by Georgia Fox
Now she knew why they called him Ram.
Mortified by the sudden urge to giggle, Jeanne had immediately chastised herself for this wicked thought.
Oh, but he had put his lips between Lady Isobel's thighs, just as he had done to her moments ago, and now she knew why her mistress had purred like a wild cat while Ram d'Anzeray's head was betwixt her legs. No wonder her mistress never needed Jeanne's tongue anymore to soothe her aches and help her sleep.
Pulse racing, she felt sobs of frustration and confusion welling up inside her. Oh, why did he not leave her alone?
"I could answer your prayers," he said, laughing down at her.
Suddenly another voice interrupted. "Leave the girl be, Ram. She's entitled to pray."
Jeanne opened her eyes and saw Dominigo, one of his elder brothers, standing in the open doorway of the barn. He strode toward them. "A man who does not like to be told his own business, should never think to tell another theirs. We do not pray because it is our choice. The maid prays because it is hers. If you don't want your choices taken away then you have no right to take choices from another."
She was surprised to be defended by anyone in this place, but that Dominigo—so large and fearsome in his appearance—should come gallantly to the aid of her prayers and her religion was even more shocking.
Ram folded his arms and protested that he was not doing anything to her. "I was curious, that's all."
"Of course you were." Dominigo snorted. "You're always curious when there's a woman you haven't had yet."
"I'm not the only one. She's curious too. I know she watched us in the hall today."
Jeanne felt her face grow hot, and she stared at the straw, not daring to look up at either man. Her heart thumped hard in her bosom.
Dominigo chuckled. "Did she, indeed?" His huge hand swooped down before her and lifted her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his startling, silver-grey eyes. "The little kitten knows curiosity? I thought her religion had all the answers. I thought it was created in the first place to end curiosity, to keep humble folk fearful and in their place, to make sure they obeyed their 'betters' without question."
She held her lips together, but they trembled. He stroked the pad of his thumb across her mouth, and she tasted a hint of rust as well as warm leather. Although his skin was work-roughened and tough, his touch was shockingly tender.
"So sweet. So pretty. So pure. Little kitten." Then he straightened up quickly. "Come, Ram, leave her to her wrathful, vengeful god and we will go celebrate Mother Nature with the crushed fruit of her vine."
Jeanne watched them leave the barn and then, finally, she allowed a breath of relief to escape her lips. Slowly her shoulders relaxed.
Dominigo thought her pure because she was so dedicated to her prayers. But she was not pure at all. No. Perhaps that was why she felt the need to prostrate herself to the lord so often.
It was possible to be a virgin and a murderess. These men did not know that, it seemed.
Chapter Two
Ramon was restless. He took his horse out for a ride despite the rain that fell that day. Although most of his brothers found this grim weather hard on their spirits, he'd grown to appreciate it. Especially the refreshing showers that came suddenly out of an otherwise still, dispassionate sky. He liked to feel the warm drops roll down his hair, down his neck and under his tunic and chainmail. He smiled at the peppering of rain on his face, wetting his lips and his eyelashes.
More cleansing than a bath, he always thought.
Turning his face up to feel the direct hit of pinpricks, he opened his mouth and rolled out his tongue to capture a sweet drop. It slipped over the curve of his hot tongue and down his throat, soothing, gentle, no more than a whisper. Just like the essence of Jeanne.
He sat bolt upright on his horse, mouth closed. Into the distance he squinted hard, as if something there would give him a clue to the cause of his fascination for that pious wench.
That afternoon, as he and his brothers mated with Isobel, their newest wife, he'd felt Jeanne's solemn gaze across his shoulders like a cool breeze. He knew what and who it was because he'd felt it before, disapproving and prim. And when he turned his head, there —sure enough—was her small face, staring through a gap where the door was left ajar. Her pale blue eyes, innocent and wide, were unblinking. She'd blushed scarlet, but licked her lips and when she caught his eye, she did not immediately close the door.
So he'd shown off for her, rubbing his cock, letting her see the full length before it entered her mistress.
Now she claimed to be a virgin. Shocking. He'd suspected it before, because of her squeamish manners, but never really imagined it could be true. Not at her age and with a shape made for sin.
He wondered how old she was. Eighteen or nineteen, perhaps—not that it mattered. She was ripe for plucking, full-breasted and well curved at the hips. Apparently she was an orphan and had led a sheltered life as Lady Isobel's maid for most of her years. The two women were close, mutually respectful of each other in a way one seldom witnessed between maid and mistress. Ram suspected they had their secrets. Women usually did, so their father said.
He thought of Jeanne praying to her deity with her eyes closed. Why did she not have eyes open? Did her god want his followers blind?
Running a hand over his rough cheek, he looked back at his father's fortress. Shining in the rain, it reached up into the dull sky with its grey flint-stone towers saluting like angry fists. He'd planned on leaving this place before full winter. It was time he went out on his own, made his mark, but his thoughts returned again to Jeanne with her softly bowed pink lips and wide blue eyes. Her hair was one of those colors that changed depending on the light that day. It could be dark gold, or nut-brown, or anything in between. When she first came there with Lady Isobel she wore a wimple all the time, hiding her hair from view. But after a while she discarded the head-covering, as her mistress did. Now she kept her long hair in a serpent-like braid that twisted down her back and tapped her full buttocks as she walked across the yard. Ramon had watched her many times and wondered how she would look with that hair undone.
And he was not the only one who speculated about the prudish little maid with the shapely backside and ripe bubbies.
If he left now, one of his brothers would have her within the next few months; he was sure of it. She would not long keep her maidenhead. A woman of good age with a lusciously curved body, a pretty face, and a goodly amount of curiosity, would become prey sooner or later. Dominigo clearly found her attractive, and it was only a surprise that he had not fucked her by now. For some reason he was uncommonly gentle with the woman, always being first to step forward and help her mount her palfrey when she went riding with Lady Isobel. He'd passed her a pear at dinner last night, urging her to taste its sweet flesh, and then he'd held it for her while she took a shy bite. Now this— stopping Ram from teasing her about her "prayers".
Aye, Dom surely had his eye on the wench and was biding his time for an opportunity, softening her up for seduction.
Her cunny was delicious, sweet as a peach basted in honey. He wondered if Dom or any of the others had tasted her yet, played with her at all. She was a young woman who hid behind her religion, but she possessed a deeply sensual side too. He'd witnessed it in the threshing barn that afternoon.
It would be a challenge to seduce her, of course, and perhaps that was why the idea of it enflamed his blood. To win her submission would be quite something.
If anyone was to be her first, Ramon decided it would be him. He must have her.
His brothers could take their turn, but he would be the hunter who took first blood inside that luscious little maid.
* * * *
It had been several weeks, but she still did not think she would ever settle in to life with the d'Anzeray family. When her mistress chose to marry into it, Jeanne had no choice really but to go along too. For ten years she'd looked after Lady Isobel, although she sensed that her mistress thought it was th
e other way about.
They'd met as children, running about the Languedoc castellany of Isobel's powerful father, the Duc de Bressange. Jeanne's own father was once a vintner on the duc's estate, but he died suddenly, leaving his wife and many children to the mercy of charity. Those who were old enough were put to work on the land and Jeanne, the smallest, was given a place in the duc's cookhouse. Then, when the duc sailed for England and decided to bring his daughter too, Isobel insisted that she be allowed to bring Jeanne, as her maid. In that strange, newly conquered land, they became even closer friends. Lady Isobel had never had much affection from her parents, and Jeanne did her best to make up for it. She had found her use and her place in life. Or so she thought.
But now Isobel was happy in this unconventional marriage with seven men, and the maid felt pushed aside, no longer so needed. She had been essential before. Now she was almost superfluous, it seemed. Time spent with her mistress grew less and less, so she had more time to dwell upon her inner thoughts and sadness, struggling to find a place for herself in this new world.
She helped the other wives, Princesa and Aelfa, as much as they would allow, but neither woman had ever had a maid before, and they were accustomed to looking after themselves. She worked in the laundry and the cookhouse, making herself busy as much as possible. Sometimes she even took trays of food and bowls of water to the notorious master of the fortress, Guillaume d'Anzeray.
The old man was, supposedly, on his deathbed, yet he seemed remarkably lively to her. Jeanne had seen men near death before, and Guillaume was not one. At first she assumed he simply enjoyed the attention from his sons and daughters-in-law, and made the most of a few aches and pains. But then she heard that he had instructed his seven sons to go out into the world, find brides, expand their power through alliances with wealthy families and have sons. He wanted to ensure his name would be carried into the future. This then, was his way of getting things done, pushing his sons to action by making them believe he was soon to draw his last breath.
However, of the three wives so far acquired, only one—Lady Isobel—brought wealth to their castellany. Alonso d'Anzeray had stolen her away from her previous husband, and she brought with her a chest of gold, pearls and gems that her own mother gave her before she left France.
The Duc de Bressange, having heard news of his daughter deserting her first marriage and riding off into the blood-red sunset with a d'Anzeray, had disowned her immediately, abandoning her to the path she'd chosen. But Lady Isobel remained optimistic about a future reconciliation. She believed that when she birthed her first child, her father would have a change of heart. The Duc de Bressange had lost many sons in battle, and a grandson, she assumed, would bring him around to her new marriage, however unorthodox.
Jeanne did not share her mistress’ optimism. She wondered if the lady was just so happy now in this new arrangement that she refused to understand how most people would not condone what she did. After all, the Duc's grandson would be a d'Anzeray, and it was doubtful he would see that as cause for celebration. And when he learned, as he surely would, that his daughter was part of a growing harem of wives taken to service all seven brothers, he was hardly likely to raise a toasting horn to her new marriage.
That evening, as she washed Lady Isobel's hair and helped her bathe, Jeanne pondered whether she should complain about what Ramon had done to her earlier in the threshing barn. She had a bad scrape on her knee and bruises on her thighs from his fingers, but whenever she thought of his tongue working over and inside her pussy that same wave of wet heat swept through her again and she lost her breath. What good would it do to tell her mistress? She could take care of herself if he tried that again. He had taken her by surprise, but it would not happen twice.
But as she watched the waves of cloudy bathwater lapping against the side of the wooden tub, it reminded her again of that sensation inside her. The relentless tide he'd caused with his tongue—more violent and forceful than the rhythm she had begun with her own fingers. How determined he had been, how greedy. She had feared for a moment that he would take her there and then, on the floor of the threshing barn.
"What is wrong with you, Jeanne?" her mistress asked as she stepped out of the bath and into the clean fleece held out for her. "You're very flushed."
"It is hot in here, my lady."
"I am not hot. Perhaps you are feverish? You have been very quiet."
Jeanne shook her head and complained softly that she had a slight stomachache, probably due to her forthcoming courses.
Lady Isobel sighed. "That is something I do not miss now I am pregnant. The dreaded monthly visit!"
"Indeed, my lady. You will not have to suffer that for several more months." She nodded and smiled at her mistress, knowing how delighted the lady was to have a babe finally growing in her belly after her fruitless first marriage. "I hope those men are gentle with you, especially now you are with child, my lady."
"Of course they are. After today they will probably enjoy Aelfa most often as she is yet to become pregnant." Isobel ran a hand over the swell of her belly. "I will soon be fat, Jeanne. Can you imagine? I have always been so thin and bony. It will be quite a change. I wish I could be plump all the time. Like you. Men prefer a rounded body."
"They seem to like yours well enough," Jeanne remarked with a sniff. "They can barely keep their hands off you. All of them."
"These will soon grow heavier." The other woman cupped her small, firm breasts and let the fleece drop. "Ouch! They ache already."
Jeanne readied her lady's gown, but Isobel was too busy inspecting her changing body, fascinated by it. She did look a lot healthier now that she was away from her mean-tempered first husband and blossoming.
"I do not think they will ever be as full as your breasts, Jeanne. Yours are quite splendid."
She looked down at herself. "They are?" Usually she thought of her large bosom as an inconvenience, especially when the nipples were sensitive and her bodice rubbed uncomfortably. An early developer, she had breasts the size of oranges by the age of eleven and it had brought her unwelcome attention at times. Now they were three times that size.
Suddenly her mistress reached over and placed her palms under the rounded weight of Jeanne's breasts. Gently lifting and bouncing them, she smiled. "Look at them, Jeanne. I can see the nipples poking through your gown. They react to the softest touch."
Biting her lip, Jeanne glanced down and saw those hardened peaks thrusting at the front of her bodice. Her mistress stroked them with her fingers and then pinched them lightly.
"Your body is very womanly. You were made to suckle and nurture a babe, Jeanne. And a man."
"I do not want a man, my lady." She'd been pawed at enough times and threatened by men who looked at her with raging, base hunger in their eyes.
Isobel pinched a little harder. "You do not know what you want, Jeanne."
She pressed her lips tightly together as her nipples ached.
"Do not pull that angry face," her mistress chided, "you have only known the intimate touch of a woman."
"Your touch, my lady. I liked when it was just you and I. When I was of use to you. When you sought me out to bring you comfort at night in your bed, or after your bath." She did not believe it would feel as good with any other woman, but her friendship with Lady Isobel was different and dear to her. She adored the woman and would lay down her life for her. The first time she had placed her hands and her mouth on Isobel's naked body, she knew she would never feel the same deep affection for any other soul, whatever their gender.
"But until you have tried a man, how do you know you won't like that too? Some folk enjoy both." Isobel finally took her hands away from Jeanne's breasts. "You might enjoy men and women in bed. It is surely best to try something before you decide you don't like it."
Jeanne flushed hotter and looked down at her feet, wishing the stones would part and let her vanish into cool darkness away from prying eyes and questions. Now she knew she definitely could no
t tell her mistress about Ramon in the barn, for if she put it into words she would shame herself by losing her breath. She might give away the fact that she had enjoyed it.
Heaven help her. She could not even admit that to herself, let alone to Lady Isobel. Her stomach clenched, hating what he had made her feel.
"Perhaps you have tried?" her mistress urged slyly.
"No, my lady!" She gasped. "I am a virgin and you know that." She faltered. "You know, my lady, what I..." Unable to finish her sentence, Jeanne clamped her lips and eyes shut again, swallowing the sob of anguish that wanted out.
But then she felt Isobel's soft, warm hands around her face and heard her kindly urging, "Look at me, Jeanne. Open your eyes. Don't be afraid to cry. Sometimes it is good to let the tears out."
So she opened her eyes and blinked as tears welled over her lashes.
"Of course I know what you went through," Isobel whispered. "It will always be our secret. I promised, did I not?"
Jeanne nodded as a hot tear wove its way down over her cheek.
"That man who attacked you when you were a child was drunk, my dear Jeanne, and his intent was evil. You did what was necessary to get away from him."
She saw it in her mind as if it happened only that morning, yet it was years ago. The fat man with his stinking breath, holding her down on the wine cellar floor and trying to force his cock between her legs. Jeanne had reached for the closest weapon and her small, trembling hand found a shard of broken pottery from the jug she'd been carrying when he attacked her. With more strength than she'd ever imagined she possessed, little Jeanne had thrust that sharp piece into his belly like a dagger. At that very moment, Lady Isobel, only a few years older than Jeanne, arrived on the scene. She rushed to the girl's aid at once, helped burn her bloodstained gown and gave her an unshakeable alibi. The man's death was eventually assumed a bizarre accident and from that moment onward the two women were closer than sisters. And Jeanne had resolved never to let another man touch her. She had buried her guilt in devout prayer, desperately trying to erase that stain from her soul.
