I move like a storm cloud, crashing down the stairs and rumbling through the castle. I know the rules. I know seeing her before the wedding later this evening is forbidden. But as I said: I’m beyond caring. That and this is my castle, and I’ll damn well see who I want, when I want. My castle, my say, my rules.

  …And now I’m going to see my queen.

  I take the curved stone stairwell down to the lower levels of the castle in twos. Dungow is built into the very cliff it sits atop. In my grandfather’s time, the lower levels were dungeons and torture chambers. My father, God rest his soul, did away with cruel punishment and dungeons, and began dismantling them. And when I returned from the Holy Land, I had the former dungeons turned into the steam rooms and bathhouses I’d seen over in the east.

  Down here, the halls are lined with flickering torches, the air heavy with steam and the exotic smell of incense I brought home with me. My body tightens, muscles rippling and hands clenching and unclenching. I stalk my way down the corridors, and when I see the lady attendant outside of my destination, one look sends her away without question.

  I pause at the door, breathing—no, panting, like a beast. Every inch of me tingles, every fiber of my body on edge and ready to pounce. Ready to claim.

  I push the door open, and step into the billowing steam and flickering torchlight of the cavernous bathhouse.

  Una shrieks.

  She screams, whirling and clutching one of the large drying clothes to her body, but not before my eyes have drunk in a teasing glimpse of her bare back and the perfect, tight globes of her ass. My cock lurches between my thighs, my pulse thundering in my ears as I resist the urge to storm over and just take her right here and now.

  “My Lord!” She gasps, her blue eyes so wide, her face flushed red, and those perfect, soft pink lips open in shock. Steam billows around us, glowing in the torchlight, and when I shut the door behind me with a heavy sound, the lights flicker over her gorgeous face.

  “My Lord…” she blushes deeply, dropping her gaze to the floor as she clutches the towel to her. “You… you aren’t supposed to—”

  “Show me,” I groan, my jaw clenched, fired blazing in my eyes. My body tenses with the restraint it takes not to rush into her, press her to the wall, and run my tongue over every inch of her dripping wet skin.

  “Your highness—”

  Her breath catches as our eyes lock, my head slowly shaking. Her big blue eyes grow wide, and when those soft pink lips tremble so slightly as they part, I groan audibly.

  “My castle. My rules…”

  I move towards her, my body tightening and my pulse roaring as I hear her whimper ever so quietly. I can tell she’s a bit scared of me. But then, I can tell there’s something else in those eyes, too. Scared would have her screaming.

  …Whimpering is another matter.

  I move closer, watching the way she swallows thickly, the blush creeping over her cheeks as she clutches the cloth to her nakedness, wet red hair slick across her shoulders and teases down the pale freckled skin that I can see.

  “My castle, my rules, my queen,” I growl lowly, groaning slightly at the way her eyes spark when I say it, or how her teeth rake across her bottom lip.

  “So, little queen,” I groan, shaking, so damn close to yanking that cloth away from her and pulling her into my arms.

  “Show me.”

  She whimpers quietly, breath catching.

  “Show—show you what?” she breathes.

  The growl rumbles through me as I take another step towards her, body aching for her, cock pulsing like hot steel between my thighs.

  “Everything,” I growl. “Show me everything, my queen.”

  Chapter 3

  Una

  The torchlight flickers, and the hot steam swirls around me, making me almost feel like this is a dream. And yet, I know it’s not. This is no dream. Lord Hamish Ballentyne is actually standing right in front of me.

  ...Right here, alone, in the bathhouse, while I’m naked.

  I shiver heatedly, my fingers tight as can be on the cloth I’ve got clutched to myself. The hot steam billows around us both, clinging to my skin and dripping in tiny rivulets over my body. And right in front of me, his huge size towering above me, is the most intense, fierce, and beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

  Lord Ballentyne’s gorgeous dark eyes blaze into me like dark flames—flickering and wild, and captivating me to the spot. I tremble, losing myself in that heated look.

  No man has ever seen me like this.

  Not even close. I’ve never even actually been alone with a man. Certainly not when I’m naked but for a strip of drying cloth. And most certainly not when the man in question has me fighting for breath just to breathe, and who has my thighs trembling as they clench tight together. My heart climbs into my throat, and I pull the cloth tighter to me, holding it up to my chin in my tightly clenched fists. His beautiful dark eyes sweep slowly over me, from head to toe, and I tremble again, somehow feeling even more naked than I am. Like merely his glance has stripped me bare for his hungry, fierce gaze.

  “Your Lordship,” I breath, blushing wildly and feeling the heat of more than just the hot steam billowing across my skin.

  “You—you can’t be here.”

  It feels almost silly to say it, considering that we’re in his castle. Or considering that by evening, this man will be my husband, and free to see any part of me he wishes, whenever he chooses. There’s a part of me—the part my father and mother might call my “rebellious” side—that wants to turn up my nose at the idea of a man “owning” me like that. But as I stand there trembling under the fierce, wild, heated gaze of the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, that rebellious side starts to fade.

  Because the idea of this man seeing me whenever, and however he chooses is such a fierce, aching thought that it sends fire blazing through me into places it ought not to.

  “May I remind you that it’s my castle,” he purrs, one corner of his beautiful mouth turning up like he’s entertaining the idea of a smug grin.

  Beautiful and arrogant, I huff to myself inside. I swallow, forcing myself to stand straight as my fingers tighten on the towel barely covering my nudity.

  “And this is the women’s bathhouse,” I toss back with just the faintest hint of sass in my voice.

  The smugness only grows wider on Lord Ballentyne’s face.

  “Still my castle,” he growls, his voice low and rumbly as it vibrates through my core, making me swallow.

  “My castle is mine, as is everything in it.”

  My brow furrows, my eyes lancing right back at him as that rebellious spirit in me comes rushing back.

  “Not me,” I say primly, clutching the cloth tightly as I take a half-step back.

  Lord Ballentyne grins.

  “Oh, very much you.”

  “Not yet,” I toss back.

  He arches his perfect brow, that damned smug and gorgeous smile spreading over his perfect, chiseled jaw.

  “Not yet?” There’s amusement in his voice, and I blush fiercely.

  “I mean we aren’t married yet, your Lordship,” I say quietly.

  He grins.

  “But soon, little angel,” he purrs. “Very, very soon.”

  The blush blooms over my cheeks.

  “It’s against the rules for you to see me, you know.”

  “Is it?” His brows arch in amusement, but when he steps closer to me, his look turns dark, and downright hungry.

  “Well it’s a good thing I make my own rules in my own castle.”

  I shiver, panting, trying to catch my breath as the nearness of him and the heat of the room send my head spinning.

  “We—”

  I gasp as he steps right into me, and when his large hand reaches up and takes hold of the cloth in my hands, my heart jumps into my throat. His fingers curl over the edge of the cloth, and when I feel the backs of his fingers brush against my bare skin beneath the towel, I pant, my blood like fire in my veins.

  “Show me, little queen,” he grunts. He starts to pull the cloth away, like he’s about to strip me bare, right here, before we’re married. And for some reason, it goads me. It sets off the sass in me. He’s beautiful, and the heat of his closeness has me panting, the feel of his fingers on my skin sending me reeling. But there’s that rebellion in me—the one that doesn’t want to “submit” to a man. Even if I know I’m supposed to. Even if he’s going to be my husband, and soon.

  Lord Ballentyne tugs at the towel, making me gasp sharply as he almost yanks it from my fingers. But I tighten my grip, pursing my lips as I grip the cloth tighter and yank it right back against me.

  “No, my Lord.”

  A fierce shadow crosses over his face, and I tremble at the way his jaw tightens and his eyes blaze. His look lands on me like that of a beast hunting its prey.

  “No?” he grunts, that growl still teasing through me.

  “No” is a word I can tell he’s not used to hearing.

  “You aren’t used to that word, are you, my lord?”

  He pauses, eyes flashing fire at me through the torchlit steam of the room.

  “I am not,” he growls. I gasp as his hands reach right past the cloth, and when they land on my waist and grip me tight, I tremble. I want to show this man that I’m not some item to be bartered for. I want to show him that I can be as defiant as can be. And yet, there’s another part of me. A baser part of me. A wild, wicked part of me.

  …The part of me that wants to let him take what he wants, as wicked a thought as that is.

  His powerful, rough hands grip me tight, and when he pulls me into him, drying cloth and all, I whimper softly as my head drops back and my eyes look up into his.

  “You’ve got a fire in you,” he purrs lowly. “Like the fire on your head.”

  His gaze hardens for a second, heat teasing across the divide between us.

  “But you will be mine.”

  I shiver at the intensity in his words, and yet, that steely resolve in me hardens.

  “That is yet to be seen, my lord.”

  His brow arches, and for a second, I almost think I see something like anger in those eyes at my defiance, and at the way I’ve sneered out “my lord.” Except as the heat in his eyes grows, I realize I’m seeing the wrong emotion. I don’t see anger.

  …I see hunger.

  “Is it now?” He purrs. He raises one arm, the drop of his tunic sliding down to the shoulder to reveal rippling, hardened muscles and a swath of black ink etched into his skin.

  Tattoos.

  I’ve heard of them, but the only people who wear them are the Viking marauders who pillage the coasts from time to time. To see them on a lord…

  I shiver, and Lord Ballentyne smiles a hard, thin smile.

  “Now, it was my thinking that as you will be my bride in a few hour’s time, it very much was decided that you were mine.”

  “Not yet I’m not,” I throw back, pursing my lips, hoping to God that somehow this reckless defiance covers the tremble teasing though my body.

  Lord Ballentyne’s grin only widens, like he’s amused.

  “But you will be mine.” The growl rumbles through his muscled chest, almost like a reminder to me of how powerful and fierce a man I’m speaking to… a foot apart, with me in nothing but a slip of cloth covering my nakedness.

  His eyes narrow, his jaw clenching as his gaze sweeps over me again, sending a heated tremble through my core that brings a blush to my face.

  “Show me, my little queen.”

  I swallow thickly, not even daring myself to speak as I shake my head.

  “No.”

  His growl rumbles through him again, a fierceness sparking in his eyes.

  “Show me.”

  I take a shaky breath.

  “And if I say no again?” I spit back.

  That smug, amused smile creeps back over his chiseled jaw.

  “I could quite easily tear that cloth from you.”

  It’s like lightning teasing through me, and the heat in my face only grows at the wicked, wicked image of this rough, powerful lord tearing the cloth away from me and demanding my nakedness—putting his hands on me however he chooses. I bite my lip, squeezing my thighs together and trying to push away the filthy, impure thoughts that ravage through my head. I swallow thickly again and force myself to look up into his piercing gaze.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  I’m not sure if the hardness in my voice is a reassurance to me or a dare to him.

  …Perhaps it’s both.

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  I shake my head. “You’re too much of a gentleman.”

  Lord Ballentyne smiles again. “You don’t know me, little queen.”

  I swallow, my breath coming thick in the heavy, steamy air, and with him standing looming over me.

  “Well, but you’re—”

  “I promise you, I’m not,” he growls, silencing me with a heated look that sends tingles from my cheeks down to my toes, and everywhere in between. I shiver, and his eyes drink me in.

  “But I won’t,” he growls softly. He reaches out, and my breath catches as the back of his powerful hand strokes gently across my cheek. I clamp my mouth shut, stopping the sigh that threatens to tumble from my lips. But even closing my mouth doesn’t stop the impure thoughts from tumbling through my mind. Thoughts of this huge, dominant, powerful lord grabbing me and kissing me—like in some of the more… inappropriate books I’ve managed to get my hands on. I imagine him tearing this cloth away, his big hands touching me wherever he chooses… even there.

  Heat pools between my thighs, even as I try and scold those horrible, dirty thoughts from my mind.

  “I won’t,” he purrs, one brow arched as he drinks me in with the torchlight flickering around us.

  “Because you’re going to show me.”

  I square my jaw defiantly as he grins that amused, smug smile again, which only helps me wrest control back of my thoughts.

  “And what would your lordship do if I strolled into his bathroom and asked to inspect him?” I say primly, my voice high and pitched.

  Lord Ballentyne grins a downright roguish smile, and instantly, I can feel the heat blooming through my face.

  “I’d be most happy to oblige,” he growls, eyeing me hungrily. “Are you asking?”

  Somehow, the blush on my face grows even hotter.

  “I—I…” I chew at my bottom lip, breathing in a trembling breath as I shake my head quickly. “No!”

  Lord Ballentyne chuckles, and suddenly, my eyes go wide as I watch his hand drop to the fold of his kilt. His fingers grip the edge, and my jaw drops as he begins to pull it open.

  “Are you sure, little queen?”

  His voice is thick, and low, and the sound of it has my breath catching as it rumbles through me. I look up into his beautiful face—those piercing dark eyes, the swath of beard covering his perfect jaw. Those lips that make me wet mine. I look into his eyes and I feel myself start to fall. My head swims, my chest rising and falling as I breathe deeper and deeper, the flickering of the firelight playing across his face hypnotically.

  He starts to tug his kilt open, and when my eyes drop and go wide at the sight of his bare, muscled thigh and the groove of his hip, my heart starts to thunder in my chest.

  “My lord…” I breath.

  “Perhaps,” he growls lowly. “Perhaps you should tell me to stop.”

  There’s nothing “perhaps” about it. I should. We aren’t married until later tonight. This is impure, and sinful, and wrong. God, even if we were married, this is a man who I’m being forced to take as my husband.

  …Even if he is gorgeous. Even if just standing in front of him like this has my skin tingling and a fire blooming in places it ought not to.

  “No?” He purrs. He moves closer, and now we’re barely a foot apart. My breath catches, my body trembles, and I swear I can feel the heat of his muscled body right through the steamy air of the bathhouse.

  “Then I suppose you won’t mind if I do this.”

  His hand tugs his kilt to the side, and when my eyes drop even when I’m telling them not to, my jaw positively hits the ground.

  Oh my God…

  I’ve seen two…members before. One, when I accidentally walked in on my father’s fat, middle-aged cook mid-bath in the river behind our village, and I sorely wish I could’ve unseen that. The second was the prisoner being marched through the streets that we were joking about earlier. And while he might have been all muscle and brawn, and certainly carrying something more eye-catching between his legs than the cook, I suddenly realize just how unimpressive it was as well.

  Because there, inches away from me jutting out thick, heavy, and throbbing from his grooved hips and muscled abs, is Lord Ballentyne’s very big, very thick, very hard….

  Cock.

  Just thinking the word makes me flush, but then, seeing it, and letting my eyes just take in the sheer size of him brings a flush to much more than my face. I can feel the fire teasing through every part of me, like seeing him like this is some sort of magic alchemy that renders me speechless and sends heat through my core. It sends a bolt of lightning between my legs and filthy, sinful thoughts racing through my head.

  He’s so big.

  Lord Ballentyne growls lowly as he slides his hand over his thick shaft, wrapping his hand around himself. And when he strokes it back and forth, I can’t even try to stop to the soft moan from tumbling from my lips.

  Heat floods through me, and I can feel something slick and warm suddenly pooling between my thighs. Something wet.

  My face goes crimson just as my pulse starts to quicken.

  This is wrong. This is inappropriate to the highest degree. And despite that, I can’t even begin to imagine looking away. And when Lord Ballentyne’s other hand reaches for the cloth I’ve still got clutched to my nakedness, I freely let him tug it from my grasp, even while my pulse thunders and my head spins.

  He pulls the scrap of fabric away and lets it drop, and then suddenly, for the first time in my young life, I’m utterly and completely bare, for a man.

 

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