As soon as the robe was belted tightly around Margaret’s slim waist, the door to the chamber burst open. Lord Roland stood in the doorway, his arms braced on either side, holding back the crowd of boisterous revelers. “Good even, wife,” his deep voice boomed.
Margaret kept her gaze on the floor, afraid her intentions would be written on her face. It would serve her better to have Roland continue to believe her a submissive mouse. With a quick glance upward, she nodded her greeting then let her gaze fall away again.
That one look had her knees shaking. With the knot at the neck of his cotte undone and his hair sticking up in spikes around his head, she feared he might be too far gone with drink to fall in with her plan.
“We should inspect your bride for impediments,” Dougal Fitzhugh, his sly friend, said and pushed his way past Lord Roland, opening a passage for the rest of the party to spill into the room.
“Aye, let’s have a bedding!” “Aye!” “Take off her clothes, Lord Roland!”
Margaret bristled with rage and felt heat stain her cheeks.
“Take off your robe, wife. I’ll not have any say you are not a fit bride for me,” her new lord said, his voice a deep rumble within his broad chest.
Humiliation causing her hands to shake, Margaret fumbled with the belt, but finally she shed the robe, allowing it to puddle at her feet. Please don’t let the oaf be overcome with lust and take me now.
“Her breasts are small, but even-sized and nicely placed,” Dougal said.
Her husband didn’t comment. She dared a glance and found his gaze fixed on the juncture of her thighs.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice sounding strained.
Knowing she had no alternative but compliance with his command, Margaret fisted her hands at her sides and slowly turned.
“She has fine, broad hips,” the priest pronounced. “She’ll carry strong sons to serve our king.”
“A lovely arse she has, Lord Roland!” “Aye, on to the bedding!”
Completing the turn, Margaret lifted her chin. “I, too, would know there is no impediment to our marriage, milord.”
“Oh ho!” Dougal chortled. “She’s eager to see your manstaff.”
Roland scowled at his friend, color rising from his neck to flush his face. With a glare that expunged her small flare of triumph, he stripped his shirt over his head, knelt to remove his boots and chausses, and then dropped his braies to the floor.
Immediately, Margaret realized her bid to humiliate him had failed. He stood proudly before her, his body sun-bronzed, except for the pale swath at his hips, a testament to his years of physical training out of doors.
Her mouth dry as dust, her gaze swept over his broad, hairy chest and arms, noting the play of shadow and candlelight on his deeply muscled flesh. She blinked, unwilling to linger over what rose from between his legs, and stared at his large feet, at the lightly furred toes, and up his strong ankles and calves to his massive thighs. Naked, he was more formidable than he’d appeared when she’d first seen him, fully clothed, helmeted, and wearing heavy mail.
Calling herself a coward, she drew in a deep breath and inspected his manflesh. She’d seen other men’s dangling parts since she’d arrived at the keep and had never been impressed. The part that was their pride seemed vulnerable and awkward. Her husband’s, however, rose straight and strong from a nest of curly, black-brown hair. It terrified her.
“T-turn,” she stammered.
Hands on his hips, he presented his backside, yet another view of masculine strength and pride. The wide V of his back narrowed at the waist, and his round, muscular buttocks looked anything but foolish. Dear Lord, and she had thought to control him. “I see no impediment,” she whispered.
He turned to face her once
again, and Margaret fought to keep her gaze anywhere but on his limb.
“There being no impediment to this marriage,” Dougal said, “on to the bedding!”
“Aye, give her a swive!”
Roland watched the color drain from his bride’s face. He’d thought she might swoon when she’d first stared at his cock. Now, she looked terrified. Dougal’s levity and the growing din from their witnesses caused her eyes to widen until the whites framed her fine gray eyes.
“Wait!” she cried out. “I haven’t seen all of him. I would know there is no deformity.” She swept her hand upward, pointing at his face. “I would see him beardless.”
If he hadn’t seen her fear, he might have laughed with the rest of the buffoons. Instead, he lifted his hand to his beard and scratched. “If it will remove the last of your doubts, then aye, I’ll give up my beard, though I don’t know how I’ll warm my face in winter.”
Her relief was not flattering.