Page 47 of Tamed for Her Pleasure

The Blue Boar.

“That is a ridiculous name for a tavern,” I say.

“What is ridiculous about it?” Wendle asks, then flushes—he is still nervous around me, although he soon forgets it when we are sparring.

“When have you ever seen a blue boar?”

“The wenches are comely,” Poach says, grinning. “I do not care what color they paint the fucking boar.”

“He is sweet on a barmaid called Evie,” Dick explains as we follow Poach into the tavern and are welcomed by a wall of heat and raucous merriment.

A fire is blazing on the right, and a long bar is on the left; the space between is crowded with patrons who either stand or sit at the tables.

“This is more like,” I say, rubbing my hands together.

Evie turns out to be blonde and pretty. Her cheeks turn a fiery shade of red every time she comes over with a fresh round of ales.

The third time she drops off the ale, she slides Poach’s across last. “I get a break in a bit… If you wanted to?—”

“No,” Poach says bluntly. “I will not pleasure you again until you agree to wed me.”

“But I have yet to pay my late father’s debts,” she stammers. Her pretty eyes glisten as she wrings her hands.

Dick, Wendle, and I poorly disguise our interest under the pretense of supping beer.

“I do not give a fuck about your debts, woman, which are not even your fault. I would pay them in a heartbeat.”

“There is no need to be rude!” She lifts her pert nose in the air and squares her shoulders. “I am not a charity! I will pay my own debts, and if you stop being a whelp about pleasuring me, I will consider marrying you after that is done.”

She flounces off.

Poach snatches up his beer, buries his nose, and gulps half of it down. “Stubborn woman,” he mutters as he bangs the tankard against the table.

“She will come around,” Wendle says. “But maybe you should pleasure her in the meantime. There are a lot of lusty patrons, and you don’t want any of the other bastards to catch her eye. Evie being so pretty and all.”

Poach growls and downs yet more beer.

“She has admirable spirit,” Dick offers, patting Poach on the shoulder. He has a fancy way with words, and I have discovered he is the fourth son of a minor noble and joined the king’s guard when he came of age. “What advice would you offer, Alfred?” He turns to me. “How do barbarians handle such delicate matters of a sweet but stubborn object of your love.”

I scratch my beard and consider my approach with Penelope. “I tossed Penelope over my shoulder. But she was a brat in need of taming and had left a dozen of my men bloody. Don’t know if it works with every lass. And even so, it is accepted there should be some wooing.”

“What is wooing?” Wendle asks, leaning forward in the seat like he doesn’t want to miss anything over the rowdy din in the tavern. “Like flowers?”

“Flowers, gifts.” —I grin— “Pleasuring them until they cannot even remember any other bastards. Being attentive to what they favor so you can do more of that. My mother was partial to redberries, so my father planted a bush in her garden so she would always have some when in season. That kind of thing.”

A loud slap cuts through the air. Our heads swing to the right.

“Oh! Get your filthy hands off!” Evie is struggling with a greasy hair lout who has her on his lap and is pawing her.

Poach roars and charges, knocking over our table and sending a nearby patron flying.

“So sorry!” Wendle helps the man to his feet as Dick and I follow after Poach lest he need any backup.

Evie is liberated from the ruffian’s lap and now clings to another barmaid. A cheer goes up as Poach thumps the handsy bastard.

His companion leaps to help, punching Poach in the kidneys from behind.

“Fuck that,” Dick cries in his posh voice—it is the first time I have heard him swear.

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