Bronson was so unlike the men she saw around the village. They worked hard in a different way. Where they grew their own food, raised animals, and slaughtered them for food, Bronson slaughtered men, rode atop his stallion, and had all others cower before him. He was a leader, and all he had to do was step into a room for that to be known. And now he was her husband, and the one who would take that innocence from her tonight as he had so easily mentioned just moments before.
“Ye donna need tae apologize, lass, and ye donna need tae call me lord o’ anything. Ye are my wife now.” He held her stare for several more seconds. “And that innocence will soon be mine, lass, especially once I have ye in my bed.”
Gods, the way he said those things had her uncomfortably wet between her thighs, and with no undergarments to shield that sensation, she shifted on the chair. Her nipples grew hard and achy, and her thoughts went to very naughty things she had never dreamed of envisioning. She feared that once she had a taste of Bronson, she would never be able to get enough. If she felt this way with a few soft touches and filthy words, would she even be able to come out of this unscathed once he was between her thighs? Did she really want to?
Women with elaborate dresses walked in with platters of more food.
She’d never known such lavish living. It seemed so grossly flaunted.
“My sweet wee wife,” he growled. “Ye are the only woman I will ever sate my lusts with, lovely. Ye are the only one who will ever kno’ my touch, my kiss—” He leaned in so close only she heard him now.“—and my cock.”
Her throat closed at his words. But before she could respond, more platters of game, poultry, and even whole pigs were set in the center of the tables. The warriors dug in like they were insatiable in their hunger.
She looked away, and he then grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her head, gently holding her gaze with his.
A gasp left her at the feel of his soft touch. It felt like fire in the best possible way.
“So responsive,” he murmured in a low, deep voice that sent shivers right up her spine. He lowered his gaze to her mouth, and she licked her lips on instinct.
She didn’t want to respond, didn’t want to admit she liked the way he touched her, that she was needy with desire. His eyes were so very blue, but the longer he held her gaze, the more his pupils dilated and ate up the vibrant color.
“Does my touch please you?” He had a hooded, pleasure-filled expression on his face.
She thought about not answering, but a second later, the words tumbled free. “It arouses me,” she said low, breathy, and couldn’t hide the fact that she was turned on.
He made a low, animal-like sound, and she parted her lips involuntarily. He leaned in another inch. “I’m going tae devour ye, lass,” he growled. “I canna wait ‘til I have ye under me, surrendering that sweet body, and letting yer warrior husband claim ye.” He was breathing harder, and like before, everything faded away. “I want ye verra much, Genevieve, so much I ache inside.”
And she wanted him too right then. The dinner was forgotten, and all Genevieve could focus on was her husband and the things he whispered that only she could hear.
She didn’t know how long they stayed there, feasted, and enjoyed the celebrations, but all too soon, people left them alone.
Bronson stood, took her hand, and led her out of the dining hall without saying a thing to anyone. No one stopped them. Then again, who in their right mind would stop a man like Bronson Lyon?
Chapter Eight
Bronson led her out of the dining hall, through the corridors of the manor, and straight into his chambers. He had called for one of the servants to bring the priest, and when they arrived at his chamber, the priest was already waiting to bless their marriage bed. He waited until the priest was finished, and once they were alone in the corridor, he picked up his wee wife and carried her over the threshold.
When he had taken back Landonston for his own, the manor was ran by a bastard of a man. St. Gerrard had ignored the pleas of the villagers and didn’t care if his people had no food or water, were dying of disease, or that the land was going to shite. The arsehole wanted nothing more than to enjoy the women he forced himself upon, gorge himself on food he stole from others, and grow big and fat before dying at the end of Bronson’s blade. For years, Bronson had been fighting to reclaim what was rightfully his, had killed many men to make that a possibility.