She shook her head.
“Any deformity that will cause you to lose your supper?”
She grimaced and cast him a glare. “You know well you have a handsome face.”
Roland chuckled at her disgruntled tone.
She turned and started toward the brazier again, giving him her back.
“You wanted an ugly husband?”
“I wanted an impediment,” she muttered just loud enough for him to hear.
But she must have misspoken. “Well, now you may be satisfied.” Roland stood and stepped out of the tub. “Bring a cloth to dry me.” Then, remembering the pretty words, he added, “Please.”
She sighed and hurried over with a square of linen, her gaze on his wilted staff. Her expression—at once relieved and with another emotion he had a harder time defining—was almost comical.
Did she think he’d be unable to make her his wife this night? “Never fear, Margaret,” he said, smiling to reassure her. “He will rouse again.”
She stumbled as she approached, but kept her eyes downcast. He thought he heard a low curse, but her sweet lips were pressed into a thin line when she looked up.
Roland kept his gaze above her head as she wiped him dry. When she came to the areas that caused her the greatest embarrassment, she looked away and daubed, joggling his cock roughly. “Have a care, wife. You’ve already held him in your hands, can you not look at what you dry?”
“I’m a gently bred lady, milord,” she said, her words gusting as though she was out of breath. “Convent-raised. ’Tis a sin for me to see you bare as the day you were born.”
“This is no sin when we are wed. ’Tis your duty to obey me—and I command you to be at ease. You may look your fill, woman. Accustom yourself to the sight of me.” He gave her a sly sideways glance. “You may also touch whatever you’ve a mind to.”
She gasped, tossed the towel at his head, and stomped toward the brazier where she made a great show of warming her hands. “Insufferable ass!” she muttered.
Perhaps, she hadn’t misspoken before. Roland enjoyed her small display of pique, relieved she’d proved she held a little fire beneath her pretty, placid face. He had thought a meek, malleable creature would suit him well, but this wench stirred his blood—and his cock, for it unfurled. “Margaret, love?”
She remained faced away.
“I’ll warm you soon enough,” he said, letting his voice drop to a silky growl. “Come away from the fire. I find I’m impatient now to feel your soft body beneath mine.”
Her back stiffened, and she peeked over her shoulder. Her glance fell to his manhood. “But I’m frozen through, milord.” Her voice sounded as though she strangled.
He strode toward the bed and settled himself on the edge, and then patted the mattress beside him. “Come, my dear. It is too late to pray for intervention. ’Tis time we do this deed.”
Margaret hated the little smile that curved his wicked, well-formed lips. He patted the bed as though encouraging a pup to jump up beside him.
Margaret was no dog to jump to his bidding—no matter how handsome her master might be. She still felt a little breathless at how well the man had cleaned up. His bushy beard had hidden a broad, square jaw with a cleft at the center of his chin. But he was still a ruffian, and she was very nearly his wife, unless she could find a way to deflect his intent in the next few moments.
Unfortunately, the way his gaze raked over her body told her he wouldn’t be easily dissuaded. Still, she had to try. She couldn’t surrender her freedom or her will so easily to this oaf. “But I’m ill, milord. I’d not want to give you what I have.”
“Ill?”
She nodded quickly. “Fevered.”
“As am I,” he said, his smile stretching wider. “See how well we suit?”
She very nearly stomped her foot, but suspected her jiggling flesh would only increase his mirth. “Truly, milord. My skin is hot, my breasts ache, and my belly feels as though I’ve swallowed green apples. I think I’m dying.”
A guffaw gusted from him, shaking his shoulders. “And I’ve the remedy,” he said, laughing so hard he doubled over with it.
“You mock me?”
“No, no,” he said, gasping. “Your innocence pleases me, Margaret.”