Anice's Bargain

by Madeline Martin

  Piquette leapt up on the bed, thinking the command for him.

  Anice sat beside the bulk of his body and regarded her sister with an intentional wide-eyed innocence. This would be amusing, if nothing else.

  Marin hesitated and gave a little sigh. “Heavens, I would have thought that you would have read those same books as Ella.”

  “Which books?” Apparently, there was a stash of decadence Anice had missed.

  “Medical texts.”

  Ah, that would explain why Anice had not read them. Medical texts were torturously uninteresting. All humors and balancing and bile and blood. She must have made a face because Marin gave a gentle laugh.

  “Well, if you had, you would know this already, what goes on between a man and a woman. In bed. After, well, after marriage.” Marin pressed her lips together, undoubtedly waiting for Anice to stop her.

  She did not. This would be far too good to miss.

  “Men have a sword, you see.” Marin held up a forefinger.

  “What if he has a battle axe?” Anice countered.

  “He doesn’t,” Marin gasped in horror. “’Tis only a sword.” She made a loose fist with her other hand and her cheeks warmed to a shade of pink. “And there’s a sheath.” She grimaced uncomfortably. “In women.”

  “There’s a sheath in me?” Anice kept her tone bland.

  Marin cleared her throat. “Aye. Betwixt your legs. And the man’s, well, his sword—”

  “Not a war hammer?”

  “Nay! His sword.” Marin strained her forefinger in the air. “Slides into your sheath.” She took her forefinger and pushed it into the palm of her loose fist.

  “Are they all so small?” Anice asked, unable to stop the smile pulling at her lips.

  Marin’s mating hands dropped from the air and she regarded her sister with incredulity. “You knew already, didn’t you?”

  A giggle burst from Anice. “Aye, but you did a fine job of explaining.”

  “You are so terribly wicked.” Marin grabbed a pillow and swung it at Anice, who grabbed another to counter the blow. Piquette leapt from the bed for the safety of the hearth, while the air filled with laughter and a fine cloud of feathers. Anice and Marin collapsed on the bed, breathless and smiling, neither one the victor, given the number of feathers loosely clinging in their golden hair.

  Anice had forgotten Marin’s playfulness. It had disappeared after their mother died, buried under the burden of all the eldest sister’s newfound responsibilities.

  “I like seeing this side of you again,” Anice said aloud.

  “I’m glad to have it back.” Marin’s expression turned tender. She sat up and helped Anice to do likewise. “You will be an excellent wife. I only hope he will be good to you.”

  Anice warmed under Marin’s praise, basking in it the way one does the heat of the sun’s brilliance.

  “If he is not good to you, you will tell me?” A stark seriousness entered Marin’s tone. “Aye?”

  “If he is not good to me, I’ll disarm his sword.” Anice grinned.

  “You mean his battle axe?” Marin asked.

  And at that, they broke into giggles once more. On and on they talked, through three years’ worth of lost time, until the candle sputtered out and then even longer still. Eventually Marin declared herself far too tired to stay awake another moment. She tucked Anice into bed and quietly slipped out without Piquette so much as lifting his head.

  Though exhaustion pulled at Anice, she could not sleep. Not when the next day would bring her marriage to James.

  And whatever failures that entailed.

  James took extra care on his appearance on the morning of his wedding. Not that it mattered much. A brushing of his beard and the smoothing of his hair only went so far. He would never be the kind of handsome man Anice’s beauty warranted.

  Not like Drake. Or the Master of the Horse.

  He turned from the looking glass. The luxury was wasted on him. He had no desire to see himself. Lady Leila was correct in her assessment of the upcoming nuptials. They would be a failure. Her words hadn’t surprised him. They’d merely echoed the expectation souring in the pit of his stomach.

  He strode from his chamber, but the man standing outside his door did not appear to be a Werrick soldier.

  This man was lanky and dark-haired with a serious expression made all the more so by his narrowed eyes. “Wedding day, eh?” His accent wasn’t English, but Scots. He pushed off from the wall he leaned against and the little black cat at his feet stretched. “To my sister-in-law.”

  Ah, this was Bran, then. The one who had taken the castle and forced the eldest sister into marriage. Also the one who had killed many Graham soldiers.

  Laird Graham would be greatly displeased with his presence.

  “Aye.” James strode past him and down the hall. The black cat appeared beside him and tried to wind its way between his feet, forcing him to slow.

  Bran winked at him. “Ye know what they say about Bixby, aye?”

  When James didn’t answer, Bran went on. “I hope yer intentions in the marriage are honorable.”

  Yet again, James didn’t bother to reply. Why should he? He owed no explanations to this man.

  “If they’re no’…” Bran continued in a threatening tone.

  The implied warning demanded a response. James peered down at the shorter man and flexed the powerful muscles of his back, knowing how much more intimidation it added to his already large frame. “Ye’ll what?”

  Bran grinned up at him, nonplussed, with a mouth full of perfect teeth. Did all the people of Werrick have to be so damnably attractive?

  “I wouldna have to do a thing.” Bran lifted one shoulder in a casual gesture. “Her sisters would handle ye.”

  James lifted a brow. “They’re lasses, they canna be that bad.”

  Bran scoffed. “Ye’d regret any wrongdoing. Of that ye can be certain.”

  James relaxed his body and strode onward. “Is that experience talking?”

  “Aye. And whatever is left of ye, I’d handle.” The warning edge had returned to his tone.

  James cast a glance down at the man he would soon be linked to through his marriage. “I’ll assume the threat is derived from your own honorable intentions when ye were wed, aye?”

  They arrived at the double doors of the chapel. Bran, who conveniently appeared to not have heard James’s last statement, turned and offered his hand to shake. James accepted and was met with a vice-like grip.

  “Treat her well.” Bran opened his fingers.

  James did not release the other man’s grasp. He held on for one last moment, delivering his own menacing message. With a lingering look at Bran, James pushed through the chapel doors and abruptly froze.

  An entire congregation stared back at him in anticipation, as though he was supposed to do something. The priest had told him exactly what that was the prior evening, except the nervous man’s mousy blinks and constant flinching from him had been so distracting, James hadn’t been able to focus.

  A hand slapped against James’s back.

  “Good luck,” Bran whispered, and slipped away with such deft haste, he surely did not see James’s glare. The black cat trotted after him.

  A slender woman with Werrick golden hair and flashing blue eyes approached, her manner as authoritative as it was kind. “You shouldn’t be here yet,” she whispered. “Follow me.” She cast a chagrined look at Bran, who offered only a shrug in return. She led James from the chapel to yet another door, this one smaller and far less ornate.

  “You have your bag of gold coins?” She asked.

  James nodded. “Are ye Marin?”

  Her smile was bright and immediate. “Aye, forgive me my lack of introduction. And you are James Graham.”

  He almost replied, but as soon as the simple door had been pushed open, all thought fled his mind. The small room of the chapel was crowded with the Earl of Werrick and his steward, William, as well as the twitchy priest. And Anice.r />
  James swallowed hard and forced his feet forward.

  “Isn’t she lovely?” Marin cast a knowing glance at him.

  “Lovely” was not adequate. Even “beautiful” was lacking. She was like an angel in a gown of glittering gold and white, her blonde hair in perfect waves with part of it pushed back over her shoulders to expose more of her face.

  “You are both of age, and the match is not consanguineous.” The priest looked up at him and blinked. “You are marrying of your own consent?”

  “Aye,” James replied without thought.

  “The dowry is in order?” The priest asked.

  “Aye,” William said. “The coin is on its way to Carlisle as we speak, and the transfer of land will be complete as of this afternoon.”

  The priest looked up at James once more and took a step back, as though realizing his own insignificant size beside the warrior. “The bag of gold?” he squeaked.

  James pulled it from his pocket, grateful the bag was of quality leather rather than the aged ruddy one he’d carried his own coin about in for years. Anice unfurled her slender fingers and the weight of the bag settled into her white palm. Later, those coins would be handed out to the poor to ensure a blessing on their marriage.

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him and James’s entire world melted away.

  This woman, this exquisite creature whose beauty was such that it nearly hurt his eyes to gaze upon her, would be his wife. Today. In name, and…in bed.

  He swallowed again.

  “Let us proceed.” The priest then instructed them to return to the chapel and make the proper entrances.

  They did as they were told, with Anice leading due to her family’s rank, and him following with only his father at his side. As their best swordsman, Drake stood by the church’s entrance to ensure all would go accordingly and without interruption.

  The ceremony was performed mostly in Latin, a language James’s mother had forced him to learn. Regardless, he had never held affection for the language. It always felt like too many words jumbled into one’s mouth and ears. It was a short ceremony, an overwhelming affair in which one’s soul and eternity were quickly, and irrevocably, bound.

  James drew the ring from the pouch at his belt, a slender gold band with a small blue gem. Keeping with custom, he placed it on the third finger of her right hand. With that token, they were wed, the deed needing only be sealed with a kiss.

  In the years of James’s life, he had fought many battles. He had reived his fair share of livestock, hidden from the law for his misdeeds, and been chased by more Armstrongs than he cared to count. Through it all, he had maintained his calm the way a good warrior ought to. Calm breathing, a clear mind, a steady heartbeat.

  Until now.

  There, in front of many curious faces staring in their direction, James’s pulse thundered erratically. It continued as he gently tilted Anice’s chin upward, and even still as he lowered his mouth to hers. The touch of their lips was tender, soft, painfully erotic in its innocence and its significance.

  She was his.

  15

  A troubadour’s voice rose up through the great hall and captured the attention of everyone in the great hall. Everyone except Anice.

  How could she possibly concentrate? James sat beside her, his legs casually spread, one strong thigh nearly brushing hers. She could scarcely breathe, for the heat of his body so close to her own. It was a simple thing, she knew, but coupled with the memory of his kisses, with her entire body longing to burn with their shared passion, it was nearly unbearable.

  She flicked a glance up to see if he watched her, and his gaze darted quickly from her to the troubadour. A smile tugged at her lips.

  He had been observing her.

  No doubt, he was the only one, with everyone else so enraptured in the troubadour’s tale. Emboldened by this knowledge, she pushed her legs toward James, so her thigh pressed against his. He shifted his attention back to her. There was something in his stare, bright and eager. A shared desire.

  Lust.

  She took a hasty swallow of wine to wet her suddenly dry throat. The aching heat between her thighs left her agitated, consumed with anticipation for the very powerful maleness of him.

  He rested his hand on his knee in a casual gesture none would assume was amiss in any way. Beneath the cover of the table, his fingers slid over her skirt, brushing at her thigh. Her breath caught.

  She settled her right hand on his where the ring tying their souls together sparkled alongside the ruby from her mother.

  The troubadour finished his song and the hall erupted into applause. James withdrew his hand to clap along with the others.

  The food was brought out then, heaps of quality meat with thick, savory sauces and fluffy baked bread. Nan had been working at preparations for the better part of the week and it truly showed.

  Only, Anice could hardly taste a bite of it. How could she when she was consumed with the low-burning simmer in her stomach? Her sisters, her servants, her friends—they had all gone to such lengths to ensure her perfect wedding feast. Through it all, she could think of nothing more than James’s hands and mouth on her, his sword and her sheath.

  She had to swallow a giggle down on the last one.

  After the feast she had not tasted, and the glass of wine she couldn’t swallow, came the dancing. James and Anice were the first to grace the cleared area of the great hall, their movements stiff and formal beneath the gaze of all in attendance. But as other dancers began to join in, as they became more obstructed from view, James pulled her closer, letting his touch linger longer, until she could take no more.

  She tilted her head toward his own. “Surely it is time for bed, is it not?”

  “God, I hope so.” His hands on her tightened, a possessive flex of his fingers.

  After the music had drawn to a close, James held her hand aloft. “Ye all may drink and dine ’til morn, but I’ve a wife to see to now.”

  The rowdy calls and cheers answered his statement. That he would keep her up through the night, that they both might be thoroughly exhausted the next day, that she might ride him well.

  Anice was inclined to agree with them. Except the latter, of which she was rather uncertain in its meaning, but she intended to find out.

  Laird Graham pushed through the crowd. “We have to ensure the consummation happens.” He narrowed his shrewd, glittering gaze. “We canna have ye backing out of the agreement with an annulment if it isna consummated.”

  It will be a failure.

  Leila’s words inserted themselves into Anice’s thoughts once more, a loud cry of warning.

  “Nay.” James stepped in front of Anice. “The ceremony of putting us to bed willna happen.”

  “It happens,” Laird Graham growled, “Or this marriage doesna exist.”

  “’Tis fine,” Anice said quickly. The less arguing done, the more quickly they could be upstairs together. Alone. Naked.

  If this marriage was truly doomed for failure, she would at least enjoy it for the pleasures she could reap. For too long, her body had hungered with curiosity at what transpired between a man and a woman, beyond swords and sheaths mimicked with fingers and hands.

  Laird Graham rubbed his hands against one another and summoned the lot of the party. They walked them to Anice’s chambers, which would act as the marital bed until they left for Carlisle. Except no one had the patience to stay to see them disrobed and put to bed, not with the free-flowing spirits and platters of remaining food remaining at the great hall.

  Ella, however, did take a moment to pluck the blue ribbon from Anice’s hair, hugging it to her chest. No doubt her heart was filled with dreams of marriage for love, a marriage of her choice.

  Anice was beyond such girlish dreams. What she wanted now, she wanted as a woman.

  Laird Graham lingered until Isla grabbed his arm and hauled him from the room, leaving James and Anice finally alone with the door closed and locked.

  Anice
had only to meet James’s hot stare before he drew her into his arms and his mouth caught hers. He tasted of ale and wonderful spicy male. With one arm curled around her for support, he edged her back to the wall, pinning her there with his hard body.

  Anice rose on tiptoe to kiss him, her face tilted upward. Her neck pinched at the angle, but the reward was well worth the effort. His lips, his tongue. Nipping, licking, kissing, sucking.

  He grabbed her bottom with his hands and hoisted her up onto his waist, holding her aloft with the press of his pelvis to hers. She had to spread her legs to accommodate the new position. It left her center open beneath the layers of costly fabric, and the hard length of him jutting against her.

  Pleasure tore through her like torrents of fire. Every nerve tingled and heated, wanting more and more and more. She’d fantasized of him here, like this, with her back against the wall and his hips thrusting against hers.

  Why was he making her wait so long? Why did he not push up her skirts and extinguish the burning ache at her core?

  “Please, James,” she panted.

  His mouth dragged up her neck and his reply rasped in her ear. “What do ye want?”

  “You.” She arched her hips to show how genuinely she did desire him, how frustrated she was with the drag of time.

  That was when she sensed the subtle dam holding back his power splinter apart, and the tide of his strength breaking through.

  James’s brain could barely form a thought. His body was fueled by pure desire. He stroked his tongue deeply into her mouth, his hands groping and teasing. All the while, his cock strained with ferocity into the soft heat buried beneath layers of Anice’s gown.

  She wanted him.

  She wanted him.

  He tugged her bodice down and pulled free one creamy, pink-tipped breast. Perfection. His mouth closed on it, pulling deep, while his tongue flicked against the hardening bud.

  Anice cried out and clutched his head to her bosom. She was grinding her hips against his, an awkward motion against the wall to be sure, but the friction still nearly drove him mad.