The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales)

by Trent, Louisa

  Had he rutted on her?

  Up until yesterday, she had lived a pious life—apart from her foray into self-pleasuring—and now anarchy in the country had catapulted her into a situation over which she had no control.

  Control now was naught but a mirage. She had no control over what the lord decided to believe her guilty of, and she knew of no way to convince him of her innocence. She might just as well try to talk the devil into performing a good deed as talk him into freeing her from imprisonment.

  In a fit of nerves, she dropped her feet to the rush-covered floor. Holding the fur pelt about her for modesty sake, she raced for the portal. Escape was the only solution.

  When the portal refused to open, despite her determined efforts, she cried, “A pig’s arse!”

  After uttering the profanity, she gasped, then covered her mouth.

  What had come over her? Never did she succumb to irreverence!

  Then again, no one had ever locked her inside a chamber before, with the entrance barred and most likely with a guard posted outside.

  Wherever she was, this place was her prison cell, the nobleman her warden. If she did not prove her innocence, she would be sentenced for treason.

  She looked around for another means of escape, any means of escape.

  Mayhap she could fling herself out the arrow loop, the corner one, the one with the light streaming through. The opening in the stone wall was long and narrow, a good fit as she was long and narrow too. ’Twas worth a broken bone or two to avoid execution.

  Her warden had destroyed her garb, and that left her naught else to wear. Draped in her fur cover, she set out for the arrow loop. Two steps later, a tug at her throat brought her flight to a standstill.

  The leather collar.

  So accustomed had she become to the choker, she had forgotten ’twas even there.

  She remembered the abomination now—though the chain was a new addition and most likely installed during her slumber. The leather leash had been so much softer. Now that she was conscious of it, every jarring strike of metal against the stone floor set her teeth on edge; every clink of the interlocked loops chafed her bare flesh.

  She supposed she should be grateful the overlord had not thrown her into the dungeon with the rats, a damp domain where darkness ruled. What would she ever do if he sent her down there?

  A shudder racked her from head to foot. Everyone knew the dungeon was a place of no return, a death sentence to be avoided at all costs.

  But how?

  She touched her bruised lips again, spanned her fingers over her hurting bottom beneath the fur, swallowed her fear as she had swallowed the warrior’s seed down her throat.

  She would avoid the dungeon by doing whatever it took, including doing her warden’s bidding, a bidding that, up until this very moment, had excited her rather than frightened her, carnally provoked her rather than terrified her.

  Regardless of how justified, the first step was to let go of her fear. A sniffling female made for a woeful seductress. The second step called for tidying her appearance. A slattern repulsed, not attracted. Her swim in the stream had bathed all the soot and ash away, but lying in the mud at the nobleman’s boots had soiled her all over again. How filthy was she?

  She parted the edges of the fur. For the first time since awakening, she glanced down at her naked body.

  Her pubic hair looked sticky. The same sort of dried stickiness coated her breasts too. She touched a hand behind her.

  Saints have mercy! Her bottom carried evidence of the same stickiness.

  Seed?

  Seed!

  Someone had indeed penetrated her. Penetrated and ejaculated! How else to explain the telltale signs of a man’s slaked lust? Who had coupled on her whilst she slept?

  Who else?

  Him. Her warden.

  Fury raged inside her. There was no containing her anger. She fair burst with wounded indignation.

  The royal devil had taken advantage of her in the most callous of ways. He had misused, then discarded her like a scrap of sullied linen, in a strange bed, in a strange chamber, in a strange place.

  Humiliation, violation—rage—flashed through her like a wildfire.

  Just as the portal slowly opened and a familiar boot crossed the stone threshold.

  Not a good time for him to visit. Not a good time at all. As the royal swine would soon find out.

  Caring not about the future or her need to impress him with her innocence in treason, she held the fur closed around her with one hand and used her free hand to pick up the first object she could find—a horn comb lying on a nearby chest, one of many such trinkets strewn on top.

  She flung it at the devil’s handsome head as he entered her cell.

  Never, not in all her born days, had she ever done such a thing.

  What she had been missing! Venting her spleen felt splendid.

  For all of a heartbeat.

  Curses! The first time she ever let loose and what happens? Her free arm wobbles, and her pitch misses her intended target.

  Mitri straightened her slumped shoulders. So she had missed the object of her fury the first time. No matter. There were more objects to throw where that horn comb came from.

  “Take that, you rotter,” she screamed and let another trinket fly. And then another. Then another after that. Each one bouncing off the far wall.

  She had been unable to cry when her little cottage burned to the ground, but she could easily flood the chamber with her tears now. Damn faulty aim!

  Now, Ysenda was an altogether different story. Her aim had always been true. At thirty paces, she could hit a moving target with a stone. With a quiver strapped to her back, she was a terror with a bow and arrow. Many a time, they might have starved if not for her skill as a hunter. Oh, to be more like her sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, courageous older sister.

  Knowing she had not a chance of hitting her warden, Mitri listlessly picked the next object up off the chest, a shiny shell-like trinket, and flung it willy-nilly.

  Chapter Nine

  Spur groaned to himself as another throw meant for his head went wildly astray.

  Through no fault of his. He was holding his position, not moving so much as a hair, but still the female’s volleys missed him by several feet. Unless he deliberately stepped into her line of fire—and such obviousness would insult her intelligence—she had not a ghost of a chance of hitting him.

  He could not allow this to continue. Clearly all her misfires had upset her. The wench looked ready to dissolve in tears.

  To raise her sinking spirits, Spur made a great pretense of shielding his face and ducked behind the portal, as if to avoid mortal injury.

  At that moment, his squire, carrying a bucket of steaming water, stepped into the chamber. Spur motioned him behind the makeshift barricade, following up the gesture with a “Seek cover!”

  “Seek cover?” His squire assessed the littered floor and the lopsided throws directed their way. “Why? Neither of us appears to be in any real danger here.”

  “Dimwit! Our very lives are at risk,” Spur spelled out, hoping his squire would take the hint. “Take cover, lest this fine marksman do us bodily harm.” So saying, he lunged for his incredulous squire, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him bodily behind the portal.

  “Methinks we have the wrong bedchamber, my lord,” grumbled his squire from his crouched position next to Spur. “You made no mention of your guest being a virago. In fact, as I recollect, you said she was of sweet disposition and beauteous to behold. I will grant you the beauteous, but sweet? La! This female is a shrew if ever I saw one. Save from her temper, we are neither of us in danger. What a piss-ugly shot.”

  Spur took exception. “You forget yourself. Your attitude is too familiar by far. And the female is no shrew, only misguided. Like her volleys.”

  His squire looked at Spur askance. “Are you well, my lord?”

  There was a change in Spur, a change his squire had been quick to note.
Now that Spur knew the truth, he looked upon this female, not as a prisoner, but as his esteemed guest, to be afforded the same rights and privileges as any other guest.

  This was not to be confused with his going soft.

  Soft would ruin the very reputation he had worked so diligently to build. But he would treat this female with a lighter hand.

  Unless, of course, she required a heavier hand.

  She seemed to prefer a bit of salt with her meat. Which was fine with him. ’Twould make the after-dinner pudding taste all that much sweeter.

  On the trunk, Spur had arranged a fortune in hair ornaments, each one handpicked and with an eye for her enjoyment. He had thought to gift his guest with them upon her awakening. Though valuable, some even rare, the trinkets would never make up for her lost home or the ordeal he, himself, had put her through, but they were a step in the right direction.

  One bejeweled trifle was particularly precious. A pity if she smashed the bauble, as ’twould look fetching in her brown hair.

  What a coil. At another time, he might have tried reasoning with her, telling her not to cut off her nose to spite her face, but steam was coming out her ears at present and he knew no amount of logic would work. A cry would do her good, but not in front of a stranger. She would hate crumbling before a stranger. Two strangers, verily, as she had no real familiarity with himself either.

  Under the circumstance, there was but one action to take.

  Spur started issuing orders.

  “Stand up,” he directed his squire.

  “Are you daft, my lord? Even a piss-poor shot will hit the side of a barn eventually. Stand up and the odds are in her favor to strike me, if only accidently.”

  “My very point. With one exception—stand up and make sure she strikes you. The maiden is in dire need of practice. And a boost to her sense of worth would not go astray.”

  “My lord, no disrespect intended—”

  “Because your insolence is always intentional.”

  “—but why not let her hit you, my lord, as you are the one she appears to have targeted for maiming.”

  “Because unlike your worthless self, I have my esteemed position in this realm to preserve. I will not have the annals of history say a hair ornament led to the fall of Nettlewood. Furthermore, I am your liege lord, and you have sworn allegiance to me, not to mention obedience.”

  Having naught but contempt for those areas, his squire continued to argue. “I am sure her ire has merit too, what with your prior experiences with the fairer sex.”

  “I will have you know, my past paramours worship and adore me.”

  His attendant harrumphed. “Not this one. This one is some vexed. A better solution by far is to stab you in your sleep. She is sure to hit one of your vital organs. I shall suggest that remedy as soon as she runs out of ammunition.”

  And Spur knew just how to accomplish that end.

  He shoved his squire to a stand. “A tankard of ale for a direct hit. Two tankards if she smites you senseless.”

  His squire sighed. “Would that I loved dignity more than I do ale.” Climbing to his feet, he inched away from the protection of the portal and stuck out his chin.

  A pretty gewgaw tagged his nose. Though not knocked senseless, his squire did a convincing job of stumbling backward and reeling as if he were about to swoon. Less convincing was the thud he made upon falling, followed up with an overly dramatic quiver.

  “One tankard, though nice try,” Spur whispered to his fallen squire as he stepped over his body.

  “Oh, nay nay nay,” his guest cried, tears gushing forth from her eyes and rolling down her pale cheeks. “I meant to strike you, not him. Is he d-d-dead?”

  Spur prodded his squire with the toe of his boot, and he let go a whine.

  “See?” Spur smiled at her. “Not even close. A pity.”

  She wiped at her tears. “I am vastly relieved. One killing is enough for me.”

  “Two. ’Twas two outlaws you helped kill. You have every right to boast.”

  “How can you be so callous?”

  “’Twas either them or us. Did you wish to die?”

  “Certainly not!”

  Spur clapped a hand to his chest. “Did you wish me to die?”

  “Well—”

  Before she made up her mind, Spur rushed forth a statement long overdue. “You risked your life to save mine. My thanks.”

  She waved his gratitude aside. “Please leave.” She clutched at her fur pelt cover. “Receiving visitors is most improper considering my lack of attire.”

  “You new garb will arrive shortly. They will complement the hair trinkets I left for you on the chest.”

  “Those ornaments were for me? For my hair?”

  “Aye. Though the next time I need a missile to fire, I shall think of them.”

  Her pert nose went up in the air. “First shiny hair baubles. Now new garb. You cannot buy me so easily, my lord.”

  “I agree,” he countered. “Right from the start, you were free with your favors.”

  “Oh, how I lament missing you with my throws,” she murmured through lips that trembled. “I would give anything to see you fall on your pompous ass. But nay. I could not even do that right.”

  “Might I suggest a hairpin to the liver or heart whilst he sleeps,” his squire piped up.

  “Silence!” Spur roared at the two. “Either give me my just respect or feel the sting of my authority.”

  In truth, he did not hold her bloodlust against her. Knowing what he knew now, Spur had naught but admiration for his wrongly accused guest. After all, familial devotion was a quality they both shared. And her lofty, even noble motives, coming from a lowly peasant as they did, only added to his admiration. Someday he would wed a lady of court, his equal in every way, and produce a family with royal lineage, an impeccable bloodline of property and wealth. But for now he aimed to enjoy this admirable wench.

  Taking extra care not to plant a babe in her belly.

  A case of squandered seed was his squire, the cast-off bastard of a high-placed baron and an enslaved serf. Because of his mixed status, his attendant had no true place anywhere. That would happen to no child Spur begot.

  Royals and commoners should not mix.

  Still, they could fuck. An activity he had once disapproved of between royals and commoners seemed not quite as reprehensible now.

  “Be of good cheer,” Spur told his lovely, if crestfallen, guest. “If not for the pelt hampering your throws, I would be on my pompous ass even as we speak. By the way, the fellow who is on his ass is Nym, my squire, a man who would give his life for me gladly.”

  “Methinks ‘gladly’ is overstated in this instance.” His squire lumbered to his feet. A tweak popped his askew nose back in place.

  Spur continued. “Indeed, in battle, Nym leads the charge, carrying my banner right at the forefront.”

  “Only because banner wavers are picked off first.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha. What a wit is my insolent squire! Someday he will jest himself right out of a well-deserved reward of a half tankard of brew.”

  “Piss off. A full tankard is what you promised me.”

  As if pondering, Spur tilted his jaw. “Strange. I have no recollection of that conversation.”

  “All right. All right. I have learned my lesson. Here on out, when it comes to insolence, I lock my lips and throw away the key.” Nym mimed the action he had described.

  “See there.” Spur nodded at his guest. “Feel confident that we may say and do whatever we please behind these four walls and ’twill go no further. Squire—retrieve the bucket so that this female may begin her day.”

  As Nym went for the steaming hot water, his guest rounded on him. “You cannot mean for me to bathe myself in Nym’s presence.”

  “Certainly not. I mean for Nym to bathe you.” He spoke over her gasp. “’Tis a custom of hospitality to have servants attend visitors.”

  “Nay!” she cried in outrage.

 
“Tut-tut, my dear. Remember our agreement. I would carry you away from Lord Harold’s holdings, and you would please me carnally. Here, watching pleases me.”

  Nym returned. After dipping a linen cloth in the steaming bucket of water, his squire proceeded to bathe the maiden’s blushing face.

  “Take care with her mouth,” Spur advised from the sidelines. “’Tis bruised. And talented.”

  “And her throat?” Nym inquired.

  “Equally talented. And likely more bruised. You know my make. So saying—”

  Nym interjected, “Just to clarify, my lord, you were boasting, not saying.”

  “One quarter tankard of ale,” Spur pronounced, glaring at his squire. “Now where was I? That rude interruption made me forget my place.”

  Nym made a choking sound, then coughed, “Alotsomeroyalsknowaboutrude.” His squire cleared his throat. “A bit of stale bread stuck in my windpipe is all, my lord. No need for concern.”

  Spur whacked Nym on the back, a heavy blow that sent the squire reeling, and then continued, “Even though I am generously endowed, never have I enjoyed a more enthusiastic companion.”

  His guest squeaked in mortification. “My lord! Pleeeeassse.”

  Nym, his tactfulness recovered, swept the bathing cloth lower. “You should keep her, my lord. A woman given to talent and enthusiasm is a treasure beyond compare.”

  Alas, Spur could see very little of that treasure.

  He resentfully eyed the fur wrapped around his guest.

  “Drop the pelt to the waist, wench,” he ordered. “Its placement interferes with the performance of my squire’s duties. A shame if you were the cause of Nym’s empty tankard of ale tonight in the Hall.”

  When she persisted in clinging to the fur, Spur added, “And his whipping. I punish my vassals for insubordination.”

  She lowered the fur pelt to her middle, a white-knuckled hold, and Spur enjoyed this view of flirtatious breasts, all the more beguiling owing to their comely rose flush.

  Nym massaged the linen over the extravagant tips. “Her nipples are quite responsive, my lord. Piercing them will only heighten their sensitivity. And gold rings would look enchanting.”

  Spur fondled the points under discussion, points that went from soft to aroused, the change meeting with his approval. Compelling the rapidity of her excitement.