Page 52 of Reign

“You don’t frequent the brothels in the Wetlands?” Bash asked me.

I shook my head, certain there were none in Green Vale.

“How else does a man of your stature plough?” Arthur quipped, his nerves forgotten just long enough to land a gibe. He cast a glance at young Tom, clearly expecting a laugh.

But Tom paid him no attention. His unblinking eyes were fixated on the barmaids with such intensity, I wondered if he’d ever spoken to a woman besides his mother.

I also ignored Arthur and kept my focus on Bash. “You do?” I asked, aware that my opinion of him would change if he said yes.

Bash shrugged. “I’ve visited a few, but the older I get, the less appealing they are—”

“He pretends to be an honorable man,” Arthur teased, his grin widening enough to reveal the brown edges of his teeth.

“I prefer bedding a woman who desires me as much as I desire her,” Bash said, keeping his voice low. “You can understand that?”

His eyes met mine—searching for agreement.

I nodded, a hot flush creeping into my cheeks as I imagined Bash sweeping the tankards off the table, laying me down, and then having his way with me.

The nape of my neck prickled, and my inner thighs throbbed—pulsing, aching, just from the thought.

I released my pint. The ale had gone not only to my head but to my loins.

Ease up on the drinking, I warned myself.

“You like to take the virtue of good women, whereas I prefer to sully the sullied,” Arthur declared, thumping his chest as if that was something to be proud of. “Tom, tell them you agree with me.”

Tom was preoccupied, his eyes fixed on beautiful Jane as Fletcher’s antics rouged her cheeks through fits of laughter.

“I-I… I’ve never laid with a woman,” Tom mumbled, his bony shoulders hunching over—timid and embarrassed by his confession.

Arthur laughed, cruelly unaware or uncaring that Tom was even more red-faced than usual.

“Go change that,” he said, jabbing a sharp elbow into Tom’s ribs. “Or else you may die a virgin.”

“Shut it,” I retorted, defending my prodigy. “When Tom returns from war, he’ll have many women wanting to be his wife. You’ll still be undesirable—forced to give coins to whores for attention.”

Tom snorted as Arthur rubbed his rotting teeth with his tongue, clearly irritated by my remark.

A clatter echoed through the tavern. I turned toward the commotion to find Mr. Bednot flustered and furious—gripping Fletcher by the collar, shaking him violently, and accusing him of stealing from behind the bar.

“Your thieving cousin,” Arthur tutted, heaving his hefty self to his feet.

“Not again,” Bash groaned, watching the altercation.

Fletcher raised his hands in a plea of innocence while Jane tried—and failed—to calm Mr. Bednot.

“Excuse me,” Bash muttered, scraping back his white hair and tying it off his face as he rushed to join Arthur at the bar.

As I watched the Headlands men trying to mediate the dispute, I realized most of the soldiers had already left the Anchor—likely too anxious about the impending invasion to enjoy the evening. And the locals who gambled by the fireplace were also gone, leaving the fireside seating to a new occupant. Fitzroy sat alone beside the warm hearth, sipping from his tankard while staring into the flames, seemingly spellbound by their dance.

When he was silent, there was nothing to fault about Fitzroy. Physically, he was flawless—a face so symmetrical it looked as though it had been drawn with a compass, leaving him with only one imperfection, his ability to speak.

A moment later, fresh-faced Emma interrupted Fitzroy’s pensive peace. From between two perfect braids she fluttered her eyelashes at him. I raked my fingers through my short hair, envious of her pretty locks.

As she leaned in, whispering in his ear, Fitzroy’s gaze drifted my way—locking with mine.

He beckoned me with a flick of his finger, but I firmly shook my head. My decline made him smirk as he rested his chiseled chin in his hand, studying me.