Tatiana March

by Surrender to the Knight

  “A wedding feast for two,” she told him, nodding toward the table. “That’s all we can spare. I told you about the fire. We lost the hay that had been spread out to dry and the rye that was waiting to be milled. With no fodder for the livestock, we had to slaughter them. We could keep only the two milk cows and the workhorse, and enough sheep to breed in the spring.”

  She halted her babbling. Raising her gaze to his, she made an inarticulate sound, something between a groan and a nervous gust of laughter. “We never have enough to eat, but for once my hunger seems to have gone into retreat.”

  “The food can wait.” Olaf pulled at his matted clothing. “I need to wash first, and then I want to seal our marriage. You can get into bed while I bathe.”

  Lady Brenna flinched so hard she almost toppled over. “You...you want me to disrobe now?”

  Olaf opened his mouth to issue the order, but something held him back. He could almost smell her fear. It filled the air, just like fear fills the air on a battlefield. Despite his need to possess her, her artless confession that she was ill at ease had stirred an unexpected tenderness in him. He wanted to reassure her, to have her come to him with a willing mind.

  “You can stay dressed until after I’ve bathed,” he told her.

  Her eyes widened, the flames of the fire reflecting in them. “You expect me to...?”

  Olaf sighed. His bride might be brave with a sword, but her courage seemed sorely lacking when it came to wifely duties. “I can wash myself,” he said. “Where can I get water?”

  She pointed to the door. “In a barrel outside.”

  Olaf spun on his feet and crossed the floor. The instant he’d stepped out into the corridor, the door slammed shut behind him. He heard the heavy bolt thud in place, and only then did it occur to him that by leaving the room he’d given his reluctant bride the opportunity to shut him out on his wedding night.

  Chapter Four

  Brenna steadied her shaking hands against the solid timbers of the oak door. She had barred the entrance to create a barrier between them while she undressed. Perhaps the illusion of solitude would ease the confused sensations that buffeted her. Her skin tingled, and her body throbbed with anticipation that seemed to mock her fears.

  She moved away from the door. The fastenings on her gown defied her trembling fingers. She kicked off the dainty leather shoes, so different from the boots she usually wore. The predatory glint she’d witnessed in Stenholm’s eyes had confirmed that dressing in the single set of feminine clothing she possessed had been a wise decision.

  Before she managed to remove her gown, a fist pounded on the door. Her heart seemed to stop, and then it launched into a gallop, as if trying to break free from her chest.

  “Open up.” The steady voice held a controlled menace.

  When she hesitated, a crash rattled the door against its frame. The force of the assault shook the floor beneath her feet. Brenna hurried to the entrance, lifted the sturdy bolt and stepped aside. The oak panel swung toward her. Her husband stood in the opening, his body twisted sideways, one broad shoulder positioned to use as a battering ram.

  “I didn’t mean to...” Her words faded away.

  In silence, Stenholm straightened on his feet.

  Brenna’s eyes swept over him, and the rest of the explanation died on her lips. He wore nothing but a pair of close-fitting hose and a leather codpiece. Droplets of water glistened on his bare chest. Although lean, his body radiated force. His arms were corded with muscle, his stomach hard and ridged. Thick strands of golden hair framed his haughty features, but his brows and lashes were nearly as dark as hers.

  Too shaken to speak, Brenna made a gesture of invitation toward the table. “Perhaps we might eat after all,” she managed finally. “Martha has worked hard to prepare a feast. Please, sit down and help yourself to the food.”

  Instead of sitting down, her new laird reached her in two long strides. “I’ll not eat a morsel before you do.” He cast a frowning glance at the meager offerings. “In fact, I shall insist that we share a trencher on every meal.” He stormed to the table, picked up a trencher and held it in front of her.

  “Eat,” he ordered.

  The smell of venison made her gag. For an instant, Brenna had to fight a swoon. “I’m not hungry,” she rasped. Her throat felt too tight to breathe, let alone swallow.

  “In that case, we’ll seek the pleasures of the marital bed.” He flung the food back on the table, droplets of sauce spilling onto the linen cloth. Then he curled one hand around her arm and hauled her toward the canopied bed. His movements were rough, and she could almost feel his anger crackling in the air between them, like a lightning storm.

  “Don’t,” Brenna pleaded, and to her shame, a sob rose in her throat.

  He froze. His grip on her wrist eased. “You truly are afraid of me,” he said slowly.

  Her shoulders slumped. She said nothing, merely glanced at the bed.

  He cupped her chin and forced her to look up at him. “Has anyone explained to you what will take place on your wedding night?”

  Brenna shook her head. “I was only six when my mother went back to France.”

  “Surely, some other woman...”

  Her head shook once more. “Isla would have. She was my mother’s maid and well versed in the ways of courtship, but she died before I grew into a woman. That only left Martha and the village wives, and I couldn’t ask them.” Brenna took a deep breath and let the words tumble out. “Martha services the unmarried men. There is a hole in the floor of the laird’s chamber. It connects to the great hall. I can’t help hearing...the grunting and the heaving...like animals...and one day, when I was fourteen...I was searching for a pewter tankard that had gone missing. I was on my knees, checking behind a pallet. A stranger came in. He mistook me for Martha. He grabbed me from behind and flung me on the pallet and threw himself on top of me. The weight of him...” Brenna closed her eyes to keep the memory at bay. “I thought he’d crush me to death. He was too drunk and I managed to break free, but ever since that day I’ve had a fear of being dominated, of being squashed to death beneath the hulking frame of some enormous man.”

  “Is that why you chose me?” Stenholm asked. “Because of my lean body?”

  “No.” She met his gaze. She wasn’t going to tell him that he looked like an angel in a church painting, except that right now there was just as much of the devil in him. “Because you fought me,” she said. “Truly fought me, a fight between equals, not just a pretend combat to pander to my vanity.”

  He made scornful sound, his pale green eyes flashing in the firelight. “If I’d truly fought you, you wouldn’t have survived more than one second.”

  “No,” Brenna whispered, her head hanging in defeat. Even the small triumph that had given her such pride had been stripped away from her. She hated being inferior because she was born female, always subjugated to a man’s will, having to depend on the mercy of the males who ruled her life.

  “I’ll teach you.” The knight reached up and brushed the back of his knuckles across her cheek. “I don’t have much to give you as a bridal gift, but I’ll give you this. I’ll teach you to fight, to defend yourself and your home. I promise that I’ll never crush your spirit.” He paused and added in a voice that brimmed with suppressed laughter. “I’ll try not to crush your body either, unless you ask me to.”

  Her hands fisted at her sides. “Don’t mock me.”

  “Turn around,” he ordered.

  She didn’t move.

  “Turn around.”

  When she ignored his command, he repeated it for the third time. Giving up asking, he clasped her by the waist and spun her around to face the door. Brenna held her body rigid. Would he shame her by sending her to sleep on a pallet in the great hall, making it clear to all how little she knew how to please him?<
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  She stood in silence, and then she felt a soft touch at the nape of her neck. Gentle fingers pushed aside her tumbling curls and traced the edge of her gown, the rasp of the callused tips against her sensitive skin sending shivers of delight rippling over her.

  “Take off your gown.”

  A budding sense of excitement seized her, blunting the edge of her anxiety. “I tried to disrobe,” she muttered. “I’m not used to women’s clothing. It took me ages to get dressed like this.” She kicked at the hems of her skirt and threw a quick glance at Stenholm over her shoulder. “Do you have any idea how cumbersome female attire is to put on and remove?”

  The knight’s finely sculpted mouth curved into a smile. “I’ve encountered the dilemma on a few occasions.”

  Brenna snapped her head back around to stare at the door. Of course, she should have known, a man as handsome would have scores of women seeking his attentions. She gave her wide sleeves an irritable tug. Then her insides chilled... if he wanted to satisfy his lust, there was only Martha at Kilgarren...she couldn’t bear to finish the thought. A deep sense of betrayal ached inside her at the prospect of such humiliation, but the harsh truth of it was that although wives were expected to remain faithful, husbands could acquire any number mistresses they chose.

  As she battled the sense of injustice, she could feel the knight moving behind her. Then a gust of warm breath swept across the back of her neck. Softly, as tender as a feather, he brushed a kiss beneath her ear. An exquisite sensation spread through her from the point of contact. A whimper escaped from her throat. Behind her, impatient fingers set to work with the fastenings of her gown, tugging, twisting and then sliding the velvet down her shoulders.

  Gentle hands stroked her bare skin. She drew a shaky breath.

  “There’s no need to be afraid.” His voice was low and soothing.

  “I’m not—” She gritted her teeth and released a sigh.

  “That’s it,” Olaf murmured. “Only a coward refuses to admit to fear. If I hadn’t faced my fears on the battlefield, I’d be dead long ago.”

  Reaching his arms around her to continue stripping her bare, he pressed more kisses on her neck. His mouth lifted away from her skin, and he bent to give a hard downward tug to the linen shift that really should have come off overhead.

  “You are just saying that.” Brenna tried to concentrate on the conversation, but an array of new sensations swamped her. The scrape of his rough palms made her skin tingle. Her body was melting, like a wax candle thrown into a flame. Soft moans of pleasure hummed low in her throat. Secretly, she rejoiced in the evidence that Laird Olaf seemed less experienced in disrobing females than he had implied.

  “It’s true.” He lifted her feet off the floor, one at the time, and released the bundle of clothing that had fallen to tangle around her ankles. “It is fear as much as courage that keeps a warrior alive. Only a fool is reckless, and reckless men die.”

  The velvet and linen garments rustled as Olaf tossed them aside. Never before had he lingered over undressing a woman, never before had such a fever of anticipation burned in his veins. He straightened and clasped his hands around Lady Brenna’s bare waist. His breath caught at the sight of her slim shoulders and narrow back beneath the tumbling black curls.

  “Turn around,” he said. When she didn’t obey, he tightened his hold on her and forced her to take small shuffling steps that brought them face-to-face.

  The curve of her pink-tipped breasts shone pale in the firelight. A fierce pride of ownership exploded inside Olaf. Such beauty. Such innocence. His for the taking. In the past, his couplings had been impersonal, quick encounters with women paid for their favors. Their moans of pleasure had been practiced, their sultry smiles not quite hiding an impatience to finish, to get to the next man, to earn another coin. With Brenna, there’d be nothing false. Every sound of delight he wrought from her would be genuine, every sensual response she gave him a reward for his skill and patience.

  A reward for his skill and patience.

  His fingers remained curled around her waist, and through them Olaf could feel her trembling. He inhaled a long, slow breath and stopped his hands from sliding up to cup her breasts. An almost painful arousal throbbed in his groin, but he ignored it, ordering himself to wait.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said once more.

  Brenna swallowed. Although her husband was not one of the huge, hulking men with protruding bellies she hated, her eyes came no higher than his jaw. His wide shoulders hemmed her in. His muscles quivered with tension, making her aware of the coiled power in them, and the lust that he must be struggling to hold at bay. She knew without any doubt that a single blow from him could knock her senseless.

  Anything she chose not to give, he could take by force.

  He raised one hand and caught her chin, urging her to meet his gaze. As he looked down, his golden hair fell forward, glinting in the firelight. His handsome features were a mask of tension. The pale green eyes had darkened to almost black, and now they raked her face, drinking her in.

  “Did you hear me?” he said. “You don’t need to be afraid.”

  When she didn’t reply, he moved his hand and touched the tip of his finger to her bottom lip. The gesture held such exquisite tenderness, Brenna sucked in a startled breath.

  “I’ll do my best not to hurt you.” The corners of his mouth tipped into a rueful smile. “I’d like to promise that I won’t hurt you at all, but discovering it was a lie would only add to your fears.” His finger began to move, circling her mouth. “I’ll never be anything but honest with you. A woman’s first time will hurt, I’ve been told.”

  An odd pleasure sparked in her chest. “You’ve never...?”

  “Been a woman’s first lover?” he finished the question for her and gave a low laugh. “The kind of women I’ve bedded will have lost count of their partners long before I joined the line of men.”

  Her mouth fell open, and his finger slipped between her lips.

  “Yes,” he said. “Only whores. I’ve never been touched with love.”

  The confession cracked the shield of fear around her. Her eyelids fluttered down. Brenna caught his finger with her teeth, sucking it deeper into the heat of her mouth. The low moan that rumbled out of Laird Olaf’s chest gave her a heady sense of power.

  She almost cried out in disappointment when he withdrew his finger, breaking the contact. Not opening her eyes, she felt his sudden movements, the bunching of his broad shoulders and the impatient shifting of his muscled arms. She heard the soft swish of wool and the muted thud of leather as the codpiece fell to the floor.

  Her eyes blinked open, but before she had a chance to react, either by turning away or by seeking a closer look, he bent to scoop her into his arms, easily lifting her in the air. Using one elbow to flick aside the heavy velvet curtains, he settled into a sitting position on the bed, his back propped against the headboard, his long legs stretched out before him.

  He arranged her in his lap and bent to murmur into her ear. “The one good thing about whores is that when a man is tired after a battle, he can demand that they do all the work.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And that, my sweet, is what I shall demand of you tonight.”

  Uncomprehending, Brenna studied his face. “You want me to act like a whore? But...” Thoroughly unsettled, she frowned at him. “I don’t have the slightest idea how to.”

  “Oh yes,” he replied. “I promise that you will.”

  He tipped her over his arm and, without giving her time to understand what he intended, lowered his mouth to her bare breast. Her whole body tightened with pleasure. A small cry erupted from her throat, and her head fell back, thrusting the tip of her breast deeper into his mouth. Laird Olaf curled one hand over her ankle and eased his touch up along her calf, past her knee, up her thigh, finally pausing on her belly and
settling there.

  Her hips made a small, involuntary motion, as if to tempt his hand lower, into the heat that throbbed between her legs. Ignoring the unspoken invitation, Laird Olaf gave the same attention to her other breast, his teeth nipping at the puckered nipple, his warm breath bathing her dampened skin. His hand came alive again and slowly mapped out her body, every curve and plane, every slender limb and smooth expanse, but he always stayed clear of the valley between her legs that was now growing slick and hot with a strange new need.

  When he finally lifted his head from her breast, it felt to Brenna as if, instead of blood, liquid fire pounded in her veins. Her body refused to remain still, writhing and squirming in his arms.

  “I think it’s time, my lady wife,” Laird Olaf said. He curled his hands around her waist and positioned her to straddle his thighs, facing him. Languid with pleasure, she arched like a cat, her head falling back, her hair cascading down her shoulders.

  “Rise up,” Laird Olaf ordered.

  Without any thought of protest, Brenna obeyed, lifting up to her knees. Laird Olaf kept one hand at her waist. His other hand eased between her thighs and touched her there. Brenna bowed tight and cried out as incredible sensations shot through her.

  “The pleasure is the nature’s way to ease the pain for you,” Olaf said.

  “Pain?” she mumbled, puzzled, as if she’d forgotten something important.

  His body shivered beneath her, tense as a horse about to bolt. His golden hair fell in a tousled sweep over his shoulders. His broad chest rose and fell in time with his ragged breathing. He wasn’t squashing her. Not forcing her. Not overpowering her. Brenna studied his features, and a deep gratitude rose inside her as she understood how much care he was putting into soothing her fears.

  Her gaze shifted downward to the thick shaft that jutted up from his groin. She’d seen naked men before, first frolicking with other children when young, and then bathing honored visitors as she grew older. Sometimes, a man would become aroused during bathing. It was meant to be taken as a compliment, but discouraged with a stern reprimand.