Knight of Seduction

by Cheryl Holt

“Yes, yes,” she panted. “I see that you are.”

  “I’ll touch you in places I shouldn’t, in ways you might believe are sinful. They’re not sinful, Anne.”

  “No?”

  “We’re married now, so everything is allowed. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what I said.”

  “You can do whatever you want to me.”

  “As you can to me,” he reminded her. “There is no shame here with me. There is no sin.”

  He parted the curls of her womanly hair to find her wet and willing. He slid a finger into her sheath as he fell to her nipple again. A second finger joined the first, and he glided in and out, in and out. She struggled to writhe away, but he wouldn’t let her escape.

  Rocking and sucking and biting, he toyed with her until her body tensed with agony. Then he jabbed at the spot between her legs, where all her sensation was centered. She cried out and soared to the heavens.

  Laughing, delighted, he held her in his arms, proud of himself and his manly prowess. He’d had many voluptuous teachers, from many lands, and while he’d frequently felt guilty over his corporeal drives and his constant need to satisfy them, he was glad that he’d learned his way.

  His beautiful, alluring bride deserved a competent, passionate bedding.

  “What was that?” she sputtered when she could speak.

  “That was sexual pleasure.”

  “Will it happen often?”

  “Hopefully, yes. If I’m lucky enough to train you well.”

  “Is it…normal? I’m not peculiar, am I? There’s nothing wrong with me?”

  “No, Anne, there’s nothing wrong. It’s very, very normal for this to occur when we’re together. The more we practice, the more intense it will become.”

  She grinned a seductive, tempting grin. “Maybe I don’t hate you, after all.”

  “Ha!” he snorted, aroused, impatient, thrilled beyond words.

  She was completely relaxed, as if her bones had melted. Her robe was drooping off, her entire center revealed. Her arms were flung to the side, her thighs spread. She looked as if she was posing for a risqué portrait, the sort he’d seen hanging in expensive brothels.

  He stood and carried her to the bed, dropping her onto the mattress. He’d thought that her virginal fears might kick in, that she might try to scurry away, but she didn’t. He tumbled down on top of her.

  “Show me what to do,” she said.

  “I will,” he promised, but he didn’t forge ahead with the consummation.

  He was stupidly eager to dawdle for as long as he could. He wanted to enjoy her as she was, still chaste, but ripening, a flower opening just for him, and he was surprised to note that, as he paused to kiss her, he felt himself ripening, too.

  He’d never bothered much with kissing. When he dabbled with whores, when he paid for quick gratification, there was no need to charm or entice. A whore needn’t be coaxed to the end; she knew the route and how to get there as fast as possible.

  With Anne, he would bask in the journey, would touch and cajole, would revel as she laughed and learned, but he couldn’t delay forever. His ardor was growing unmanageable. Briefly, he pulled away to yank off his tunic, but he didn’t remove anything else. They had all night, and he would take her over and over, would relish the sensation of having his naked skin pressed to hers.

  But not this first time. Not now, when he’d finally arrived at the perfect conclusion.

  He put his hand to her sheath again.

  “I have to join my body to yours,” he told her. “It’s how we are truly wed.”

  “How does it happen? How are we joined?”

  “I’ll enter you—here.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “I can’t explain it; I have to show you.”

  He was in a sudden hurry and beyond any point of control. He tugged at the laces on his breeches, drew them down.

  “This will hurt, but just for a moment.”

  “It will hurt? How badly?”

  He’d never lain with a virgin before, so he had no idea. “It will sting, and there will be a bit of blood.”

  “Blood!”

  “You have a thin piece of skin”—he pushed two fingers inside her—“and I must tear through it. You’ll scarcely notice.”

  She gazed up at him, studying his eyes, and he yearned to know what she was thinking. Was she disgusted? Was she frightened?

  “You’re certain this is how it’s done?” she asked.

  “There’s no other way to accomplish a consummation.”

  She nodded, evaluating, calculating, then she said, “Proceed however you wish, my lord knight. I’m ready.”

  “Put your arms around me,” he instructed, and she complied. “Hold on tight. It will be over very soon.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Nor should you be.”

  “I didn’t want to be a bride.”

  “I realize you didn’t.”

  “It won’t be horrid, will it? Being married to you?”

  “No, Anne, it won’t be horrid.”

  At least, he hoped it wouldn’t be. He was a hard man, who’d lived hard and made hard choices. What woman would want him as a husband?

  He gripped her thighs, spread them, and wedged his torso in between. He took his cock and urged the tip into her sheath.

  The odd positioning had her squirming. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “It will.”

  “Are you sure you’re doing it correctly?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Hush now and relax.”

  “I’m yours to command, my husband.”

  He chuckled, thinking that when she was sober, when she was more herself, she wouldn’t be so submissive or compliant. He envisioned years of quarrels, of defiance and bold replies. Generally, he couldn’t abide meek females, so he didn’t expect he’d mind her brazenness. So long as she always remembered who was in charge in the end.

  She took a deep breath and let it out, took another and let it out, too. She was as limp as she’d been from the start, the bride’s wine continuing to provide its effect. He flexed his hips, coming up against her maidenhead, and he kept applying pressure. Not pausing to ease her discomfort. Not slowing when he probably should have.

  As he tore through, she gave a small cry of pain and astonishment, and he held himself very still, trying to detach himself from the moment, but he was too aroused. He couldn’t prevent the surge that rushed to his loins.

  With one thrust, then two, he emptied himself at her womb. And…it was over. Just like that.

  He dropped onto her, his weight pushing her down. Shamed by his tepid performance, he hung his head. He dithered, mustering his courage, then he looked her in the eye.

  She was very calm, very composed. Not smiling, but not frowning, either.

  “I’m not a virgin anymore, am I?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s it? That’s all there is to it?”

  He hooted with merriment. “There’s quite a bit more. I’ll teach you.”

  “I was hoping it would be different. More…romantic, I suppose.”

  His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Anne. I’m just a knight. I’m not much for flowery language or tender wooing.”

  “I understand that you’re not.”

  “It will get better.”

  “I’m sure it will,” she replied, but she didn’t seem sure.

  He kissed her again, hating how she winced as he drew away, as their bodies separated. He rolled her onto her side, spooning himself to her back. He nuzzled her hair, her neck, but she was silent, lost in contemplation.

  “I want to make you happy,” she murmured.

  “You will.”

  “I’ll be a good wife to you.”

  “It will be easy to please me. Simply obey every word I ever say.”

  He swatted her on the bottom, and she chuckl
ed. He liked how she relaxed with him, how she gamely accepted what they’d done.

  “It will be all right between us,” he whispered.

  “I know.”

  “Give it time. We’ll get on fine.”

  She nodded, but didn’t speak again.

  Quickly, he felt himself dozing off. He was especially lethargic, the potency of their coupling having exhausted him to an extent he couldn’t believe. He was so attracted to her. Would she constantly stimulate him behind his limits?

  He was a lucky man; he always had been. He was lucky again. Lucky in picking his bride, lucky to have made the best possible choice.

  Pulling her nearer, he snuggled her to him so she couldn’t slip away in the night.

  He slept, and with her in his arms, no bad dreams plagued him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Anne awakened slowly, and it dawned on her that something was different. Gradually, she remembered what it was.

  She sighed. She was no longer a maiden. She was a bride and mistress of castle Morven. She was Lord Hugh’s wife.

  It had all happened so fast, and she couldn’t wrap her mind around all the changes. She spent a moment attempting to hold on to her old dream of going into the convent, but she couldn’t. It seemed to be an aspiration that had appealed to another girl in another life.

  Instead, she contemplated her current condition. She was snuggled under a heavy pile of blankets—and she wasn’t wearing any nightclothes. Even if she’d tried to cover herself, her husband wouldn’t have let her. He’d been too busy feasting on her body.

  After their initial coupling, they’d dozed briefly. Then he’d roused her with more of his delicious kisses, had shown her more of what would be expected in their marital bed. The wine Dorag had given her had made her particularly brazen.

  Hugh had told her she could do whatever she liked, and she’d carefully followed his instructions. She had touched and teased and fondled and kissed, too, being surprised to learn that—when tempting Hugh to carnal acts—she had an enormous amount of power over him.

  In all the advice from Blodwin and others, in all her gossiping with Rosamunde, no one had ever hinted at that part of the situation. By utilizing her feminine wiles to excite him, she could wield incredible clout and control.

  She would use that power to her own advantage, to coax better behavior from him or to earn boons for those in the castle. She might even be able to get her way on an important issue, when he was dead set that she not.

  She’d have to have a talk with Dorag and Megrine to probe for more information.

  If she could keep him physically satisfied, he would never stray.

  She thought he was lonely. She thought he was isolated and detached and a bit sad. She would always try to please him. She would try to make him happy.

  In the end, he might grow fond of her. Imagine that.

  Shyly, she reached over, wondering if he was still with her, but his side of the bed was empty. She was relieved to have him gone.

  How was a bride supposed to carry on the next morning? Now that she’d discovered what actually transpired with a husband, how was she to interact with him? How would they muddle through the most mundane events such as dining together?

  She suspected she would be blushing for the rest of her days.

  She sat up, wincing at how her body protested. The spot between her legs was especially tender. As she shifted about, she noticed what she hadn’t at first glance: Hugh had left a single red rose for her on his pillow.

  It was such a sweet gesture, from a man of violence and brutality who insisted he had no romantic tendencies.

  “Ha!” she muttered. “I’ve found you out.”

  There was not a cold stone in the center of his chest. He had a heart. He could be kind. He could be tender and considerate. He could make her grin for no reason, at all.

  The door opened, and Dorag peeked in.

  “Are you awake, my lady Anne?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “From the smile on your face, I’m guessing that you had a lovely night.”

  “A very lovely night.”

  “Your husband is in the great hall. He bids you to sleep all day if that is what you desire.”

  “If I lounge in bed, I might start to feel like a queen. Then I might start to act like one.”

  “No queens here, dear Anne.” Dorag hustled in and came over, leaning very near and whispering, “You must get up and appear downstairs. You must take charge of the household—as is your duty and your right.”

  “From Blodwin, you mean?” Anne was whispering, too.

  “Yes.”

  “A Herculean task, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll help you. So will your husband.”

  Dorag turned and waved to several maids who were waiting outside. They hustled in with buckets of hot water and trays of food. Blodwin had her own bathing tub, tucked in a corner. They dragged it out and dumped their water in, as Dorag stripped the mattress of the bloody sheet, the proof of consummation.

  Anne had forgotten about the bloody sheet, had forgotten that it would need to be hung in the great hall for all to see, for Father Eustace to examine. But to her surprise, Dorag wadded it up and tossed it in the fire.

  “What are you doing?” Anne asked.

  “Lord Hugh says there will be no display of the sheet.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” Dorag winked at her. “He doesn’t wish to have you embarrassed over it.”

  “Father Eustace will be furious.”

  “Who cares? Your husband is lord here. His opinion is the only one that matters.”

  Anne chuckled, feeling absurdly giddy, as she was scrubbed and pampered. She loafed, letting them coddle her. Previously, she’d never had a servant—Blodwin wouldn’t have allowed it—and normally, Anne would have been aghast at the extravagant treatment. But the women took such pleasure in indulging her that she couldn’t bear to send them away.

  The surprises kept coming. They had new clothes for her, shifts, chemises, cloaks, slippers, and veils. As the attire was tugged on and laced up, she felt special and unique in a way she’d never understood herself to be. Her vanity was flaring to such heights that Father Eustace would probably faint if he knew.

  Dorag claimed that Lord Hugh had purchased the items in Rome and Paris, that they were the latest styles and colors. The notion of her, Anne, wearing garments from Paris was so exotic that they might have told her he’d bought them on the moon.

  “He brought them just for me?” she asked.

  “Well, for his bride, but it turned out to be you, so let’s not quibble. And look at this.”

  The maids hauled in a carved chest and set it on the bed. Dorag opened it to reveal bolts of cloth, the likes of which none of them had ever seen. There were such bright shades and such soft, shiny fabrics. The maids sighed with amazement and delight.

  Anne ran her hand across the pile.

  “Oh my,” she breathed.

  “Oh my, indeed,” Dorag agreed. “You’re to have a whole wardrobe.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, and I have seamstresses lined up to sew for you. With what color would you like them to start?”

  “They’re all so beautiful. I can’t decide.”

  Dorag riffled through the mound and pulled out a swatch of emerald green. “Let’s begin with this. It will accent your eyes, which I suspect will make your husband very happy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, let’s get you downstairs. Lord Hugh is tending to business and pretending he’s not waiting for you, but he can’t stop watching the door.”

  At the thought of Lord Hugh, impatient for her to arrive, butterflies swarmed in her stomach.

  She’d spun to leave and join him when Rosamunde hurried in.

  “Anne! Anne!” she cried. “I heard you were finally awake.”

  “Good morning, Rosamunde.”

  “Morning! Why you’ve slept morning aw
ay. Are you all right? The arrogant beast. When you didn’t rise at the usual time, I was afraid he’d killed you!”

  “I’m fine, Rosamunde.”

  “Swear it to me.”

  “I swear. I’m fine.”

  Rosamunde moved as if to take Anne’s hands in her own, but she halted and frowned.

  “What are you wearing?” Rosamunde asked. “Those clothes are new.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “From Lord Hugh. He…ah…gave them to me as my bride gift.”

  “Your bride gift?” Rosamunde sneered.

  She was rudely studying Anne, glaring as if Anne was a serving girl caught stealing. The pride Anne had felt moments earlier vanished in an instant.

  She had spent her entire life in Rosamunde’s shadow, placating her, while courteously suffering her jabs and insults. Suddenly, it seemed wrong to Anne that she’d been raised so high, that she’d been elevated above everyone.

  Rosamunde peered over at the chest of fabrics that gleamed like a beautiful rainbow.

  “And what’s all that?” she demanded.

  “More of my bride gift, Rosamunde.”

  “You’re to have more clothes?”

  “Yes,” Anne admitted, ludicrously adding, “I’m sorry.”

  Rosamunde’s temper was legendary, and she was furious, when Anne didn’t want her to be. The coming days would be difficult as she learned how to be Hugh’s wife, as she eased herself into the role of mistress of the castle.

  She would have plenty of adversaries, and she would hate to have Rosamunde be one of them.

  “Perhaps,” Anne offered, “we could have something sewn for you, too.”

  “Me?” Rosamunde scoffed. “Wear a gift from Hugh the Butcher? You insult me. You insult my family.”

  She stormed out, and Anne watched her go, listening as her angry strides pounded down the hall.

  Anne was deflated, her joy washed away by Rosamunde’s vitriol. She must have looked sufficiently miserable, because Dorag patted her shoulder.

  “You’re lovely, Anne. Don’t let her ruin this grand occasion for you.”

  “She hasn’t,” Anne lied.

  “Your presence is required downstairs, and your husband is still waiting. I bet he’s pacing by now.”

  “I bet he is, too,” Anne murmured.