was stony.
“Are you saying you wish you'd been offered a choice?” he asked tightly, the tension in his jaw made the angles of his face stand out more starkly than usual. With a rush of dismay, she realized that she had not only questioned him in public, but far worse, she had given personal offense. Her eyes filled with tears. “No. I mean, yes. But no,” she shook her head, realizing she was making no sense. “What I mean to say is that...” She abandoned any attempt to answer his question. “Bronson, I'm sorry.”
“Answer the question.”
She sighed and chose her words carefully. “I did wish I'd been offered a choice. You know that— I was wary enough of the king's choice to run away and risk your wrath and that of the king. But surely you also know that if I were given a choice today there is no man in the world I would pick but you.”
Bronson stared at her. “So really you could not have been trusted to make your own choice.”
Julia's anger flared. She slapped her palm on the table. “The king did not make the choice with my interests in mind at all!”
Bronson raised his eyebrows in warning at her outburst, but he spoke with exaggerated patience. “Julia, the king knows me. I have fought by his side. He knew I would not mistreat any wife he chose for me.”
“Oh so I am just any wife, now, am I?” Julia started to get up from the table.
Bronson pulled her back down. “Do not walk away from me unless you've been dismissed,” he said.
She flushed.
“Yes, Bronson,” he prompted.
“Yes, Bronson,” she whispered, feeling suddenly defeated. She stared at her hands in her lap. He lifted her chin and looked at her silently for a moment. “Come on, let's go upstairs.”
He dismissed his squires and her maid from their undressing duties and flopped on the bed, fully clothed. She pulled off his boots herself and he gave her a faint smile and patted the bed next to him. Her palms were sweating as she pulled off her dress and climbed up next to him in her shift.
He was lying on his side, his head propped on one hand. He wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her in closer to him and began tracing her ear, like he had done that first night in his tent. The memory of it made her tears start again.
“What do you wish me to do?” he asked heavily.
“About me?” she whispered.
He frowned. “No, about the widow.”
“Oh.” She stopped crying and sat up. The widow was the least of her concerns at that point. “I'm sure you know best,” she said at last.
He rolled his eyes and blew out his breath. “Then what are we quarreling about, Julia?”
“Are you going to beat me now, Bronson?”
“What?” Now he sat up.
“For questioning you in front of your men?”
He raised that one eyebrow again, a look she was beginning to fear. He cocked his head to the side. “Well.... I had not planned on beating you,” he said slowly and she kicked herself for saying anything. “But mayhap that would help to clear the air.”
Like a coward, she started to scramble away from him. His hand closed on her arm and he shook his head. “Don't run from me,” he said quietly. “If you have courage enough to stand up to me at our dining table, you can have courage enough to face in me in our chambers.”
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Bronson.”
A ghost of a smile played around his mouth. “Come here,” he said patting his lap.
She swallowed. At least he didn't have a belt in his hand. She slowly crawled over his lap and put herself into place, pressing her face into the blankets of the bed in shame. He lifted her shift slowly, his hand trailing up her leg and across her newly exposed bottom with the feel of a caress. She shivered at the feel of his fingers on her bare skin and the fear of anticipation.
She gasped with the first smack and hunched her shoulders, burrowing her head
“Are you saying you wish you'd been offered a choice?” he asked tightly, the tension in his jaw made the angles of his face stand out more starkly than usual. With a rush of dismay, she realized that she had not only questioned him in public, but far worse, she had given personal offense. Her eyes filled with tears. “No. I mean, yes. But no,” she shook her head, realizing she was making no sense. “What I mean to say is that...” She abandoned any attempt to answer his question. “Bronson, I'm sorry.”
“Answer the question.”
She sighed and chose her words carefully. “I did wish I'd been offered a choice. You know that— I was wary enough of the king's choice to run away and risk your wrath and that of the king. But surely you also know that if I were given a choice today there is no man in the world I would pick but you.”
Bronson stared at her. “So really you could not have been trusted to make your own choice.”
Julia's anger flared. She slapped her palm on the table. “The king did not make the choice with my interests in mind at all!”
Bronson raised his eyebrows in warning at her outburst, but he spoke with exaggerated patience. “Julia, the king knows me. I have fought by his side. He knew I would not mistreat any wife he chose for me.”
“Oh so I am just any wife, now, am I?” Julia started to get up from the table.
Bronson pulled her back down. “Do not walk away from me unless you've been dismissed,” he said.
She flushed.
“Yes, Bronson,” he prompted.
“Yes, Bronson,” she whispered, feeling suddenly defeated. She stared at her hands in her lap. He lifted her chin and looked at her silently for a moment. “Come on, let's go upstairs.”
He dismissed his squires and her maid from their undressing duties and flopped on the bed, fully clothed. She pulled off his boots herself and he gave her a faint smile and patted the bed next to him. Her palms were sweating as she pulled off her dress and climbed up next to him in her shift.
He was lying on his side, his head propped on one hand. He wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her in closer to him and began tracing her ear, like he had done that first night in his tent. The memory of it made her tears start again.
“What do you wish me to do?” he asked heavily.
“About me?” she whispered.
He frowned. “No, about the widow.”
“Oh.” She stopped crying and sat up. The widow was the least of her concerns at that point. “I'm sure you know best,” she said at last.
He rolled his eyes and blew out his breath. “Then what are we quarreling about, Julia?”
“Are you going to beat me now, Bronson?”
“What?” Now he sat up.
“For questioning you in front of your men?”
He raised that one eyebrow again, a look she was beginning to fear. He cocked his head to the side. “Well.... I had not planned on beating you,” he said slowly and she kicked herself for saying anything. “But mayhap that would help to clear the air.”
Like a coward, she started to scramble away from him. His hand closed on her arm and he shook his head. “Don't run from me,” he said quietly. “If you have courage enough to stand up to me at our dining table, you can have courage enough to face in me in our chambers.”
“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Bronson.”
A ghost of a smile played around his mouth. “Come here,” he said patting his lap.
She swallowed. At least he didn't have a belt in his hand. She slowly crawled over his lap and put herself into place, pressing her face into the blankets of the bed in shame. He lifted her shift slowly, his hand trailing up her leg and across her newly exposed bottom with the feel of a caress. She shivered at the feel of his fingers on her bare skin and the fear of anticipation.
She gasped with the first smack and hunched her shoulders, burrowing her head
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