Under A Duke's Hand by Annabel Joseph Read Free Book Online Page A

earlier.
    “Many centuries ago, warriors and invaders
used to vie for the most politically advantageous brides. You know,
the ones whose fathers had the most money and the most property,
and the best-situated lands. If the bride was beautiful too, well,
you can imagine how men clamored for her hand.”
    As he said this, he stroked her breasts,
light touches that sent cascades of sensation to her belly and
legs. Warriors. Invaders. Vikings , she thought, with long
blond hair, and muscular arms.
    “So when one of these men married a woman, he
bedded her at once, to ensure none of the other men would try to
steal her away, because a marriage wasn’t official until the
husband had been inside the bride. Back then, marriage was a matter
of staking a claim, of getting there first and planting your seed
in her belly.”
    Gwen drew in a breath. How savage. How coarse
and appalling, and yet a frisson of arousal bloomed between her
legs. She prayed he didn’t notice.
    “Picture it,” he said, his fingers circling
down to her waist. “A newly married Druid princess, and the head of
a neighboring clan approaching from the north. Her groom would have
one thought only: to possess her well and thoroughly, in front of
witnesses, before his rival arrived.” He chuckled, his lips so
close to hers. “You might almost be a Druid princess, with your
black hair, and those jade eyes. I daresay you would have enjoyed
being fought over by sweaty, growling men.”
    “I wouldn’t,” she said.
    But she was imagining the entire scenario in
her head, the intensity and intrigue, and her husband eager to
claim her even as witnesses looked on. It made her ashamed, the
excited pulse in her center. She jerked as he slid his shaft
against her dampening folds.
    “They were so awfully uncivilized back then.”
He drew back and spread his fingers where his shaft had been,
touching her in unseen and unknown places. “Now we have betrothal
contracts, and wedding dinners, and rosemary upon the bed.”
    Ohh. She pressed her legs together. He
stroked her too intimately, and caused too much need and wetness
down there. Only a villain would force a woman against her will.
But the more he stroked her, the less resistance she felt. Desire
overran her despair.
    “I don’t...” She couldn’t complete her
protest. It would have been a lie. She hated him still, but she
wanted him to keep arousing her, and teasing her sensitive nipples
with his tongue. Her body moved when she didn’t wish it to; her
hips strained against him as she sought more of his caresses. When
he kissed her, it felt like a lie. But when he touched her, her
body didn’t care about lies or truth, or love, or honor. He slipped
a finger inside her, easing it in and out.
    “I got here first, didn’t I?” he said with
sultry satisfaction. “No marauders. No rival chieftains.”
    “I’m afraid,” she blurted out.
    But she wasn’t. Sometime in the last pair of
days she’d turned into a feckless liar. What she really felt was
craving and anticipation. She wanted him to maraud her, like that
rival from the north. Like a Viking laying waste to a captured
Druid princess. I’m afraid , said the Druid princess.
    Liar. You lie.
    “Don’t be afraid,” he said, and she could
tell by his tone that he knew her for a liar. He ran his hands up
her arms, raising them over her head and holding them against the
bed as if to brace her. His knees spread her thighs wide, and his
hips aligned with hers. His hard length pressed against her
opening. She was so hot, so wet there. He must feel how excited she
was, and know precisely what sort of wanton he had wed.
    She bit her lip and turned away from his kiss
as he pushed inside her body. It hurt, a shocking, invading burn
which somehow heightened her arousal to an even loftier plane. She
fought against his advance, half in the moment, half in fantasy of
medieval claimings, and the tales he’d murmured in her ears.
    “Yes,” he whispered. “That’s