she countered. Her voice came out much softer than she had intended. Almost squeaky.
“True enough, my lady. But I’ll not have you slapping me in front of my men.”
She ducked her head, so she would not have to look at him. Smoothing the gigantic blue skirt over her knees, she composed herself. Acting the hellion would not accomplish her goal.
When she lifted her face again to his, she forced herself to soften her tone. “Fair enough. I will not do that again.” You’ll be dead.
“And I’ll have your apology.”
Gritting her teeth, she sucked in a deep breath. Patience, she told her seething emotions. Wait for the signal. Wait until your sisters have men in place.
He lifted one dark brow, his blue eyes watching her intently as if trying to conquer her with his gaze. He stood much too close. “Now, wife.”
“Forgive me.”
He gave her a small smile that looked more like a grimace. How had she thought he was perfect? He was irritating, irksome. Too large. Too controlling. Likely he’d be fingering all her painting brushes and oils again in a minute, smudging the work surface and muddling the pigments. She silently vowed she’d scour down all her supplies once she got rid of him.
Turning, he marched to the edge of the mattress, ripped back the bed curtains and sat down. ’Twas a relief to not have him so near.
Her bed linens did not have lace and bows as Gwyneth’s did. They were neither frilly nor overly feminine, yet he still looked very out of place against the pillows and cushions. The bed sagged against the weight of his armor and the red curtains fluttered.
She turned her gaze to the large painting of the battle between the archangel Michael and the devil. She was fighting the devil too.
The sound of Montgomery slapping his thigh in slow, calculated strokes cracked through the room. “Cross me again, and I’ll turn you over my knee and give you the spanking you deserve.”
Drawing on her inner strength, she gazed at him disdainfully, giving him her best you-are-beneath-me glare. “I’m no child to be spanked, sirrah.”
“Nay, but you are a wife who needs to learn to behave.”
Turning back to her task, she scrubbed harder at the slimy egg stuff, squeezing her rag so tightly her knuckles whitened. Two of her dress’s mother-of-pearl buttons snagged on the trunk and nearly popped loose. “I am packaging my art supplies as you demanded, am I not?”
“You said you would submit to any punishment I set forth as retribution.” Brushing the curtains aside, he leaned against one of the bedposts.
“I did not mean I would calmly allow you to spank me.”
He glanced at the closed wooden door. “Do you break our bargain already? Shall I fetch your father and finish what we began downstairs?”
The anger in her stomach gelled into a cold knot of fear. He could still have her father and sisters murdered. Her hand paused above the parchments she’d sat in the chest. “Nay.”
“You said, ‘punish me as you will,’ did you not?”
That was what she had said. She raised her chin, wanting to deny it, and knew she could not.
A blue flame sparked in his cobalt eyes—rich and warm and intense. For a second, his face was so breathtakingly masculine and flawless, she longed to be able to pick up one of her brushes and capture the blue of his eyes, the length of his lashes. She squelched the wayward thought.
Crooking his finger, he beckoned her toward him. “Come here, captive wife.”
Chapter Four
Her fascination evaporated, and she fought the urge to take the dagger and defend herself. Was he really planning to turn her over his knee? She glanced at his hands; they were huge and thick. No doubt they would sting like the devil. If only her sisters and father’s lives were not at stake. If only the men were ready and the signal given.
Gathering her courage, she stepped toward Montgomery. Her heart thumped against her ribcage and she feared the worst.
When she reached him, he took her chin between his fingers and turned her face this way and that. She forced herself to remain compliant. Fighting him physically would not win her victory. She had one chance—and that was to throw her knife—something she could not do at this close range and with him fully clothed and in armor.
Icy fear gripped her gut.
After what seemed like hours, he released her chin. “Very good. Your compliance serves you better than your insolence. Help me out of this armor. ’Tis bloody hot.”
Releasing a breath of relief that he was not planning to carry through with spanking her, she fought the urge to smile. Getting him out of his protective coverings would definitely make killing him easier.
But, ’twas best not to appear too eager or he would suspect something was afoot.
She silently vowed not to let her tongue or her irritation get the best of her. She would wait until Adele’s signal and follow Panthos through the woods as they had planned.
Montgomery held an arm out so she could unfasten the buckles of his vambrace and pauldron. As the plates fell away, she found herself marveling at the size of his limb, which was still encased in chain mail. His thickly muscled arm flexed, and the mail made a tiny metallic sound.
Standing this close to him, she could hear him breathe, a soft whispering that seemed fragile in contrast to the hard, sturdy man before her. Life was like that: frail and uncertain, even for a man of his size. ’Twas why she found capturing fleeting moments in oils and tempera so appealing.
She removed his other arm’s armor then moved to unbuckle his cuirass. Her fingers slid across fasteners on his side, and she felt entranced by the thickness of his chest. Slowly she removed the metal plates piece by piece. As she worked, she grew more and more awestruck by the artistry of his body. With each layer more and more of his masculinity was revealed.
She’d helped her father and brother plenty of times with their armor—’twas part of a noblewoman’s duty.
But always before it had seemed a dull chore, a drudgery disguised as duty. This man enthralled her like a deadly viper. Both beautiful and lethal.
She finished with the cuirass and helped him out of his chain mail shirt and gambeson until his chest was bare, save for a crucifix of springy hair and a silver heart-shaped locket that dangled on a plain leather cord. The fancy, filigreed piece of jewelry looked out of place against the masculine contours of his torso.
Curious, she reached for it.
“Nay.” His hand closed around the locket hiding it from her view before she could touch it. Power seemed to pulse through him like a tangible thing. Fearsome, loathsome even. Marvelous in its intensity as he protected the piece of jewelry from her eyes.
Was the locket a family heirloom? A gift from a lover? She could not fathom why a hardened warrior would wear something so delicate.
Without
