The Pleasures of Sin. Jessica Trapp

      

      ONE NIGHT OF PASSION

      Desire spread through her. She wanted him. All of him. Inside her.

      “My lady,” he murmured.

      Sighing, she threaded her fingers into his hair, enjoying the crisp, prickly texture against her palms.

      She could love a man such as him. The thought gave her pause, but he leaned forward and swirled his tongue around one of her nipples before she could entertain it.

      “James,” she murmured, closing her eyes.

      Raising his head, he gazed at her. His eyes glowed with blue fire. In several skilled motions, he made quick work of the dress. The hard metal was cold against her skin and the garment fell away in slices…

      Books by Jessica Trapp

      MASTER OF DESIRE

      MASTER OF PLEASURE

      THE PLEASURES OF SIN

      Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

      The Pleasures of Sin

      JESSICA TRAPP

      ZEBRA BOOKS

       Kensington Publishing Corp.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To my son

       You are an amazing creative soul.

       My life has been enriched because you are in it.

       Thank you for your patience, your support, and your love.

       And don’t read this book until you’re older.

       Because I said so, that’s why.

       *grin*

      I love you.

      Acknowledgments

      I am grateful for the many, many people who have encouraged me—I have been blessed beyond my wildest dreams. This is a very incomplete list.

      Thank you, Joe, for your love and care. The research *wink* was pretty good too.

      Thank you, Mom, for being a sounding board.

      Thank you, Betty Pichardo, for your friendship and prayers. And the shoe shopping.

      Thank you, Terri Richardson, for your support and help.

      Thank you, Ann Peake, for your imagination.

      Thank you, Sara King, for your critique.

      Thank you, Suzy Kasper, for your keen eye and soft heart.

      Thank you, 100 group, for your support and tough love.

      Thank you, Romance Unleashed Authors, for being there.

      Thank you, Artist Wayers, for your uplifting spirits.

      Thank you, Sha-Shana Crichton, for your help and belief.

      Thank you, John Scognamiglio, for all you do.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      About the Author

      Chapter One

      Lady Brenna enjoyed her banishment to the musty north tower.

      Shivering with the thrill of rebellion, she tossed her kirtle onto the floor planks, perched naked on a three-legged stool, and lifted one of her many paintbrushes to capture what she saw in the looking glass.

      Alone, isolated from the rest of the castlefolk, she reveled that she could shun the very garments that defined her lot as a pawn in men’s war. Her refusal to marry and insistence on entering a convent had not set well with Papa.

      The scent of spike lavender oil curled into the air as she stroked her brush across parchment, transforming her chamber from prison to sanctuary. Here she could paint. Here she could dream. Here she was free from society’s demands and duties.

      A crimson trail unfurled from the tip of her paintbrush: the tongue of passion that drew a spread-legged view of a young noblewoman with springy copper-colored hair on both her head and nether lips. A nude of herself, painted as she gazed into the looking glass. So much more lush and naughty than the many proper paintings of saints and angels propped haphazardly about the chamber.

      The crossbar scraped against the bedchamber door, and she jumped, smearing a brushstroke.

      “Devil take it!” she cursed, launching into a mad rush to cover the parchment and snatch her kirtle over her body before the intruder discovered the subject matter of this painting.

      Her skirt swirled around her ankles just as the door banged open. The three-legged stool clattered and tipped over.

      “Brenna, you must help us!” Her sister Gwyneth rushed inside, wearing a disheveled silver-blue wedding houpelande. An enormous butterfly headdress covered with a rich veil propped precariously on her head. Curly strands of her golden hair bounced around her like a flailing mop, and tufts of ermine trim floated into the air.

      Heart pounding, Brenna shielded her miniature like a mother protecting a child. She’d been banished to this tower a year ago because she wanted a life of her own, a chance to make her own way in the world.

      She’d defied her father—refused to marry and had boldly told him she would run away and join a convent. If Papa found her erotic works, he’d burn her painting supplies. If the town’s head churchman, Bishop Humphrey, found them she would be burned.

      “My bridegroom—James—the wedding—” Gwyneth’s words tumbled over one another, each one rising in pitch. Tendrils of golden hair escaped from her curled and coifed arrangement as if she’d been tearing at the strands in panicked worry. The butterfly headdress slid to one side, and her veil hung haphazardly in her hair, clinging halfway down the length by one hairpin.

      Thrusting her brush into a jar of spike lavender oil, Brenna composed her features as her sister closed in on her. “The wedding took place this morn, did it not?” She’d listened for the shouts of jubilation that should have filled the great hall hours ago, then decided perhaps the guests had been too few for the sound to carry to her tower.

      “Papa—the woods—sunrise—” Hands shaking, Gwyneth rattled