Submit To The Warrior. Tatiana March
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that churned inside him. Jealousy. Never once in his life had he suffered the agony of longing for attention from a woman who showed no interest in him.
‘What is the boy to you?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Is he your husband’s bastard?’
‘No!’ The word exploded from her lips. Stefan studied her, puzzled. Her amber eyes burned bright, and a few freckles stood out against the pale skin. The thin line of her mouth spoke of determination. She seemed shaken, but not mournful. Afraid of him, but not too afraid to make demands to protect her servants.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of the boy, if it pleases you.’
She gave him a long look, then lowered her gaze. ‘It pleases me a great deal,’ she murmured, her words barely audible.
Stefan leaned back, satisfied. She was pleased with him. It was a start.
* * *
Morag knelt beside Stefan Navarro in the chapel and tried to understand the storm of emotions that raged inside her. The fear she had felt for Angus Stenholm had been like a cold layer of ice around her heart. The King’s Arrow stirred a different kind of anxiety within her, a sense of upheaval that trapped her like a tangle of bristly briar.
His presence made her short of breath and sent ripples of heat racing along her skin. Each time he looked at her with those dark sooty eyes, alarm jolted down her spine. She stole another furtive glance at the man who knelt by her side, and in some secret corner of her mind, a flicker of pride mixed with the resentment of being forced into marriage.
Tall and broad shouldered, her betrothed made a magnificent sight. Even though he possessed no title, Navarro dressed in the costly fabrics reserved for noblemen. The slashes in the black velvet doublet allowed the white linen shirt beneath to spill through, and the ruffles at the neck emphasized his bronzed skin. He wore simple black hose and didn’t seem to feel the need for the extravagantly padded codpieces that were the current fashion.
At the altar, Brother Thomas cleared his throat, pulling Morag’s attention back to the ceremony. Behind her, knights lined in orderly rows, their feet shuffling on the stone floor, and, farther back, castle servants huddled in worried groups, barely daring to whisper.
In a lilting voice, Brother Thomas began the wedding speech. As Morag said her wows, the walls of the chapel around her shimmered like an uneasy dream. She heard Navarro speak the words that made her his property, and the floor beneath her swayed, the finality of her fate so daunting that she lost her sense of equilibrium.
A strong arm curled about her waist, urging her up to her feet. Without thinking, she leaned into the solid muscles that supported her. Navarro’s protective touch added to her confusion. She had learned to fear such power, not seek its shelter.
‘Everyone is fatigued from battle,’ Navarro told her, easing his hold as she recovered her balance. ‘And it’s a day of funerals. There’ll be no marriage feast. I’ve ordered supper to be sent up to the bedchamber, and hot water, so I can have a bath. Sweat and dirt from the siege itch on my skin.’
‘Bath?’ she repeated, as though of a simple mind. ‘Bedchamber?’
‘Aye.’ He trapped her with another sooty-lashed look. ‘Your first duty as my wife will be to prepare me for the marriage bed.’
Hot and cold waves rolled over her, the way they did in the summer when she plunged into the chilly loch on a sweltering day. Her gaze flicked up to Navarro’s face, and she saw the look of male hunger in his eyes. Her eyes drifted downward, past his broad chest and his flat stomach, to settle on the soft leather codpiece that provided modesty beneath the hem of his short doublet.
He had no idea.
The thought raced through Morag’s mind. The King’s Arrow had married a widow, and he was expecting a woman experienced in the art of sensual pleasures. How would he react when he discovered he’d married a virgin who had never experienced anything but pain and violence from a man?
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