her knees, with Father Eustace and Blodwin on either side of her. The priest was yanking at her robe, trying to pull it off.

  “Unhand her,” Hugh seethed, his words laced with menace.

  Her two tormentors frowned and glanced up, but didn’t move away. How long had they been pestering her?

  “Your bride must be sanctified,” Father Eustace insisted. “We must pray for her fertility.”

  “No. Unhand her.”

  “I am God’s servant in this castle, my lord Hugh,” the priest huffed. “It is up to me to advise you in religious matters. If you will not—“

  Hugh was across the floor in two strides and—as if Eustace was an ill-behaved dog—grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and tossed him away.

  “How dare you, sir!” Eustace raged. “You will not treat me as if I were a—“

  Hugh grabbed the idiot again and dragged him out to the hall where Henry was guarding the door.

  Hugh threw the priest at Henry, and Henry caught him.

  “He was bothering my wife,” Hugh said.

  “Wh
at should I do with him?” Henry asked.

  “Nothing for now, but once I have finished celebrating my nuptials, I shall make arrangements for him to return to London.”

  “I am priest at Morven,” Eustace snapped. “You have no authority to send me away.”

  “Be silent,” Henry commanded, seizing Eustace by the throat and shoving him against the wall.

  “In the meantime,” Hugh warned, “if you ever discover him within twenty feet of Anne, lock him in the dungeon.”

  Hugh stormed back to the bedchamber, where Blodwin was berating Anne in a heated whisper.

  “I told you to leave Anne alone,” he snarled. “What part of my instructions have you failed to understand?”

  “She has shamed Father Eustace,” Blodwin boldly replied, “and she had shamed me by refusing to obey. I demand to stay and watch the bedding, but she won’t agree.“

  “Get out of here, you old shrew.”

  Hugh grabbed Blodwin as he had the priest and escorted her out. As he reached the hall, Henry was marching away with Eustace, and Hugh called, “Henry, take her, too. Don’t let me see them again until my temper has cooled.”

  He pitched Blodwin to Henry, then closed and barred the door.

  For a moment, he stood, his pulse slowing, his fury ebbing.

  The lengthy revelry was behind him, and he was glad to finally be with his bride. He went to her bedchamber, wondering in what condition he’d find her.

  To his surprise, she was in the chair in the corner, looking fully relaxed and not upset in the least. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was smiling a come-hither smile. Was she drunk?

  He didn’t mind a woman partaking of spirits, and in Anne’s case, the night would pass more easily. Her inhibitions would be lowered, her virginal fears tamped down.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “They didn’t hurt you?”

  “That lecher wanted to see me without my clothes.”

  Hugh chuckled. “He certainly did.”

  “He’s lucky I didn’t bite off his filthy hand.”

  “My little virago,” Hugh murmured, incredibly charmed by her.

  He walked over, lifted her and slipped under her so that he was sitting on the chair, and she was on his lap. She didn’t protest; she simply rested an arm on his shoulder.

  “You’re strong.” Her speech was slightly slurred.

  “By any chance, my darling wife, have you been imbibing?”

  “No, but Dorag gave me several cups of her bride’s wine.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I feel…wonderful.”

  She was all loose limbs and warm, fragrant skin, and he received the distinct impression that if he didn’t hold on to her, she might slide to the floor.

  She leaned against him, her lovely breasts crushed to his chest. She either didn’t notice the intimate positioning or didn’t care. The belt on her robe had slackened, and he was graced with tantalizing glimpses of cleavage, of belly, of smooth, creamy thigh.

  “I thought you were angry about having to marry me,” he said.

  “I think I still am.”

  “You don’t appear to be.”

  “I believe my reasons will come back to me in the morning—after the bride’s wine has worn off.”

  “Perhaps I should have Dorag douse you all the time. I like this side of you.”

  “I seem awfully…happy, don’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  The conversation sputtered to a halt, and they quietly stared. She was so close, her pretty lips just inches away. He gazed into her striking green eyes and wished he was the sort of man given to flowers and poetry. He’d have liked to confide how beautiful he found her to be, how satisfied he was in his choice of bride.

  Other, more troubling comments bubbled up. He was on the verge of confessing how hard his life had been, how weary he was of war and fighting, how he’d lost faith in his king and his God. He wanted a family, a wife to esteem, sons to train, daughters to adore.

  He was deluged by distressing memories: the lonely years of heartache and despair, of constant battles, of never belonging anywhere, of never having a place to call his own, of never having people who would mourn or fret over his plight.

  But he swallowed down all the words of self-pity.

  He never talked about the dark days that followed him like a cloud, never bemoaned his fate or complained about his lot. He’d fared so much better than most. He was alive, which was more than he could say for many of the deceased knights who’d fought by his side.

  Anne snuggled nearer, riveting him with the feel of her pert nipple.

  “Dorag told me that tonight will not be awful.”

  “No, it won’t be. I promise you.”

  “She also told me you’ve probably ridden many mares”—he snorted at that—“so you’d be skilled in the bedchamber.”

  “I have been in a few,” he admitted.

  “You’ll be faithful to me, won’t you?”

  “Faithful?”

  “Yes. I can’t have you chasing after every harlot in the castle.”

  “I’m not attracted to harlots,” he lied.

  “Good, for I want you all to myself. You won’t have paramours, will you?”

  “No,” he lied again. Exotic, rare Charmaine was impatiently waiting in London for the letter that she should travel to Morven.

  “My father had paramours,” Anne said.

  “Your mother was his favorite.”

  “She was his favorite. I want to be your only.”

  “Then you shall be.”

  “Swear that you mean it. It would hurt me if you don’t.”

  “Of course, I mean it.

  He never ceased to be amazed at how easily falsehoods rolled off his tongue, how readily a woman accepted them as true. Anne was no different than any other female. She smiled as if he’d given her the greatest gift in the world, and at deceiving her, he felt like a swine.

  When a man no longer believed in anything, vows didn’t matter. He could pledge himself, but his word carried no weight, which was the actual reason he’d left the king’s service. If a knight couldn’t be bound by his word, what good was he?

  He couldn’t bear to look at her, to view her innocent devotion. She hadn’t wanted to wed him, but Dorag’s potion had rounded the edges of her reluctance so she was exhibiting some affection for him. He’d like her to always gaze at him with that same measure of fondness, but he knew he was hoping for the impossible.

  He was a liar and a lout who couldn’t be trusted. She’d find it out soon enough. Probably after her bride’s wine wore off.

  But for the moment, he was happy to pretend that all would be well.

  He pulled her to him, and he didn’t waste any time with delay or restraint. She was being so compliant, her resistance low and her interest high, and he would take from her all that she would never give when she was more reticent, when she was more sober.

  He pressed his lips to hers, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers riffling through her hair. She fell into the embrace, as if she’d been eager for it, as if they’d been together forever, and instantly, he was in over his head.

  Suddenly, he wanted things from her that he’d never wanted from any woman. He wanted kindness and empathy. He wanted friendship and laughter and companionship to his old age.

  Needing to think, to collect himself, he drew away. She collapsed onto him, her face buried at his nape.

  “I’m so dizzy,” she said. “You overwhelm me.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I like your kisses.”

  “You should. I’m wonderful, remember?”

  “And vain beyond imagining.”

  “Yes, vain, too.”

  “How do you do that to me? How do you make it so…so…”

  She broke off, unable to describe what flared between them.

  He’d lain with many women—too many women—so he was vastly experienced in passion. He could have told her
that they shared an unusual affinity, that it was rare in lovers, but that it would bring them closer.

  Yet he didn’t say it. Again, he wished he was more eloquent. Instead, he focused on his task, on how to accomplish it with a minimal amount of bother.

  “Have you been informed as to what will happen, Anne?” He was busy with the belt on her robe. “Has anyone explained it to you?”

  “No. Blodwin simply said that I must do as you command me, but Dorag said I’ll like it.”

  “Well, they’re both right. Let’s say you’ll do as I command because you yearn to please me.”

  “I don’t yearn to please you. I hate you.”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  Humored by her, he chuckled and shook his head. It would be so much easier if she didn’t loathe him, if she cherished him and welcomed what they were about to do. If she wound up detesting the marital act, if she detested him for forcing her into it, he’d be genuinely remorseful.

  Though she didn’t realize it, she was a very sexual creature. He thought she would learn to revel in their bed play. He hoped she would give him many years of pleasure—if he could just school her correctly in the beginning.

  But when he was so consumed by lust, and she was so captivating, how was he to practice any restraint?

  He slipped a hand inside her robe, cupping her breast, pinching her nipple.

  She groaned like a lazy cat and arched her back, offering more of herself.

  “Why are you doing that to me?” she asked.

  “Because it feels marvelous.”

  “It certainly does.”

  “Let me show you something else.”

  He shoved at the fabric and bent down to suck on her nipple. She gasped with surprise, not drawing away, but pulling him nearer, as if wanting more.

  He laved and suckled, feasting on one breast, then the other, going back and forth, back and forth. He was amused by her moans and sighs, by her enthusiastic acceptance of his carnal ministration.

  Of their own volition, her hips started to move, and he traced his fingers down her stomach, toward her woman’s sheath.

  “Blodwin never advised you of the specifics,” he stated, “so I will. I’m going to touch you all over.”