Boi Bride by Samantha Cayto
Book 1 in the Treaty Brides series
General Release Date: 3rd June 2022
Word Count: 59,605
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 213
Genres:
ACTION AND ADVENTURE,ENEMIES TO LOVERS,EROTIC ROMANCE,GAY,GLBTQI,ROYALS
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Book Description
Being a bride is a state of mind, not of body.
The Kingdom of Moorcondia and the Marshlands have been warring for years. Now a treaty has been negotiated, but it needs to be sealed by a marriage between the ruling families. But the bride has bolted, leaving her brother, Taryn, to fill the role. There is nothing in the law of either country that says a bride has to be female.
Forced to dress in his sister’s gown and marry Soren, Taryn faces his fate with anger, resolve and frightening anticipation. While the Moorcondians are flexible in their sexuality, the Marshers are more prudish, plus Taryn has learned the hard lesson that an attraction to men is unnatural and wrong. His desire for Soren frightens him.
As a prince, Soren knows his duty and executes it without hesitation. As a widower, he looks forward to a new marriage, and his unexpected bride is very fetching. If only he can convince Taryn to put aside his fears and accept the pleasures of the marriage bed.
Taryn struggles to fill the role of a wife in the royal family, even as everyone else tries to adjust to the notion of a male bride. As the days pass, Soren comes to appreciate his bride more, and Taryn tries embrace his new role with enthusiasm instead of resignation. But politics is a treacherous place to navigate, putting their blossoming love in jeopardy.
Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of dubious consent, homophobia and attempted suicide.
Soren woke with the instant alertness of his warrior training. He knew he was safely lodged in his own tent, heavily guarded, and with the day promising the start back to his home. The only difference was that while on campaign, he rarely experienced the morning delight of having a pert rump humping against his hard cock. He didn’t give any thought to indulging his instinctive desire to slide his dick into the invitation of that welcoming heat. At least he thought it had been an encouragement, but he hadn’t yet fully seated himself into that pliant place before his bedmate—his wife—roused from the effort and immediately tried to pull away.
Soren wrapped his arm around Taryn’s slender waist and held him in place. Despite protests to the contrary the previous night, he could have sworn his wife had started to respond favorably to his touch. Taryn simply needed time to accept that his attraction to another man wasn’t something horrible to suppress. Ignoring the muffled squawk of indignation, he thrust gently to build the pleasure. At the same time, he reached to clasp the stiff shaft rising from Taryn’s groin. Its owner slapped him away with sufficient force to make it clear that for the time being, any further efforts on his part to help his bride enjoy their marriage bed were going to be rebuffed. Disappointed, he finished quickly and disengaged before rolling onto his back.
He stared at the colorful ceiling of his royal tent, searching for words that might rectify the conflict between them. He wanted to make this marriage work, for his own sake as well as that of his country. His personal code of conduct dismissed the idea of seeking comfort elsewhere while married. And he was sure he’d detected a gleam of interest in the Marsher boy’s eyes and the way he’d responded to Soren’s kiss. There was some hope that, with patience, they could forge a real relationship in and out of bed. Before he could reason a path to achieve his goal, there was a familiar scratching at his tent. The flap opened, and his two squires entered, carrying bowls and cloths.
Sam greeted him in the usual cheery way. “Good morning, your highness. Please forgive the early intrusion, but Sir Rolf insisted we rouse you and the duchess, as he’s eager to get the journey under way.”
Soren lifted himself up to his elbows and gave Sam a reassuring grin. “I understand what a taskmaster he can be, and he’s not wrong. We have a long journey, and it’s best not to waste any more time than necessary in beginning.”
Sam walked to a small table in the corner and set his burdens down, which included more than simply a washing rag. He carefully laid a colorful fold of what appeared to be a gown and soft half boots in a similar color. “If it pleases you, your highness, I will tend to the duchess’ morning ablutions while Tom caters to your needs.”
Whipping the sheet off his body, Soren stood and stretched without embarrassment. His squires were well used to his nudity. “That is a fine plan.” He glanced at his wife and found Taryn sitting up with his gaze cast downward. Likely he wasn’t used to this kind of service. The Marsher chieftain looked to be the kind who saw only to his own comforts. “My dear, you’ll find Sam to be an excellent…temporary maid.” Damn, the law about this marriage might be simple, but navigating how to incorporate a male into a traditionally female role wasn’t going to be easy. He’d noticed, too, how everyone was avoiding the use of pronouns.
What a tangle!
Time was wasting, however, and as he figured his bride wouldn’t be comfortable being under his scrutiny, he moved away from the pallet and over to the washcloth held in Tom’s waiting arms. He kept one eye on Taryn, not sure of how he would react to all this sudden attention. After a few seconds, the boy pulled off his shift, giving Soren a glimpse of his smooth chest, which proved to be surprisingly interesting to Soren’s gaze. Then Taryn rose from the pallet, wrapping the sheet around his waist and dragging it behind him as he went to Sam. The squire, bless him, didn’t try to tug the cloth away, instead concentrating on washing Taryn’s upper body. Soren made himself look away to avoid embarrassing the poor Marsher unnecessarily. He could still hear him, though.
“I’ll do that, thank you.” Taryn’s voice was low, yet steady. However he might be feeling, he was good at hiding it.
Hard lessons learned being Hogard’s son.
“Of course, your grace.” There was a rustling of cloth. “This is your traveling gown, your grace, part of the trousseau the dowager queen sent as a wedding gift. I, um, took the liberty of altering it last night to, ah, fit you better.”
“That was very thoughtful. Thank you.”
Taryn’s kindness to a lowly squire was a good sign. Soren always judged people by how they treated those beneath them. Taryn must detest the idea of wearing a dress as he traveled, but he wasn’t taking out his unhappiness about that, or anything else, on someone wholly blameless of the situation. Soren would be another matter. His bride didn’t seem to hesitate to cast him in the role of villain, if last night and this morning were any indication.
And he’s not wrong. Soren knew a stab of guilt. His reasons notwithstanding, he’d hurt Taryn on a number of fronts, and while Soren was determined to make the marriage work, he needed to tread more carefully as he wooed his bride.
“I hope these boots fit, your grace. They seem about the right size.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’ll do well enough to keep my feet in the stirrups.”
“Oh, um…” Sam went silent, obviously not comfortable in correcting his duchess.
In the act of pulling his tunic over his head, Soren realized this duty fell to him. “You will not be riding,” he said, busying himself with pulling on his trousers. “We brought a carriage to make your journey back to Moorcondia. I believe I mentioned that last night.”
“I don’t need a carriage!” Taryn’s meek demeanor was gone and now the air filled with tension.
Soren plastered a patient smile on his face before turning to confront his bride. Taryn stood staring at the ground with clenched fists by his side. For a moment, Soren was distracted by how fetching the boy looked in the soft blue gown bordered with intricate flowers along the bodice, cuffs and hem. “The carriage is a gift from my brother, the king. He would have his new sister-in-law travel in as much comfort as he can provide. I will be setting a fast pace. You’ll come to appreciate your mode of travel by the day’s end, I’ll wager.”
Taryn lifted his gaze, letting Soren see the depths of his anger and resentment for a few seconds before addressing Sam. “Those boots are very fine, indeed. I’m sure I’ll find them to my liking more than my old ones.” Once again, he treated the squire with courtesy, not unleashing his emotions on someone who couldn’t fight back.
Soren felt the tension leave the tent, his squires visibly relaxing from Taryn’s efforts to diffuse the situation. The fact that his bride was so good at it made Soren both sad and furious. This was a long-honed skill, of that, he was sure. And that meant Taryn had grown up learning to placate powerful men. Nevertheless, the boy hadn’t become hardened or mean from the experience. He’d kept his innate…sweetness, Soren supposed, although reserved apparently for those not his husband. Nevertheless, it endeared his bride to him even more.
And I am not helping this situation by lingering.
Soren quickly finished dressing and told no one in particular, “I will break my fast at the cook’s wagon. See that a meal is brought here for the duchess.” He doubted Taryn would want to tramp through the now-muddy encampment, dressed as he was.
Tom bowed. “Of course, your highness.”
Satisfied that his bride was in good hands, Soren left the tent and strode to his destination. As he went, Rolf came into view, shouting orders to the men to hasten their departure. The efficient commander then joined Soren.
“We’re nearly ready, your highness. Breaking down your tent is the last major task before we can begin our journey home. I, for one, can’t wait to see the back of this place.”
Soren knew he should admonish the man for disrespecting a new ally, but as his own view was the same, he didn’t bother with trying to be politically correct on the matter. “Good. The tent will have to wait until my duchess has had a chance to eat. I want”—her? him?—”my bride to be as comfortable as possible. Eating breakfast while in a carriage would be messy and potentially nauseating.”
“Certainly, your highness. The duchess’ well-being is paramount. There isn’t a man here who wouldn’t gladly give his life in service to that cause.”
Good man that he was, Rolf was conveying that the strange circumstances of the marriage had been accepted by the rank and file without trouble. Not that any of them would dare to do anything overtly disrespectful to their prince’s wife, but it was nice to know Taryn wouldn’t be the target of any backhanded contempt.
They reached the cook’s wagon, and the man’s young apprentice handed Soren a thick slab of bread topped by sharp cheese without being told. He was something of a creature of habit, and this was the food he liked to start his day with while on campaign. Not that this was a war situation, although it could have easily turned into one. They had come ready to battle their way home if need be. But Taryn had prevented that eventuality, and for that reason alone, Soren and his men should be grateful to the Marsher.
Soren took the offering with barely a hitch to his stride. “Good lad.” He ate while he made his way to the front of Hogard’s longhouse. “Gods, I hate diplomacy,” he confessed to Rolf between mouthfuls. Not that he was revealing a great truth about himself. Rolf certainly already knew this. They were both soldiers and well-suited to it. Neither of them had any interest or skill in politicking.
“It would be a terrible breach of etiquette to not bid your new father-in-law goodbye.”
Soren nearly choked. He hadn’t really thought about how he was now personally bound to that vile man. As they got closer to their destination, he could see the Marsher chieftain standing outside with his odious heir. The two of them wore the same clothing as they had the previous night and were drinking tankards of ale. It didn’t seem to bother either of them how the liquid dripped down their bushy beards. Because the wedding itself had been such a shock, he hadn’t really appreciated how the smooth-cheeked and beautiful Taryn was nothing like his male relatives. Soren was a lucky bastard indeed that his bride didn’t repulse him.
He quickly finished his food and came to a stop several arm’s-lengths away from his host. With the wind blowing toward him, his sense of smell demanded the precaution. “Good morning, my lord.”
Hogard grinned, exposing his rotted teeth. “Ah, my son by marriage. Getting a late start to the day, heh?” The grin turned into a leer. “Can I assume that the wedding night was satisfactory and the treaty stands?”
Soren called upon his battle-honed skill of hiding his emotions, even though he really wanted to plant his fist in the man’s face. “Of course, the treaty stands.”
Taryn’s brother pushed his way into the conversation. “So the little cunt offered up his ass nicely, did he? I’m sure it was his greatest hope come true and a tighter hole for your cock than any pussy would be.” The muck toad had the temerity to chuckle.
Soren’s control didn’t stand against this baiting, and he didn’t want it to. He took a few steps to lean right into Hobart’s face, the stench of the man notwithstanding. Soren’s height gave him the advantage over the shorter Marsher. “Do not ever speak of my wife in such disrespectful terms. Am I making myself clear?” He let the asshole see his own death in Soren’s eyes and was gratified when Hobart backed up with obvious fear.
“I-I meant nothing by it.”
“Oh, I think we both know that’s a lie.” He reined in his temper and turned his attention back to Hogard. “Thank you for your hospitality. Rest assured that Taryn will be treated to all that befits the consort of a Moorcondian prince.”
Hogard didn’t bother to hide his disinterest in his son’s future. Soren left him saying no more, eager to put the Marsher chieftain and his spawn as far behind him as he could.
“Crack the whip, Rolf. I want out of this fetid swamp as soon as possible.”
“Understood, your highness.” Rolf peeled off and began shouting orders.
Knowing Taryn’s lingering over breakfast would be the biggest impediment to their haste, Soren headed back to his tent. He was pleasantly surprised to find that men were breaking it down. Taryn stood at the back of the carriage that was hitched and ready to leave as soon as its passenger got in. One of the Marsher servants was hoisting a battered trunk onto the luggage cart at the back. By the time Soren reached them, Taryn had opened the trunk and was peering inside.
“What is this?” He tried to keep his tone conversational.
Taryn still visibly started at the question and glanced at him with banked anger. “These are my belongings.”
Soren sighed inwardly at his wife’s continued distrust and dislike of him and looked over the boy’s shoulders. There was a pathetic pile of worn clothing packed next to a few books. Soren put a little distance between himself and Taryn, so as not to crowd him. “Do you have any sentimental attachment to any of your clothes?”
Taryn gave him a look that clearly questioned Soren’s sanity. “Of course not.”
Soren gestured to the Marsher servant. “Take them out and give them to someone in need.” To Taryn, he added, “As my wife, you will have the finest…garments.” He continued to struggle with the proper words for his unusual situation. Just because Taryn wore the dresses from the dowager queen didn’t mean he wanted to. Soren wasn’t sure what his wife would ultimately choose for clothing, nor could he predict what kind the court would expect from his male bride.
Taryn didn’t object to the removal of what was really little more than rags, but he gasped and lunged forward when a small, wooden figure dropped from the folds of cloth. He caught it and hugged it close to his chest, as if guarding it from being taken.
“What is that?” Soren used as gentle a tone as he knew how, his question purely one of curiosity, and he didn’t want his bride to worry.
It didn’t help. Taryn looked at him with determination. “It’s nothing, just something my mother carved for me when I was little.”
“Your mother?” Soren couldn’t imagine his own making figures from any material, let alone wood. She’d barely done needlepoint during her too-short life, a craft enjoyed with marvelous results from many ladies at court. “May I see?” He didn’t reach for it, opting instead to fold his arms to show he wasn’t trying to take it.
After a moment’s hesitation, Taryn held it up. The figure was a bird with wings spread wide and done with such fine detail that Soren could imagine it to be real and taking flight.
“Exquisite. Did she teach you?”
Taryn’s eyes became moist. “No. The chieftain said it was not a fitting pastime for his son.”
Soren allowed himself to consider for a brief moment how much the treaty would suffer if he returned to the longhouse and beat Hogard into the mud. Probably a lot, and as a prince, he’d learned long ago that he couldn’t indulge his every whim.
He turned to Sam, who had been assigned the duty to travel with the duchess and hovered nearby. “Find something suitably protective to wrap my wife’s treasured possession for the journey.”
“Yes, your highness.” Sam took off, likely happy to have something to do elsewhere. As with earlier, tension filled the air.
Soren jutted his chin toward the trunk. “Is there anything else in there that you wish to protect?”
“There are only my books. They’ll be fine in the trunk. I can keep them, can I not?” Once more, his bride looked at him with a mixture of defiance and fear.
Soren wanted to wipe away both of those expressions. “Certainly.” He tried for a reassuring smile and figured he failed. “Perhaps you should take one of them to occupy your time during the journey.”
“I intended to.”
“Excellent.” A thought occurred to him, one that he believed Taryn would appreciate. “There is an old and extensive library at the palace. The Master of Books will be happy to give you a tour any time, I’m sure, and they are available for members of the court to borrow as much as they wish.”
Finally, Taryn’s expression changed. His face didn’t exactly light up, but his joy showed through enough to be seen. “I’ve heard of it and am gratified to know I can avail myself of it.”
Soren smiled at the response. “As my duchess, there will be very little you can’t have. I hope you will be happy in your new home.” Taryn dropped his gaze and said nothing. It was perhaps too much to expect, but the unguarded reaction over the library was very reassuring. And because Soren felt a sudden urge to kiss his bride, he backed off quickly. “I’ll leave you to finish your packing for the journey.”
He wheeled around and almost ran from the temptation of putting his wife into the carriage for entirely different reasons than traveling. He needed to busy himself with the duties of his station and as commander of his men. Lengthening his stride, he shouted, “Rolf!”
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Samantha Cayto
Samantha Cayto is a Boston-area native who practices as a business lawyer by day while writing erotic romance at night—the steamier the better. She likes to push the envelope when it comes to writing about passion and is delighted other women agree that guy-on-guy sex is the hottest ever.
She lives a typical suburban life with her husband, three kids and four dogs. Her children don’t understand why they can’t read what she writes, but her husband is always willing to lend her a hand—and anything else—when she needs to choreograph a scene.
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