“I am much younger.” Jemma shot Bridget a smile with her comment. “Which accounts for my brother’s lack of understanding of me. The old rarely comprehend the young.”
“I understand too well the court and what such a pretty face would gain there.”
Jemma waved a hand in the air. “Well yes, and there is that bit of fact. Yet I am not as dim-witted as those other noble girls. Sweet words do not lead me so easily.”
“Gossip is all that is needed to ruin a person at court,” said Curan. “I was glad to turn my back on it.”
Jemma’s smile grew larger. “You mean to say that you were eager to claim your bride.”
Curan shook his head. “Enough out of you, Jemma. We are soaked, and I do not wish my bride to think she has a shrew of a relative to tolerate along with learning to be a wife.”
“Compared to you, I am an angel.”
“A truth if ever I have heard one.” Bridget spoke before thinking. Jemma’s teasing nature reminded her very much of Marie and what the courtesan had tried to teach her.
Curan lifted an eyebrow at her. “I was hoping you might set a fine example for my sister on the virtue of marrying.”
Jemma scoffed at her brother. “Only if God has managed to create a man who is not boring, and able to gain your agreement to court me. I have abandoned hope of such a coincidence ever happening in my lifetime.”
She reached out and caught Bridget’s hand. “Come out of the rain. My brother seems to have forgotten that you were going to bathe.” She smiled widely once more. “Another trait of the old.”
Curan snorted, but his sister paid him no mind. She tugged on Bridget’s hand and led her away, but Bridget felt his eyes on her. Peeking back over her shoulder, she allowed her eyes to narrow with passion. It took no playacting on her part, for her body truly did desire him. His expression instantly transformed from the stern one he wore so often. Surprise covered his features, but it faded quickly into a mask of dark passion. He’d looked like that last night, she was sure of it. A shiver raced down her spine, touching off ripples of recalled sensation all along her body. She felt it travel over her skin, up and over the mounds of her breasts until her nipples tingled as they recalled exactly how hot his lips were. It did not stop there but slipped lower, across her belly and into the folds of flesh that covered her clitoris. A soft throbbing began there, a hunger that whimpered for satisfaction.
She must deny that urge. Turning her head back around, she focused her thoughts on absorbing the path that Jemma took her on. She would need to memorize how to escape when the moment presented itself. Her flesh wailed against that thought, but her heart also lamented it. She wanted to stay and learn more about the part of Curan that was happy to be home. In truth, she longed to share that feeling with him.
Yet she must not, for both their sakes. The world was an unforgiving place, full of men who would not give mercy. Her mother was correct; she must not celebrate her wedding because Curan’s honor would not allow him to see the logic in obeying her father’s letter. He was a knight, and in all honesty, part of what softened her heart to him was his unfaltering sense of honor. Without it, he would be weaker. That left the task of protecting him to her.
She would, as much out of duty to her sire as a gift to Curan.
She refused to think too long about why she felt that way. A week ago there was nothing in her head save duty and logic. The reason simply was, she wanted to celebrate her wedding and not because Curan insisted that she do so.
She wanted him. Passionately and with a growing need that threatened to consume the only part of her that was hers alone: her heart. She couldn’t allow him to claim that, couldn’t trust in a future that was riddled with uncertainty. He would discard her if ordered to by the king’s advisors. No knight would refuse his king.
So she would flee over the border to the sanctuary of her cousin Alice.
Dry feet were a blessing, one she had been very neglectful in noticing.
Bridget took several additional swipes at her toes with the toweling because her skin was so wrinkled and swollen from hours in wet shoes that she was feeling water that was no longer there.
“You’re not used to having servants attending you.”
Bridget jumped, grateful she’d slipped a chemise on and laced her stays to keep her breasts from hanging free before working on her feet again. Jemma wasn’t smiling in her playful manner now. The girl was more woman than she had first appeared. Her gaze was keen just like her brother’s, and Bridget felt it sliding down her length. It was very clear that her wits were sharp in spite of the teasing nature she had displayed when her brother arrived.
“My mother raised me to be frugal and mindful of how many tasks there were to be completed every day. Having servants stand about, looking after me, takes hands from those chores.”
“Hmm, perhaps that is the best answer, but I like privacy when I bathe as well. Maybe that is a maidenly need.” Jemma moved farther into the room. “You must tell me if your opinion changes over the next few weeks.”
The girl delivered her question in a smooth tone, but Bridget caught her shy look over the top of the dress she picked up. There was a hint of uncertainty in her eyes that Bridget understood all too well.
“I will not be assuming my wifely duties this week.”
The dishonesty needed to speak such words almost choked her, but her resolve was firm. The overall good outweighed the small sin of lying.
“That is a surprise.” Jemma sounded suspicious, and a glance at her face showed Bridget a familiar raised eyebrow.
“You look like your brother just now.”
Jemma looked shocked and then she laughed. A soft and low sound of feminine amusement. “Lord, I hope not.
