man’s face changed, as if he’d just fully woken up. He shuddered, crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders. “Stryker will have something to say, no doubt, but he should not have been gone so long. What else was I to do? A man can’t wait forever to get his daughter married.”
Until now, Dominic had not known of any other claimant. This discovery caused a stillness to invade his body, a chill that hardened his resolve and tightened his muscles, ready to fight. But this other man—this Bloodaxe—was probably some old fool, or the pixie would have wed him by now. He’d seen for himself how full of yearning she was. Clearly no other man here had tempted her enough to relinquish her maidenhead. Bloodaxe could be no serious competition.
“I’m certain, Gudderth, that she will come to her senses and realize this is for the best,” he muttered.
The old fellow nodded in an absent-minded manner and trundled off for the orchard, his feet weaving a haphazard course through more puddles than he managed to avoid, his crooked hem trailing in the dirt. Once he was out of sight, Dominic released the woman behind him. Scrambling up on her knees, gasping for breath, she peppered him with curses and then reached behind her. He saw she had a large ball of dung in her hand. It sailed over his head and smacked into the side of the barn.
He shook his head. “Bad aim.”
The second one came closer; the third required he duck hastily. The woman was fast on the re-load, he mused. He wouldn’t want to see her at the operating end of a trebuchet if he was under siege behind fortress walls. But there was something even more beautiful and enticing about her while she stood in the dung heap, cursing the air until it was as blue as her eyes.
Instead of retreating, he surprised her by ducking low and rushing forward. She had nowhere to go and could not climb over the wall in time. He grabbed her around the hips and lifted her easily over his shoulder.
“Don’t fear, pixie,” he muttered, breathless. “I’ll marry you. Stop fretting. No need for this temper tantrum.”
“You swine! Put me down at once.” She slapped at his buttocks now, which was all she could reach as he carried her across the yard to the water trough.
“You need washing off now. I can’t marry a wench that smells of horse shit.”
“I’ll tell my father what you did.”
“He won’t care. You are mine now. He lost you to me, along with his land.”
As he lowered her feet first into the trough, she hissed at him, “Stop saying that. I am not your property. I am not some chattel.”
“You will be my wife, Elzinora. Chattel is exactly what a wife is.”
“Argh! Why have I agreed to this? I must be mad.”
So she had agreed? Dominic hadn’t realized until that moment. She’d seemed torn between her wants, needs, and what she thought she should say. She’d welcomed his hand between her thighs, climaxed so hard on him that she almost took his fingers off—and then she’d slapped his face. He hoped she would not always be so difficult to understand, but she was a woman, of course. She might never make sense to him.
While his bride-to-be stood in the water, cursing at her misfortunes, Dominic lifted her gown to her knees and splashed her legs with water, washing away the streak of blood. He stroked higher under her gown and along her soft thighs with a lingering caress, scooping up curved palms full of the sun-warmed water to cleanse her body intimately. She stopped complaining. His own arousal had not subsided. It ached, tormented. But he would save that for their wedding night. Now he took care of her, suffering a spur of guilt at what he’d done, even though it was purely accidental.
How could he not marry her now that he’d taken her maidenhead? The decision was out of his hands and hers. Dominic Coeur-du-Loup would have a wife whether he wanted one or not. Whether it was convenient or not. His conscience would allow him no other choice. It
Until now, Dominic had not known of any other claimant. This discovery caused a stillness to invade his body, a chill that hardened his resolve and tightened his muscles, ready to fight. But this other man—this Bloodaxe—was probably some old fool, or the pixie would have wed him by now. He’d seen for himself how full of yearning she was. Clearly no other man here had tempted her enough to relinquish her maidenhead. Bloodaxe could be no serious competition.
“I’m certain, Gudderth, that she will come to her senses and realize this is for the best,” he muttered.
The old fellow nodded in an absent-minded manner and trundled off for the orchard, his feet weaving a haphazard course through more puddles than he managed to avoid, his crooked hem trailing in the dirt. Once he was out of sight, Dominic released the woman behind him. Scrambling up on her knees, gasping for breath, she peppered him with curses and then reached behind her. He saw she had a large ball of dung in her hand. It sailed over his head and smacked into the side of the barn.
He shook his head. “Bad aim.”
The second one came closer; the third required he duck hastily. The woman was fast on the re-load, he mused. He wouldn’t want to see her at the operating end of a trebuchet if he was under siege behind fortress walls. But there was something even more beautiful and enticing about her while she stood in the dung heap, cursing the air until it was as blue as her eyes.
Instead of retreating, he surprised her by ducking low and rushing forward. She had nowhere to go and could not climb over the wall in time. He grabbed her around the hips and lifted her easily over his shoulder.
“Don’t fear, pixie,” he muttered, breathless. “I’ll marry you. Stop fretting. No need for this temper tantrum.”
“You swine! Put me down at once.” She slapped at his buttocks now, which was all she could reach as he carried her across the yard to the water trough.
“You need washing off now. I can’t marry a wench that smells of horse shit.”
“I’ll tell my father what you did.”
“He won’t care. You are mine now. He lost you to me, along with his land.”
As he lowered her feet first into the trough, she hissed at him, “Stop saying that. I am not your property. I am not some chattel.”
“You will be my wife, Elzinora. Chattel is exactly what a wife is.”
“Argh! Why have I agreed to this? I must be mad.”
So she had agreed? Dominic hadn’t realized until that moment. She’d seemed torn between her wants, needs, and what she thought she should say. She’d welcomed his hand between her thighs, climaxed so hard on him that she almost took his fingers off—and then she’d slapped his face. He hoped she would not always be so difficult to understand, but she was a woman, of course. She might never make sense to him.
While his bride-to-be stood in the water, cursing at her misfortunes, Dominic lifted her gown to her knees and splashed her legs with water, washing away the streak of blood. He stroked higher under her gown and along her soft thighs with a lingering caress, scooping up curved palms full of the sun-warmed water to cleanse her body intimately. She stopped complaining. His own arousal had not subsided. It ached, tormented. But he would save that for their wedding night. Now he took care of her, suffering a spur of guilt at what he’d done, even though it was purely accidental.
How could he not marry her now that he’d taken her maidenhead? The decision was out of his hands and hers. Dominic Coeur-du-Loup would have a wife whether he wanted one or not. Whether it was convenient or not. His conscience would allow him no other choice. It
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