her want to wrap her arms around herself to keep from shivering.
Straightening her spine, she shook off her alarm. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Little liar.”
Arrogant pig. Of a truth, she would have no remorse at all when she could finally stick him with the dagger.
“Bah!” her father said, spittle spewing from his mouth. He glared at her. “You little whore. You want him, don’t you?”
Stunned, she stared at her father. It felt as though he’d kicked her in the stomach. How could she tell him about the knife? About Gwyneth?
“Fath—”
He cut her off with a jerk of his head. “You were more than willing to marry my enemy.”
Her cheeks prickled. No matter what was between them, how could her father think that she would simply marry the enemy? Why was he so hot and cold to her? He had just defended her a moment ago…at once, she hated Montgomery for his part in making her father turn further against her.
“I did not want to marry at all, Father,” she said quietly.
Montgomery’s lips turned downward in a nearly imperceptible frown, and she found herself amazed that stone could show any emotion at all.
“Enough, old man.” He motioned toward the man holding the crossbow. “Gabriel, find a tower to lock him in.”
Gritting her teeth, Brenna forced herself to be patient.
She gasped as her new husband clamped her wrist and yanked her forward.
The monster!
Anger flared inside her. She glared at his back as he stalked out of the chapel into the damp spring air, irritated that she was forced to either follow or be dragged.
Dark clouds gathered in the east and the scent of rain hung heavily in the sky. She contemplated yanking the dagger out of her bodice and stabbing him in the back. No doubt, his men would cut her down afore she could even blink. And slay her family asides.
Nay, she must wait until Adele gave the signal.
The castlefolk lingered nearby watching, but no one stepped forward to help her.
“Paulin,” she called to a servant.
He shrank back, hiding partially behind the cistern and pulling his hat over his face. Others averted their eyes.
Damnation! Do they all think I am a traitor?
Glowering at her devil of a husband, she vowed that by day’s end all here would know where her loyalties lay, and his life would be forfeit. She would go to Italy as a heroine instead of a shamed woman.
Chapter Three
She’d slapped him! In front of his men, no less. The little wench.
Years ago, the first lesson he had learned as The King’s Enforcer was that without respect, one could not lead. Faded scars crisscrossed his back—tokens of the mutiny from the one smuggler he’d been merciful with.
He would not make that mistake with his own wife.
If he hadn’t seen the look on her face when her father had called her a whore, he’d be tempted to bend her straight over his knee and give her the spanking she so soundly deserved.
But even in his anger, he hadn’t missed the stung, hurt look in her eyes.
Ne’ertheless, she would learn who was master here. His tunic needed washing, his body needed bathing, and his boots needed polishing. Acts she could perform. Furthermore, he was hungry; she would feed him.
Tallow candle smoke stung James’s eyes as he stalked down the hallway towing his hellcat wife in his wake. Her silver-blue wedding dress swished along the rushes as she scurried to keep up with him.
They reached her chamber in the north tower, and, barking a command for one of his men to bring a bathing tub and heated water, he pushed the door open and drew her inside. The door slammed with a loud, shutter-rattling bang.
He released his wife, and she scampered away to the window seat embrasure as if her dress were on fire. She sat there staring at him, willfulness in her emerald eyes. The butterfly headdress and trailing veil covered her head, allowing him only the barest glimpse of her copper colored locks, which curled out the sides.
Yards and yards of dazzling blue material trimmed in ermine surrounded her slight body—but the wedding gown looked too delicate for her strong spirit. It might have fit her, but it did not suit her at all. The thin scar across her face reddened slightly in color as if blood coursed through her in an angry rush.
Dragging her off to her chamber hadn’t diminished her insolence one bit.
Scrutinizing her chamber, he debated where to start her training.
Three windows were built into the stone wall: two small ones and a large one with a window seat that his new wife sat upon. The room contained minimal furnishings for a noblewoman: it had a bed, a rough trestle table with two drawers, a three-legged stool, and a dressing screen.
Oddly, a maze of religious paintings were scattered all around the floor and walls. Boards and parchments leaned around the perimeter of the room with depictions of religious scenes of the Annunciation and baptism of Christ. His gaze went back to the trestle.
Pots of color pigment, oils, eggs, rags, and an artist palette crowded the desktop and five or six paintbrushes spotted the floor beneath it.
Paintings. He had been so focused on collecting his new bride when he’d burst into the room before, he had not even noticed that she was an artist.
For an instant, he thought of the small, exquisite miniatures that the king wanted him to look for. If his new wife was the artist of those, then there was no reason to even attempt at creating a marriage or establishing his place as her lord—his duty would require him to haul her to London and deliver her to his liege. Surely the painting was only a coincidence—she was a noble daughter from a good family, a virgin with no carnal knowledge. Still—
Taking her by the upper arm, he lugged her off the window embrasure and pointed around the room. “Who painted these?”
She straightened her spine. “I did.”
He scrutinized her for a moment, then picked through the artistic rubble on the desk. Every brush he turned over made her twitch as if barely contained outrage jumped beneath her skin.
Tough.
She may as well get used to him. And used to him touching her things. And touching her as well.
The desk was made in the fashion of a rough-hewn trestle table with two crude drawers beneath the surface.
Keeping his hand wrapped around her upper arm, he opened a drawer and searched inside. It was unlikely that the artist the king wanted to hang was a woman, and even more unlikely that it was his new wife. But he had learned to be thorough. She flinched as he opened the second drawer and slipped his hand
