Tamed by a Knight

“Move aside, you louts. Make way!” Lady Margaret’s old nurse called from beyond the wall of bodies crowding the chamber doorway. When a narrow path cleared, she strode inside followed by two burly men carrying a large metal tub and a trail of women bearing buckets of steaming water. “Your bath, milord.”

Seeing another plot afoot to delay his enjoyment of his shy bride, Roland decided a bath might be just the thing to calm his rampant erection and soothe his bride’s nerves. “A bath is a fine idea. My wife will attend me.”

Her startled gaze told him of her dismay.

He ignored her expression and shouted over his shoulder. “Now the rest of you, out!”

“Nay!” “What of the bedding?” “On to the bedding!”

“There must be witnesses when you take your bride,” Dougal murmured.

Roland watched his wife’s tightly clenched fists. “We will display the sheets in the morning. My word she was a virgin, and that the deed is done, will be enough.”

Dougal gave him a curious look and nodded. “Come, men. The ale is below. Let’s go raise a cup to our lord’s potency.” With not so gentle shoves, he hastened the rowdy crowd’s exit.

Except for the sound of water sloshing as it was poured into the copper tub by servants, silence descended on those remaining in the chamber.

His bride knelt to pick up her robe from the floor.

“You won’t be needing that,” he said. At her wary glance, he added, “You’ll only wet your robe. Leave it off.”

“But I’m cold.” Her nipples were tightly beaded, but not from the cold, he’d wager. She still assiduously avoided looking at his cock.

“We’ll add wood to the brazier.”

“Milord, is the temperature of your bath to your liking?” the old nurse asked, reminding him there were others still in the room.

He walked to the tub and bent to trail his fingers in the water. Steam rose from the surface. “It’s perfect. You may leave us now.”

“As you wish,” she replied after a pointed glance at her mistress. The other servants followed in her wake.

Now that the two of them were alone, Roland studied his bride’s body more closely. Dougal had thought her breasts small, but well placed on her chest. Roland thought them perfect—round as apples, tipped with ripened berries. Indeed, the small nipples pointed north so that a man need only lean down to sip upon their stems. Her waist was small and neat and flared into rounded hips. The dark down between her thighs looked soft as silk, and Roland’s groin tightened. He wondered whether the flesh her curling hair cloaked was as pink and succulent as her nipples.

Tonight, he’d dine on the freshest, lushest fruit in the kingdom—his bride’s virgin flesh. But first, he had to overcome her maidenly fear. He had to convince her he wasn’t a great, rutting bear. God’s ballocks, but virgins were a true test of man’s will!

“Attend me,” he commanded, and he stepped over the rim of the tub and knelt in the narrow space. The water lapped at his hips and was hotter than he’d first thought, but it had the desired effect on his manroot. Almost immediately, the pressure building in his cock eased.

Lady Margaret hovered beside the tub behind him—out of his range of vision apurpose, he suspected.

“Would you care for more ale, milord? I’ve a pitcher warming next to the fire.”

“I would be much obliged if you would pour me a cup,” he replied, remembering his manners. Women seemed to prize a pretty turn of phrase or an unneeded thank you on occasion. Now that his erection no longer demanded he pounce upon her, he relaxed. The two of them, he and his unruly cock, had the entire night to woo his nervous wife.

A silver flagon was handed to him, and he threw it back, draining nearly half the cup before holding it out to her. “Take it. I would have you wash me, now.”

“P-perhaps, I could start with your hair.”

“Whatever pleases you, my dear.” The warm water and ale lulled his body. A pleasurable ease settled over him. Aye, he was a lucky man to own such a thoughtful wife. He envisioned many nights to come when he returned from battle or a hunt to find a warm bath and her lush little body ready to comfort his aches and wounds.

“Tilt your head back, milord, I can’t reach you with this pitcher.”

Water sluiced over his head. His indrawn breath whistled between his teeth, but he bit back the oath he would have shouted to spare his wife’s tender feelings. The water was so hot his skin felt parboiled.

“Oh! It’s too hot. I’m so sorry.”

Before he could assure her she had not roasted him like a lamb on a spit, another pitcher of water was dumped over his head, this time so cold his fingers left their imprint on the sides of the tub. Bloody hell! If this was her version of a soothing bath, he’d wait until the next spring’s thaw to wash his arse in the river!

From the corner of his eye, he saw her hand dip into a pot and bring out a dollop of soap. He grasped her wrist and tugged her forward. If he turned his head her sweet nipple would brush his lips. Lord, she was a temptation. “I’ll not smell like a flower,” he said more harshly than he’d intended.