by Mary Wine
She reached out and caught Bridget’s hand. “Come out of the rain. My brother seems to have forgotten that you were going to bathe.” She smiled widely once more. “Another trait of the old.”
Curan snorted, but his sister paid him no mind. She tugged on Bridget’s hand and led her away, but Bridget felt his eyes on her. Peeking back over her shoulder, she allowed her eyes to narrow with passion. It took no playacting on her part, for her body truly did desire him. His expression instantly transformed from the stern one he wore so often. Surprise covered his features, but it faded quickly into a mask of dark passion. He’d looked like that last night, she was sure of it. A shiver raced down her spine, touching off ripples of recalled sensation all along her body. She felt it travel over her skin, up and over the mounds of her breasts until her nipples tingled as they recalled exactly how hot his lips were. It did not stop there but slipped lower, across her belly and into the folds of flesh that covered her clitoris. A soft throbbing began there, a hunger that whimpered for satisfaction.
She must deny that urge. Turning her head back around, she focused her thoughts on absorbing the path that Jemma took her on. She would need to memorize how to escape when the moment presented itself. Her flesh wailed against that thought, but her heart also lamented it. She wanted to stay and learn more about the part of Curan that was happy to be home. In truth, she longed to share that feeling with him.
Yet she must not, for both their sakes. The world was an unforgiving place, full of men who would not give mercy. Her mother was correct; she must not celebrate her wedding because Curan’s honor would not allow him to see the logic in obeying her father’s letter. He was a knight, and in all honesty, part of what softened her heart to him was his unfaltering sense of honor. Without it, he would be weaker. That left the task of protecting him to her.
She would, as much out of duty to her sire as a gift to Curan.
She refused to think too long about why she felt that way. A week ago there was nothing in her head save duty and logic. The reason simply was, she wanted to celebrate her wedding and not because Curan insisted that she do so.
She wanted him. Passionately and with a growing need that threatened to consume the only part of her that was hers alone: her heart. She couldn’t allow him to claim that, couldn’t trust in a future that was riddled with uncertainty. He would discard her if ordered to by the king’s advisors. No knight would refuse his king.
So she would flee over the border to the sanctuary of her cousin Alice. If she could escape. There was a part of her that warmed to the challenge. The sounds of Curan’s men filtered into the hallway, confirming that it would be no simple task to slip past them. The only thing that would make it possible was their arrogance. None of them, including their lord, considered her anything but a prize they had claimed. Such pride would be the key to outwitting them, exactly as Marie had said. Stroke their egos and claim what she wanted. Wise advice indeed.
Chapter Seven
Dry feet were a blessing, one she had been very neglectful in noticing.
Bridget took several additional swipes at her toes with the toweling because her skin was so wrinkled and swollen from hours in wet shoes that she was feeling water that was no longer there.
“You’re not used to having servants attending you.”
Bridget jumped, grateful she’d slipped a chemise on and laced her stays to keep her breasts from hanging free before working on her feet again. Jemma wasn’t smiling in her playful manner now. The girl was more woman than she had first appeared. Her gaze was keen just like her brother’s, and Bridget felt it sliding down her length. It was very clear that her wits were sharp in spite of the teasing nature she had displayed when her brother arrived.
“My mother raised me to be frugal and mindful of how many tasks there were to be completed every day. Having servants stand about, looking after me, takes hands from those chores.”
“Hmm, perhaps that is the best answer, but I like privacy when I bathe as well. Maybe that is a maidenly need.” Jemma moved farther into the room. “You must tell me if your opinion changes over the next few weeks.”
The girl delivered her question in a smooth tone, but Bridget caught her shy look over the top of the dress she picked up. There was a hint of uncertainty in her eyes that Bridget understood all too well.
“I will not be assuming my wifely duties this week.”
The dishonesty needed to speak such words almost choked her, but her resolve was firm. The overall good outweighed the small sin of lying.
“That is a surprise.” Jemma sounded suspicious, and a glance at her face showed Bridget a familiar raised eyebrow.
“You look like your brother just now.”
Jemma looked shocked and then she laughed. A soft and low sound of feminine amusement. “Lord, I hope not. He’s an ugly creature, like most men. Poor, pitiful things.”
Now Bridget discovered herself stunned. “Your brother is quite handsome.”
“Is he?” Jemma lifted Bridget’s dress high over her head to help her dress. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Good.”
Curan spoke from the doorway, the sound filling the small bathing room that sat behind the large baking ovens. Heat filled the room from the morning baking in spite of the window shutters being left open.
“On both accounts.” He moved into the room, filling it with his larger size. Jemma laughed again.
“You find it pleasing that I think you are ugly or that I think all men are devoid of attraction?”
Curan actually looked playful as he lifted one hand and fingered his jaw. “Both, dear sister. The idea of you turning your ever-so-delicate nose up in the face of your rather large number of suitors brings me peace.”
His gaze shifted to Bridget, who felt her cheeks heat instantly. Passion flickered in his dark eyes along with pleasure. There was a part of her that enjoyed knowing that she had pleased him, because he was worthy of that.
“And hearing that my bride finds me handsome is very pleasing indeed. Do be a kind soul and leave us in private, Jemma.”
His sister blew out a long sigh while she gave Bridget’s dress a little tug to set it in place before she turned to her sibling and lowered herself very prettily.
“Excuse me, I am suddenly feeling ill.”
Curan grinned at his sister, and Bridget stared at the way the slightest curving of his lips transformed his face. Her words to his sister had been true—he was quite attractive, this facet of his persona even more than any other she had encountered. Jemma swept from the room with another dramatic sigh.
“What surprises you, Bridget? Do you not think I can be affectionate?”
She worried her lower lip while watching him through her lowered eyelashes. He stared at her, waiting for her to answer, but for once his expression lacked its commanding expectation. Instead, there was an ease about him that led her to think that the gleam in his eye was actually a flirtatious one. A similar need suddenly awakened inside her. The blush deepened on her cheeks.
“I wouldn’t dare accuse you of being unpolished in anything, my lord.” She spoke the respectful title in a husky tone. He pressed his lips into a tight line that turned them white.
“I believe it well that I sent Jemma on her way. I find myself longing for the chance to woo you.” He moved closer, and she felt him closing the space between them as much as she witnessed it. Awareness rippled over her skin. He paused when he was close enough to lift one hand and reach for her. The breath froze in her throat, her lungs suddenly suspended while she anticipated his touch. When his fingers met her flesh, it was hotter than an August day at noon. She drew in a stiff breath and felt sensation shoot lightning fast down her body. The feeling was almost too sweet to endure, but she refused to move away because it was too delightful. He stroked her cheek, sliding his fingertips along the side of her face that felt as though it were aflame.
“Sweet Bridget, your blush is by far the greatest compliment I have ever received.�
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“False flattery is not necessary between us.” Truthfully, she found it difficult to think when he was behaving so charming. The hard expression that he wore when sitting in command made it much simpler to find no reason to disobey her mother.
His fingers moved up into her hair. It was still half wet and hanging loose, just as her dress was. But her stays were tight, and her breasts felt as if they were straining to be free from the stiffly boned undergarment.
As you were last night, when that hand cupped the soft mounds and his lips tasted your nipples …
“Because you are bound to surrender yourself to me?” A hint of arrogance colored his voice again. She lifted her eyelids to stare at him fully.
“Because you believe that is my place.”
He chuckled. The amusement surprised her. His face didn’t become clouded with pride; instead he stepped closer so that she could feel his body heat. The scent of soap clung to his skin, and she realized that his hair was damp like hers. His hand cupped the back of her head, tipping it up while he took the final step left between them.
A soft sigh left her lips when his body touched hers.
“It is your place, Bridget, for so many more reasons than the agreement I made with your father.”
He pressed a hard kiss against her lips, but she enjoyed his strength. It was the shameful truth. Her mouth opened, and she tilted her head before he used his hand to move her. The tip of his tongue traced her lower lip before thrusting into her mouth to toy with her own. Sweet delight filled her, burning through the last of the chill that lingered from the freezing journey on the road. She reached for his shoulders, eager to touch him. His lips left hers, wringing a soft cry from her, but it turned into a sigh as he trailed soft kisses down the column of her neck.
Never once had she noticed how sensitive was the skin covering her throat. His lips were hot against it, making her shiver and press her body closer to his. He locked a hard arm around her waist, holding her tightly. Her hands tangled in his half-wet hair, threading through the strands. Every inch of her was alive with new awareness. She felt more, noticed more than ever before. She could smell his skin and knew his scent apart from others. It twisted into her senses, bringing an enjoyment that rose up from some dark corner of her mind. Just as a baby smelled sweet, Curan’s skin brought her enjoyment when she was close enough to smell its scent.
Her blood felt heavy as though she had drunk too much wine, but she did not care. She wasn’t close enough to him. Her hands moved over him, seeking to touch every part of him. She slid one down over his chest, over the hard flesh she craved. Her fingers curled around his erect cock, and his powerful body shuddered. She gasped, stunned by the ferocity burning in his eyes when he lifted his head to lock gazes with her.
She did not abandon her grasp. Confidence surged through her, awakening the need to command him just as completely as he had done to her last night.
“Do not toy with me, Bridget.”
She stroked his cock through his pants, refusing to shiver at his tone. In his eyes was a need that flickered in spite of his warning.
“You mean as you did with me last evening?”
The hand on her nape tightened and his voice deepened. “I left you very satisfied.”
“You assume I would leave you wanting, Curan.”
She spoke his name in a sultry voice that drew a husky groan from his lips. She kept her hand moving up and down over the hard bulge covered by the fabric of his britches.
“Or is it the idea of losing control over me that truly drives you to reject me?”
The hand around her waist slipped lower, over her bottom, and clamped her tightly against him. Her hand became trapped between their bodies, his hard cock against her palm.
“Gaining satisfaction with you has been my wish since I arrived to claim you, Bridget. You are the one who insists on telling me that you must obey your father.”
He leaned down and pressed a hard kiss against her mouth, taking a bold taste of her that sent heat throughout her body. But he broke the kiss and stepped away from her. “You accuse me of toying with you, and yet you remind me that our union is not valid in your own eyes.” All hint of playfulness had departed from his face, leaving her facing the hardened side of his nature. “Yet I think you mean to toy with me, Bridget. To practice some of those lessons your mother had you given, only to take your practiced knowledge off to Lord Oswald.”
Her eyes widened, shock making her curl her fingers into a fist and hug her hand closed to her chest. “I told you it would be better if you left me with my mother.” Because she truly hadn’t meant to play with him. He was correct to be wounded. Shame choked her.
He reached out and cupped her chin. “And I have told you, Bridget, that you are mine.”
His eyes were lit with anticipation and determination. She witnessed the raw power that made him the knight who had earned a title. There was no faltering in him, only solid purpose.
“I will have satisfaction from you, my bride, but it will not be so simple as a trick you watched a courtesan perform. I desire more from you, and I swear that I shall have you as my wife.”
A knight always kept his vows.
Bridget shivered, her body tormenting her with how much it craved Curan. Except he’d left her directly after firing his words at her.
Her temper did not save her this time. How could she be angry when in truth she was behaving shamefully? The maid always cried foul when a man trifled with her while intending to leave her.
Was she not committing the very same transgression? Taking her ease with Curan, touching him and sharing her kisses with him all the while thinking that she would leave.
Harsh and laden with guilt, her thoughts cut into her for the rest of the day. She found it hard to focus on the housekeeper May and her introductions to Amber Hill. Bridget found that her resolve to resist Curan had dwindled. Her heart ached, which confounded her the most, that small glimpse into his relaxed nature having snared her tender emotions. Hidden inside him was a heart she could love, tempting her beyond everything else to stay and disobey her mother.
Yet to what end?
Amber Hill was truly a remarkable castle. Three main towers rose up from the border land. The stone was solid and sturdy, while inside the roof of the great hall was supported with timber covered with slate tiles. There were no damp corridors. Whoever had drawn the plans for the towers knew his art well. Windows were placed to capture the most light possible, even on such an early spring day. From the third floor the hills of Scotland were visible as well as the patches of snow that dotted them. Alice lived far over the rise, her husband performing a similar duty to his overlord that Curan would for England. Both of them helping to secure the border.
A curtain wall surrounded the towers, but every inch of the yard was covered in cobblestone. Curan clearly had his financial affairs in good order to be able to afford such a fine fortress. Many border holdings were little more than mud piles that boasted well-armed knights.
“My lady?”
Bridget jumped. “Forgive me, I was lost in thought.”
May inclined her head, but her eyes held a knowing look that such a demure action could not conceal.
“There is no hurry.”
Bridget drew herself up straight. “Spring is upon us. No one will have time for a lack-wit trying to run things.”
“It is not so upon us that you may not take a small amount of time to celebrate being a bride before the duties of mistress take you away.”
“Yes, well, my mother raised me to be diligent to my chores.”
The housekeeper looked like she wanted to argue, but Bridget did not give her time.
“Show me where the spices are kept.”
May turned and walked down the hallway without a comment. There was no escaping the unspoken words lurking in the woman’s eyes, however. Bridget followed her and forced herself to take note of the portions of herbs and spices stored in the still room. Rows and rows
of stores kept Bridget’s thoughts centered on the task at hand. She didn’t dwell on the fact that she needed to gather such knowledge only if she intended to remain at Amber Hill. She had to appear as though she were, so she remained in the still room for hours. The shadows grew long across the floor before May spoke again.
“My lord.”
She lowered herself and stopped opening locked drawers.
“Supper is on the table. You should have told my bride.”
May offered him a smile. “I have had too many days of idleness when supper was the only thing for me to spend my time on. It has been a delight to assist the mistress with getting to know Amber Hill.”
She dropped another curtsy to Bridget before leaving the still room.
“I didn’t mean to keep her from her meal.”
Curan was fully dressed now, but her memory recalled him vividly in naught but his shirt. His doublet was good English wool and lacked any trim. He hadn’t dispensed with his boots, either—they were still pulled up above his knees—but the leather was cleaned and recently oiled. They suited him, and she decided that he would most likely never wear the smaller slippers that were fashionable for gentlemen of the court.
“The cook hoists the blue flag when she is beginning to serve.” He walked across the still room and pointed out one of the windows. A flag was fluttering in the evening breeze. The horizon was scarlet and gold, the sun sinking below the mountains.
“You will learn to look for it near sunset.”
He reached into the window and pulled the shutters in. The thick wood covers blocked out the light, casting the still room into semidarkness. The dimness sent a tingle across her skin because her memory of what Curan did to her in the night was a passionate one. He grasped her hand and she jumped, far too aware of every touch he laid on her.
He clicked his tongue at her in reprimand.
“I do believe this might be the longest week of my life, waiting for your courses to be finished.” His face was cast into shadow and his voice was dark and husky while his hand clasped her warmly. His thumb found the center of her palm and rubbed it gently.
