She felt his lips, hot and wet, insistent and fierce, as they slowly, slowly, made their way down the column of her ivory throat. He lingered at the pulse that beat under his mouth, enjoying the sensation of the blood that throbbed beneath his lips, knowing it must be singing in her ears, even as it now sang in his. The lips slipped even more slowly across her chest, burning insistently against the swollen flesh of her nipples. She could not restrain the soft moan that slipped from between her lips.
He pressed close against her now, one hand taking a breast completely in his hand to fondle it, while his dark head moved to capture the nipple of her other breast within the warm wetness of his mouth. He tongued the nipple, encircling it again and again until it felt raw and aching. Then she felt his sharp teeth gently scoring the tender flesh, sending needles of fire throughout her body. Suddenly, he drew hard upon her, and she cried out softly, feeling a corresponding tug of desire in that hidden place between her thighs. Her body arched slightly.
He loosed the first breast, and his hand moved to insinuate itself between her legs, pushing past her moist, pouting netherlips to find, with unerring aim, her tiny pleasure pearl. “Ahhh, Belle,” he chided her tenderly. “Such impatience.” He stroked her until she thought she must surely die of the sweetness he had loosed to pour through her veins. Abruptly, he stopped, and pushing a hard pillow beneath her buttocks, said, “Open your legs for me, Belle. Wider. Wider. Aye, that will do, my precious.” For a moment his eyes gazed upon her vulnerability, and she blushed, the heat spreading from her chest up her face. “Nay,” he said gently, touching a hot cheek. “You are very beautiful there, Belle.” Then, to her shock, he began plucking the grapes and, with firm fingers, pushing them into her sheath one by one.
Isabelle’s eyes widened. “You must … not … you cannot …” She faltered as his eyes met hers and he silently commanded her to be quiet. What kind of man was this? she wondered, frightened. He was so tender, so gentle, and yet his actions were to her astounding. Confusion swept over her. He was not harming her, and yet …
Guy d’ Bretagne pushed the last grape into Isabelle’s sheath. “Now,” he said softly, “you will remain very still, my precious one. I will shortly retrieve the fruit from the succulent bowl where I have but temporarily stored it. Keep your legs open, Belle,” he commanded her sharply when her thighs trembled and threatened to close. He added a second pillow to the one already beneath her, elevating her body even higher. Then leaning forward, he delicately parted her plump netherlips and began to tongue her pleasure pearl.
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” she cried out, and her body writhed.
“Stay still!” he commanded her sharply, raising his dark head up so she could see his fierce look. “You must learn to control your instincts so you may enjoy your pleasures even more than you now do.” Then he bent his head so he might taste of her once more.
I will not be able to bear it much longer, Isabelle thought, terrified. If she displeased him, what would he do? He would cast her from the castle. She had to bear it. She had to! He suckled hard on her, and her body spasmed, but she forced herself to remain still.
“Good!” he praised her. “I knew you could do it, my precious.” Then she felt him push his head between her legs and begin to draw the grapes, one by one, from her sheath. She could feel him sucking deeply, and could feel the tiny fruit as they popped from her; feel the spurt of their juice as it mixed with her own. When the last grape had been brought forth, his tongue swept about her sex, seeking a last measure of the sweetness, and then he pulled himself level with her, yanking the bolsters from beneath her so she lay flat once more.
“That is how I like to eat grapes,” he said, smiling into her eyes. “A difficult task to perform in the Great Hall, would you not say, Belle? You quite enjoyed it, my pet. Your honeyed juices were most copious, and quite overran the fruit’s.” He bent to kiss her deeply, plunging his tongue into her mouth, caressing hers. “That is what it tastes like,” he said, breaking the embrace.
“I could have never imagined—” she began, but he cut her short.
“Of course you could not.” He laughed. “Such things are quite forbidden by those who think of themselves as good, but here at La Citadelle, we are not good. We are a race of sorcerers, the damned, and so we may do that which others would not even consider.”
“You are such a contradiction, my lord,” Belle told him honestly. “One moment you are tender, the next fierce, and strange.”
“I am all those things, and more,” he said with a laugh, “but I am also just a man. I have been very patient tonight, but now, my precious, I must slake my most basic thirst for you.” Swinging over her, he thrust deep.
Isabelle cried out in surprise, for she had not yet been expecting his entry. A big man, his rod was both longer and thicker than her husband’s. Once well-lodged within her, he ceased his movement to smile down into her face. As if in answer to a silent command, she put her arms about his neck, drawing him down to her. She could feel the dark hair upon his chest tickle her sensitive skin. Her legs wrapped about him, and she felt him slip even deeper into her soft body. He throbbed within her, and she was at once reminded of the leather phallus. Isabelle shuddered, and he whispered but one word into her ear in answer to her unspoken question. “Yes!”
To her surprise, he had given her incredible pleasure over and over again this evening. Now he set to work to gain his own pleasure. His movements began slowly, augustly, his manhood delving deep into her, withdrawing with a deliberately languid motion. But the movements became faster, quicker, harder, until she was writhing beneath him, crying out again with her joy. Her head was whirling for the hundredth time in the last few hours. Then came the explosion of stars behind her tightly shut eyes, and she heard him cry out in delighted satisfaction as he reached his own apex. For a brief moment he slumped atop her, and then he lifted his head and looked deep into her eyes.
“There has never been a woman who pleased me as much as you do, Belle. I do not think I shall ever let you go.” Then rolling off her, he fell into a restful sleep.
She had pleased him. Isabelle felt relief pour through her body. He would not send her away, and she would soon be able to free Hugh from Vivienne d’ Bretagne’s spell—and herself from Guy’s enchantment. She must learn just what it was that was keeping her husband ensorcelled. And when you learn that, a voice in her head asked, how will you know what to do? For a moment she was overwhelmed with self-doubts, but then she caught herself. Whatever happened, she would find the way. She had not come so far to fail. She would rescue Hugh, save herself, and they would return home to Langston, to their child. They would!
To his astonishment, Guy d’ Bretagne slept the entire night through, something he had never done in his memory. When he awoke, he took Belle back into the bathing chamber, and they bathed each other. When they returned to the bedchamber, he dressed himself and was about to take his leave of her when she said, “Where are my clothes, my lord?”
“I gave orders that they be burned, my precious. Besides, you will not need clothing for the interim, Belle,” he said calmly.
“Why will I not need clothing?” she asked him.
“Because you will not be leaving these rooms for a while,” he replied. “I want you all to myself. I want you when I want you. Now let me go and break my fast. I shall return with food for you afterward.” Then he was gone, out the door, and she could not, of course, follow.
How was she to reach Hugh if she could not leave these rooms? Her heart sank. Then she calmed herself, remembering that Guy had said it was but for a short while. He did not intend to keep her penned up here forever. She was his new toy, and he merely wanted to keep the new toy to himself for the time being. He was a man, but like most men, he was a child. Isabelle returned to the tumbled bed, straightening it up, climbing in, and going to sleep once again. Guy d’ Bretagne was both a tireless and an inventive lover. She would need all her strength to keep up with him.
Vivienne d’ Bretagne was alone in the Great Hall of her castle when her brother joined her. “I had thought you would sleep till midday,” she said mockingly. “Did you not spend the night playing?”
He joined her at the high board, pouring himself a cup of wine as he sat. “I had a most satisfactory night, petite soeur, and afterward I slept as I have never slept. The girl is fearless so far, and very passionate as well.” He nodded to the servitor who spooned eggs poached in cream and dill onto his plate.
“Then you mean to keep her?” Vivienne asked.
Guy nodded. “She is the one we have been waiting for, Vivi. There is no doubt in my mind about it. Both she and Hugh are perfect for our purpose. We shall begin early next summer, but until then I mean to enjoy her to the fullest.” He spooned the eggs into his mouth hungrily, washing them down with the rich red wine.
His sister tore a piece of bread from the long loaf upon the table, and, buttering it, handed it to him. “Tell me what you did with her, Guy. Did she fight you at all?”
He laughed at her eager desire to know all. “I began gently, Vivi. I do not want to frighten her.” Then he went on to tell his sister in careful detail of his evening.
“And she did not struggle at the grapes? Wonderful!” Vivienne exclaimed. “I can see why you believe she has possibilities.”
“By early next summer,” he promised her, “I will have her completely trained to do whatever it is I require of her without ever questioning it. I am not allowing her to eat, except to take the food from my fingers. I thought she might object, but she did not. I could see her debating defiance, but in the end her common sense won out. I am very, very pleased with Belle, ma petite soeur.”
“I am glad, Guy, for without her we should be lost, I fear. That the line of Vivienne, wife of Merlin, should come to such an end! Damn our ancestor Jean d’ Bretagne for his rash and selfish act! He may well have doomed us all, Guy!”
Guy d’ Bretagne nodded, but he took his sister’s hand in his, patting it, attempting to offer her some small comfort. Their family descended from the wife of the great sorcerer Merlin, who was herself a sorceress and Merlin’s equal. They were shunned by the local population from the beginning, and they far preferred it that way. Each generation that followed had produced a son and a daughter, who, at a time decided upon by their parents, mated and produced the next generation of a son and a daughter. The descendants of Vivienne, wife of Merlin, did not mean to mix their blood or share their secrets with anyone.
Then, almost two hundred years ago, the line had produced a son of unparalleled cruelty, Jean d’ Bretagne. He had raped and murdered the only child of a nearby neighbor, a widowed noblewoman. Then he had raped his delicate victim’s mother. The woman had survived to lay a powerful curse upon the d’ Bretagne family. From that time on, no male d’ Bretagne was able to reproduce. The curse did not affect their lustiness, but the family could no longer breed its children. And the women of the line were cursed as well, for they had produced Jean d’ Bretagne. At some time in the future, the female line would also fail in its ability to reproduce. The d’ Bretagnes would die as a family, even as the family of the murdered girl had died with her untimely death.
Jean d’ Bretagne had laughed at the curse. His was a line of sorcerers. How could a mere mortal curse him? But as lusty as Jean continued to be, he produced no children with his sister. Finally, their aged parents, realizing that their spells and incantations were useless, had decided that their daughter must have a lover to give her a child. He would, of course, die after he had sired two children upon her. And so it had remained throughout the ensuing years. Each d’ Bretagne daughter had taken a lover to continue her line, which is why the estates had fallen upon the female line, and not the male. The siblings had learned to work together to preserve their family.
But now in this generation, Vivienne had not been able to conceive. She had had a dozen lovers since she was fourteen, and she was now twenty-five. Not one of these men had been able to get a child upon her. Finally, she and Guy had faced the fact that the second part of the curse had fallen upon them. They were not, however, willing to allow their family to die out. They would have a child, even if it would not be of their own blood. They would make it theirs. This new life would break the curse laid upon their family so very long ago. When the next summer came, they would mate their two lovers, and the child of that union would become theirs. For now Vivienne loved Hugh Fauconier. She would love his offspring. As for the girl, Belle, her fate would be up to Guy d’ Bretagne after she produced the desired children.
Finished with his meal, Guy arose from the high board and gathered up a small plate of food for Belle. “She should be ravenous,” he said with a smile, and left Vivienne to her own thoughts.
“Get up, you lazy wench,” he teasingly scolded Belle when he entered the chamber. “I’ve brought you a feast. Eggs, bread, and honey. Even cheese, and a crisp apple.”
“No grapes,” she teased him, and he laughed at her quick wit.
“No grapes,” Guy said. “I have other games in mind, my pretty, but first you will eat.” Setting the tray down, he helped to prop her up. Then taking a spoon, he began to feed her the egg dish.
“Ummmmm,” Belle approved, her pointed little tongue whisking a dribble of the sauce from the side of her mouth. She quickly finished everything that he fed her. “I am thirsty,” she told him, for he had offered her nothing to drink with her meal.
Guy arose, walked across the chamber, poured a goblet of red wine, and, returning with it, sat again by her side. “I will feed you the wine,” he said. “You will take it from my own mouth, but you are not to swallow until I tell you you may.” He took a sip of the wine, and, pulling her head to his, transferred the fragrant liquid from his mouth to hers. “Do not swallow,” he warned her. “I think you can take another mouthful, Belle.” He reached again for the cup.
Isabelle struggled to keep from swallowing the sweet liquid. She was terribly thirsty after her meal. His mouth met hers again, and he added more wine, again cautioning her not to swallow. He sat back, and, reaching out, began to play with her breasts. Belle felt some of the wine beginning to drizzle down her throat, but she did not swallow. His big hands crushed the flesh of her bosom. He dipped his finger into the wine cup and painted her nipples with the wine, slowly licking it off. Belle began to choke.
“You may swallow,” he said softly. “You did surprisingly well for a first time. You don’t want to obey me, yet you do. Why?”
“I was raised gently,” she told him. “While I was grateful to my half brother, Lind, for his protection, do you really believe that I enjoyed such a rough life? Here in the castle with you, my lord, it is far more pleasant. I am bastard-born, raised between two worlds. Will you fault me for preferring a privileged life to a harsh one?”
“No,” he said, intrigued by her honest reasoning.
“Am I to be your leman, my lord?” Belle further pressed him, amazed by her newfound ability to dissemble the truth.
The question surprised him, but he answered her question with a question. “Do you want to be, Belle?”
“I think so, my lord,” she said. Better to not be certain than to be boldly assertive with this man.
His violet eyes grew warm as he said, “You were meant to belong to me, Belle. I have waited my entire life for a woman like you.” He kissed her softly, and then said, “I will not always be kind, my precious. If you displease me, I will beat you. Have you ever been beaten?”
“No, my lord,” she answered, her heart beginning to beat faster.
“I would not mark your lovely skin,” he said soothingly. Then he stood up, reaching out for her. “Come! I will demonstrate. Do not be afraid. You are not like those poor wretches that get strung up in the hall every now and then for their disobedience.” He pulled her from the bed and drew her back into the alcove where the bench was located. Placing her facedown upon it this time, he quickly affixed the manacles.
“Plea
se, my lord, I am afraid,” Belle told him.
“There is no need for it,” he assured her, pushing a hard bolster beneath her belly so that her hips elevated themselves. “Even your church permits the occasional beating of a woman for disciplinary purposes. If I give you six strokes of my leather strap now, you will understand what is involved. It is unlikely, with a girl as intelligent as you, that I shall ever have to do it again. It is really better that we do this now instead of waiting until you disobey me, and anger me. If you angered me, I might give you twenty-four strokes of the strap.”
As he spoke he was moving about the alcove, and she could not move her head to see him from her position. Finally he came and stood by her head. In his hands he held a leather strap, several inches in width. The ends of the strap were divided into several narrow strands, each one of which contained several knots. “If you truly angered me, I would use the leather on you, but as I only wish to demonstrate that I am capable of punishing you, I shall use the hazel switch. You are a brave girl, I know, and so I do not want you to cry out, for six strokes are nothing. If you displease me with any display of cowardice, I shall add one stroke for each cry you make,” he warned her. “Tell me that you understand me, Belle.”
“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.
“Good!” he said, and then he moved away from her.
She felt his hand smoothing tenderly over her buttocks. “You have a bottom like a fine, ripe peach,” he remarked. And then he brought the switch down across the pale flesh. Isabelle swallowed back her urge to protest. The second and third blows were more forceful, and by the fourth she realized her flesh was tingling.
“You’re doing very well,” he complimented her, and laid the fifth blow more gently across her helpless flesh. “And six!” The last came hardest, as if to imprint itself on her memory.
Hellion Page 30
