style="font-size:15px;"> Of a truth, she had been looking over him that way. But only for the sake of her art, she told her seared conscience.
Reaching out, he grasped her hand and drew her forward.
A frisson of heat skipped through her, seeming to land right in her woman’s core. She scowled, wondering what she should do.
Turning her face to one side, she peered into the bailey and hoped for the signal.
Naught but men and horses and servants were in the field.
Catching her glancing out the open window, James marched over and drew the curtain closed.
Devil take it! She’d have to find a way to open them a crack if she was going to see the candle in Adele’s window.
Night was still hours away though. She had time.
Montgomery’s male member bobbed in the air, pointing the way as he walked back to her. It had lost some of its size and stiffness but was still rather impressive. Brenna found it impossible not to watch, wanting to memorize the look of it for her paintings.
“You are very curious for a virgin.”
Her gaze snapped to his face. His lips lifted in a smug, half-smile. Arrogant. He’s beautiful and he knows it. Absolutely flawless and exquisite.
Like Gwyneth.
Unlike herself.
Swallowing, she raised her hand self-consciously to the scar on her cheek and was glad she still wore her headdress and wedding veil to cover up her hacked off hair. Between her fascination and her anger, she’d forgotten how most men reacted to her looks—or lack thereof.
He stepped toward her and touched the scar, running his index finger along the bumpy ridge from her nose to her ear.
She shivered and ducked her head.
Catching her chin between his fingers, he turned her face back up to his. “What happened?” He appeared more interested than put off by her disfigurement.
“I’ve had it since I was a child. My curiosity has oft gotten me into trouble,” she said, sidestepping the question.
He smiled. “I like your curiosity, and you are a child no longer. We have all the day and night for you to examine me all you wish.”
She blinked. Her heart sped and she wondered at the game he played. It had been her expectation that he would jump on her straightaway and force her to his will, not calmly play the part of a suitor by allowing her to explore his body to her satisfaction.
A knock sounded, interrupting the awkward moment between them. Thank heavens.
A man carrying a wooden tub entered along with a line of servants with buckets of steaming water.
Heedless of his nakedness, Montgomery indicated for them to place the bathing tub beside the bed. He propped one hip against the mattress and crossed his arms, watching dispassionately as the men poured the water into it. His mannerism was so casual that if he hadn’t been bare arse naked in front of her, she would have thought he was dressed and ready for a parley with the queen.
She felt her cheeks prickle. Having been used to dealing with the erotic subject of her own paintings, it had been years since anyone had truly disconcerted her. If the servants thought it odd that he was naked, no one said anything or gave any indication by wink or look. Did their master often parade about unclad?
After the men left, Montgomery stepped forward and slowly lowered himself into the steaming tub. He had to bend his knees a great deal to fit.
Silver swirls climbed into the air and drops of water slithered down his large body as he splashed some on himself. Droplets caught in the crisp black hair on his chest. His member had softened and it bobbed gently on the surface of the water.
She found herself wishing she could paint him here like this.
“Do you have soap?” he asked.
“Yea, um. Yes.” She glanced around, trying to not be completely befuddled that a naked warrior was in her chamber. As if he’d jumped out of one of her paintings—only the live one had a full male member and bullocks attached. “I’ll get some.”
As she walked across the floor planks to her dressing screen, she looked down the bodice of her gown to see the top of the dagger’s hilt to gain courage. The knife was well hidden in the folds of her wedding dress. How odd to be fully dressed—and dressed so elaborately—whilst he was naked.
Once behind the screen, she unpinned the butterfly headdress, set it on a small table, and refastened the veil on her head to cover up her cropped hair. How did her sister wear such contraptions without having an awful headache?
Taking a rag and a cake of soap, she brought them to the edge of the tub. Her heart began to pound as she realized he expected her to scrub him.
Such an opportunity to explore the male body! The knowledge would add life to her paintings. She tamped down a niggling of guilt that she would be using him in this way. Her father oft railed at her that she should focus on important matters. She should be thinking of escape and saving her family, not artwork.
Trying not to seem too eager, she bent and wetted the rag in the side of the tub. The back of her hand grazed his leg, and even more interest sparked inside her.
No matter how beastlike the man within it, his body would be a joy to capture on parchment—nay, on canvas. Parchment would be too crude for such a subject. Brother Giffard assured her that canvas was aplenty in Italy.
Rounding to where she stood behind him, she rubbed the cake of soap on the rag and squeezed the cloth out across his shoulders. The water trickled down the curve of his spine. He leaned forward and she ran the washcloth up one side of his back and down the other in a slow circle.
“Mmmmmmm,” he said.
She smiled. Getting him relaxed and off guard was good.
Leaning forward, she pressed her hand lower in the hot water. She allowed her greedy fingers access to his skin, trying to memorize every fiber and muscle so she could transfer it to the canvas later. Heat rose inside her. Who knows but this might be her last chance to ever see a naked man so close.
In her mind, she knew it was evil that she did not feel properly ashamed or beset with nerves. Surely God would forgive her this one sin. She tamped down her guilt: she would save her confession for when she reached the convent.
Water slopped on the bodice of her gown as she worked her hands over Montgomery. She soaped his neck and rinsed it, then moved to the side of the tub so she could reach his torso. The area betwixt her legs seemed wetter than usual, and she felt a little dizzy.
His skin was not as soft as hers, and his chest hair felt interesting against her palm. Crisp and slightly rough. His firm muscles, alive with vitality, flinched under her touch. She dipped her hand lower.
Montgomery drew in a sharp breath as her hand touched the inside of his thigh.
“Of a truth, wife, you please me greatly. I had thought we were ill suited.”
Shocked
