“Here. I keep one in case it gets windy.” Aerity reached into a hidden pocket in her skirt and pulled out a thin, soft-looking leather. “Let me.” She moved behind him, on her knees, and Paxton held his breath.
His mother and grandmother used to tie his hair back as a lad, but it had been years since anyone had cared for him in that basic way. Now, feeling her small, warm hands fingering through his hair and smoothing it back, brushing against his skin, a chill of gratification and desire rippled through him. His hair felt tight as she knotted the strip at his nape. He let himself enjoy it.
“There,” she said. Her breath skated over his neck. She was close. Closer than she ought to be, and it sent a thrill into his bloodstream. He could smell her on the breeze as she moved nearer to his ear and whispered, “What if I said I do want you to kill the beast, Paxton Seabolt? What if I want it to be you?”
Each word punctured into his skin, tiny needles that would mark him forever.
Did she know what she was saying? Did she know how it sent a deep thrill of satisfaction to his core? He slowly turned.
The princess sat back on her heels with her hands in her lap. Her eyes were filled with rebellion. Nervousness. Maybe even a touch of desperation. This future queen, at his mercy.
He knew enough about her now to know she had a good heart, despite the evils of her ancestry. But if she knew . . . if she really knew everything there was to know about Paxton, he believed she’d surely shun him. He was of Lashed blood. No woman, especially of high breeding, would want that possibility for her children. It didn’t matter that she hugged Mrs. Rathbrook and seemed to genuinely care for others. When it came down to it, she would not want Paxton if she knew the truth.
And if he killed the beast and she found out after their marriage, she’d forever resent him. That had been a price he’d been willing to pay to keep his family secure, but now he wasn’t so sure.
His need to protect himself outweighed his attraction and any other useless feelings he’d allowed himself to entertain. Next to her, he was nothing but a brute with dirty blood. He felt a cruel urge to remind the princess just what kind of man he was. The thought of marrying her, of feeling unworthy of her on a daily basis, sickened him.
In that moment, decision settled over him.
When it came down to the hunt, he’d do his part to track and capture the beast, but he’d let another man strike the killing blow. Then the land could be free, and he could wash his hands of this royal lass. His family would be fine—he’d continue to provide for them. These strange feelings for the princess were a complication he hadn’t expected. It was time to remedy that for the both of them.
Still facing her, Paxton said, “Are you familiar with the ways of a villager marriage in Cape Creek, Princess?”
Her dainty eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean?”
Paxton’s mind reeled with mischievous ideas of ways to frighten her. “What I mean, is that I am a traditionalist, and I plan to follow the ways of marriage as it’s been done for centuries by the people of my village.”
“Oh . . . ?” She was beginning to seem slightly confused and curious.
“In our village the man is the ruler and the woman is expected to obey, without question, in all things.” Paxton fought back a smile, forcing himself to be as serious as possible, even as he imagined the strong-willed women in his village who would knock their husbands in the noggins for spouting such a thing.
Aerity swallowed, gullibility shining in her eyes, and Paxton went in for the kill.
“Any wife who’s not completely obedient is subject to punishment from her husband.”
“Punishment?” She sat taller. Ah, there was the indignation he’d been waiting for. Paxton found himself wanting to see how far he could take it. How deeply he could make her blush. What began as a way to scare her away was now feeling like a bit of fun.
“That’s right. Punishment. We’re a bit old-fashioned. We find that a good smack on the arse works wonders on disobedient women.”
Aerity’s chest heaved sharply with a silent gasp and her eyes went so wide that Paxton almost gave himself away with a laugh.
“Hitting is not a proper form of discipline.”
“For children,” Paxton deadpanned. Whipping children was practically unheard of in the kingdom, with wee ones being of such value. Parents had to find other creative ways to discipline the babes so they wouldn’t become tyrants. “And don’t think of it as hitting”—he made a fist and lightly punched the inside of his other hand—“so much as a series of good smacks.” He opened that same fist and gave his other palm several sharp thwacks, then grinned, feeling devilish.
“I—” Her pretty mouth gaped and she practically stuttered to find words. “Have you ever considered conversing rather than resorting to . . . to . . .”