still passing by the door behind him. Of the well-born women he'd met there were two types: those who wanted to make a secret pet of him, binding his tongue to silence and his body to their beds, and those who believed all male commoners prayed for the chance to rape their female betters, even though every commoner knew attacking a gentlewoman guaranteed him a grisly death.
The lady wasn't of the first type, of that Michel was certain. Her repute was stainless despite her somewhat relaxed manner with those men she called friends. Against that he'd assumed she was of the second type. Yet she neither cried out nor shrank from him. Instead, her sultry mouth narrowed to an angry line. She lifted her chin another notch then looked through him as if he didn’t exist.
It was the toss of the gauntlet and Michel couldn't resist the challenge. Until John openly refused him her, this was his wife. He might tolerate her hatred but he would not allow her to ignore him.
Michel set his hands on the wall behind her, positioning them low enough that she couldn’t duck beneath his arms to escape him. His cloak slid forward on either arm to curtain them, adding to the already odd intimacy of this space. He shifted toward her, stopping when there was but a bare inch between them. His head lowered until his mouth was no more than a finger’s width from her lips. Her breath was an angry hiss against his cheek. The faint scent of roses wafted from her.
“Now madam, turn your shoulder to me,” he whispered. “Try and deny my existence.”
The blankness in her gaze dissolved, but not in fear. “Retreat this moment! I am the king’s ward. Touch me and you'll regret it.” Her words were no louder than his when Michel expected shrieks against his assault and shouts for someone to come save her.
“I am not touching you,” he retorted, his lips all but brushing her cheek.
The lady drew a quiet, shuddering breath. The heat of her body reached out to envelop him, her rosy scent owning a new muskiness. Then she softened in the most primal of invitations.
Startled, Michel shoved back from her, his hands dropping to his sides. May God take the king, but John was right! Repute aside, at her core this gentlewoman was a wild carnal creature, and riding her would be magnificently thrilling and ultimately satisfying.
He took another step back. She had closed her eyes, her lashes a dark fringe against the smooth curve of her cheek. Ah but her shoulders were yet held in that defiant line.
It told him that no matter her nature, she would reject him with every ounce of her being. If he rode her at all it would only be if he forced her. Hadn't he learned that lesson well enough in his father's house? His mother had despised his merchant-sire despite his wealth. To Michel's mother his father had always been the man who befouled her body with his seed and dirtied her life with the baseborn children whose presence she could not abide.
So it would be with this marriage. His wife would loathe him as he used her body to reclaim the prestige his mother's blood had once owned.
Turning, he pushed the antechamber’s open door to the side, startling yet another man in the endless stream of yoked fellows bearing buckets. All it took was a glance at his black mail. Whether coming or going from the king’s chamber, the men all shifted out of his path. Michel strode unimpeded down the hallway then descended the steps, putting needed distance between himself and his wife.
The humiliation over what had just happened was unbearable. That didn't stop Ami's senses from reveling in the commoner’s scent, savoring the smells of man, rain, horse sweat and wet woolen garments. Keeping her eyes clamped shut, she listened to the scrape of the mercenary's boots against the floor as he departed, then sank blindly down to once more sit upon the bench.
The king was right to name her whore. She hadn't needed witnesses to see her in the presence of the commoner or the
The lady wasn't of the first type, of that Michel was certain. Her repute was stainless despite her somewhat relaxed manner with those men she called friends. Against that he'd assumed she was of the second type. Yet she neither cried out nor shrank from him. Instead, her sultry mouth narrowed to an angry line. She lifted her chin another notch then looked through him as if he didn’t exist.
It was the toss of the gauntlet and Michel couldn't resist the challenge. Until John openly refused him her, this was his wife. He might tolerate her hatred but he would not allow her to ignore him.
Michel set his hands on the wall behind her, positioning them low enough that she couldn’t duck beneath his arms to escape him. His cloak slid forward on either arm to curtain them, adding to the already odd intimacy of this space. He shifted toward her, stopping when there was but a bare inch between them. His head lowered until his mouth was no more than a finger’s width from her lips. Her breath was an angry hiss against his cheek. The faint scent of roses wafted from her.
“Now madam, turn your shoulder to me,” he whispered. “Try and deny my existence.”
The blankness in her gaze dissolved, but not in fear. “Retreat this moment! I am the king’s ward. Touch me and you'll regret it.” Her words were no louder than his when Michel expected shrieks against his assault and shouts for someone to come save her.
“I am not touching you,” he retorted, his lips all but brushing her cheek.
The lady drew a quiet, shuddering breath. The heat of her body reached out to envelop him, her rosy scent owning a new muskiness. Then she softened in the most primal of invitations.
Startled, Michel shoved back from her, his hands dropping to his sides. May God take the king, but John was right! Repute aside, at her core this gentlewoman was a wild carnal creature, and riding her would be magnificently thrilling and ultimately satisfying.
He took another step back. She had closed her eyes, her lashes a dark fringe against the smooth curve of her cheek. Ah but her shoulders were yet held in that defiant line.
It told him that no matter her nature, she would reject him with every ounce of her being. If he rode her at all it would only be if he forced her. Hadn't he learned that lesson well enough in his father's house? His mother had despised his merchant-sire despite his wealth. To Michel's mother his father had always been the man who befouled her body with his seed and dirtied her life with the baseborn children whose presence she could not abide.
So it would be with this marriage. His wife would loathe him as he used her body to reclaim the prestige his mother's blood had once owned.
Turning, he pushed the antechamber’s open door to the side, startling yet another man in the endless stream of yoked fellows bearing buckets. All it took was a glance at his black mail. Whether coming or going from the king’s chamber, the men all shifted out of his path. Michel strode unimpeded down the hallway then descended the steps, putting needed distance between himself and his wife.
The humiliation over what had just happened was unbearable. That didn't stop Ami's senses from reveling in the commoner’s scent, savoring the smells of man, rain, horse sweat and wet woolen garments. Keeping her eyes clamped shut, she listened to the scrape of the mercenary's boots against the floor as he departed, then sank blindly down to once more sit upon the bench.
The king was right to name her whore. She hadn't needed witnesses to see her in the presence of the commoner or the