The Pleasures of Sin by Jessica Trapp Page A

“’Tis vile to treat one’s wife such,” she said, unable to contain her tongue.
    He glanced down at his chest and she knew that beneath his tunic he would have a long red gash and a small hole above his heart where l’occhio del diavolo had stuck him.
    A tremble began in her knees and quivered up her legs to her stomach, so strong that she could scarcely hold herself upright. Of a truth, they were mortal enemies, bonded together by the church in marriage.
    Unfit partners.
    An unholy match.
    If only she had been able to enter a nunnery as she had wanted! That life was sterile and dry, but at least she could have worked her way into a position of power and then used her spare time to paint and enjoy her artwork. Painting crosses and halos would be a form of torture, but even at its worst, it was painting. And, likely she’d have novices to mix the colors.
    Taking a deep breath, she pushed her regrets behind her, placed her hands palm down on the bed, her fingertips nearly touching his thighs, and stretched her neck across his lap. The bed rustled with the movement. His thighs were warm and firm and she could feel the vitality pulsing within them. He wore soft spun hose of high quality. From this position, every fiber of his muscles seemed to bulge through them. He smelled of sandalwood and maleness and some other scent she could not discern.
    Lifting the wimple slightly in the back, he looped the metal around her throat, his fingers sure and steady as if he’d done this a thousand times before. She grimaced at the cool hardness of the collar on her skin. Her pride stung, and she set her jaw so that no more tears would fall.
    Her mind spun, trying to find ways to make the best of her circumstances and to change things to her favor. Surely the blacksmith could forge a key. Or she could write to her brother Nathan and he would know a way out.
    There was a small snap and a click as the manacle was locked in place. She gritted her teeth and set her jaw, tamping down the urge to yowl with outrage. His hands loosed and she was allowed to raise her head. She swallowed against the iron. The ring was thin and strong. It wasn’t tight, but the weight felt heavy against her neck.
    “Sit up,” he commanded, shifting his position slightly to take hold of one of the smaller metal loops.
    She complied, smarting at his tone and her mind still whirring with ideas on how to set him off guard.
    “Give me your arm.”
    Resisting her pride, she did so, allowing him to snap the manacle around her wrist without incident.
    “No pleading?”
    Bowing her head slightly, she regarded him through her lashes. “Nay, my lord,” she said, trying to attain the proper conquered demeanor.
    “Good.”
    Bastard. She burned at the arrogance of his tone.
    He took her other wrist and she forced herself to not withdraw it. This was her right hand and once it was bound, she would be unable to hold the brush steady enough to paint. A knot formed in her stomach. What if she was never able to get free? What if the manacles crippled her hands?
    She forced herself to stay compliant. Fighting The Enforcer would be a battle of wills, not a battle of strength. If she resisted, no doubt she would be whipped before being locked into the fetters. If she told him how much her painting meant, he might even break her fingers.
    The lock clicked into place and she swallowed. She would find a way free. And a way to paint again. She had to. Painting was her escape. Her sanctuary. Her sanity.
    “Stand up, and spread your arms.”
    Heat rose in her cheeks as she slid off the bed. The loop around her neck fell against her collarbones and the hard metal rubbed her skin with every move she made. The two ankle bands hung lifelessly downward, still unattached to her legs.
    Montgomery scrutinized his handiwork, running his fingers around the manacles. The sensation of the pads of his fingers running across her skin was a cross between a tickle and the rough feel of sand.
    She