“There, my precious,” he soothed her. “That was not really so bad, and you were very brave. Had this been a real punishment, I should have let you shriek your head off, but it was not.” He undid her bonds, and bringing her back to the bed, laid her facedown upon it, again propping her hips high.
She lay silently, tears pearling her cheeks, and then, to her shock, felt his member seeking between her thighs. Before she might protest, he had lodged himself within her. His hands grasped her hips in a strong grip as he ground himself into her burning flesh.
“You are simply too tempting this way,” he murmured into her ear, leaning forward over her prone form. “The heat from your pretty pink bottom is delicious, Belle. I may take to beating you on a regular basis just for the pure pleasure of it.” He began to pump her with vigor. “You are as ripe and sweet as a summer’s fruit, my precious!”
To her immense horror, Isabelle felt her traitorous body responding to his dark passion. “No!” she cried out in a desperate attempt to stop it. “No!” But he had taken her unawares, and there was no stopping the pleasure that began to swell within her. Together, this time, they attained the crest of their passion.
Afterward he smoothed an ointment across her sore flesh, soothing it. “You will never be disobedient, will you, Belle?” he said softly, cradling her against his chest. “No. You are far too intelligent, and you have learned from this little incident, have you not, my precious?”
“Yes, my lord, but I hate you for it!” she cried low.
He laughed, ruffling her cropped hair. “Nay, you do not.” Then, the episode concluded for him, he said, “I must really give you something to help your hair grow quickly. But for those fine breasts of yours, you still have the look of a lad about you.”
She was astounded by this change of subject, but then it was not his bottom that was still stinging from the blows he had administered to her. She would do whatever she had to do to avoid having to face that switch again. And then to have him mount her like a stallion put to a mare; aroused by the pain he had given her. Belle shuddered. His arms closed about her more tightly.
“There, my sweet Belle,” he cajoled her. “It is over now.”
Aye, Belle thought bitterly, it was over for him, but not for her. Again she silently berated herself for her folly in coming to La Citadelle. What had ever made her think she could rescue Hugh? But then, she had never anticipated that her disguise would be penetrated. For weeks she had managed to hoodwink everyone she and Lind had come into contact with that she was a lad; but none of them had been sorcerers. Isabelle hadn’t expected a sorcerer’s powers could extend to seeing into one’s soul. Although Blanche de Manneville had told her the d’ Bretagnes were a race of sorcerers and sorceresses, she had not thought someone as unimportant as a young falconer would attract their attention. That oversight was costing her dearly. Guy d’ Bretagne had, so easily it seemed, found her out. Now she was his prisoner, caught in a tightly woven enchantment and playing a very dangerous game.
As the days wore on, there was no doubt in her mind that she was bewitched. Each day, her captor would mix deliciously flavored drinks, adding different bits of herbs, or colored powders, or even flower petals that had been dried, to his liquid potions. He would serve them to her in exquisite vessels of gold and silver, studded with carved jewels. At first he had to coax her to partake, but eventually, her willpower seeming sapped, she drank willingly. Unlike her poor Hugh, she retained her memory, however.
And the lotions he prepared were also part of his power over her. Smooth and fragrant, he would rub them onto her body in generous amounts after having bathed her. No part of her body was spared. Some were merely to soften her skin and keep it supple. Others, however, were concocted as a means to her arousal. Once he had her chained spread-eagled to the wall of his chamber. He massaged her with a pale coral-colored cream, paying careful attention to her intimate parts, and within moments she was writhing with desire. Facing her, he watched with amusement, laughing as she cursed him, her passion burning into her, and unable to satisfy it.
“I hate you!” she screamed at him until her throat was raw.
Guy d’ Bretagne had finally released her, and commanded her to pleasure him. Belle desperately wanted to defy him, but his dark, violet gaze forced her compliance, and she obeyed, hating herself, but caught in the throes of his fierce and lustful enchantment, she could do naught but his bidding.
Because she was near hysterics afterward, he moved his hand before her eyes in mysterious fashion, and she fell into a deep sleep, awakening hours later, sore, and yet exhausted. Still, she had been happy to see him bringing her a plate of food, and equally happy to make love with him in the dark night hours that followed. Aye, she was enchanted even as her Hugh was, or else she would have surely killed Guy d’ Bretagne by now.
Her master was, it seemed, very pleased with her behavior. One day he took her into the small private room where he liked to fashion his creams and other magical potions.
“I shall teach you how to mix love potions, and the special creams I enjoy using,” he told her, and he smiled. “You are an intelligent wench, and if the time comes when you no longer amuse me, you will have another use to help pay for your keep, my beautiful Belle, but I cannot imagine such a time ever coming. Can you, my pet? You are mine.” He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Are you not, Belle?” His eyes bored into her very soul.
“I am yours,” she agreed softly.
He smiled at her then, pleased, and said, “I shall teach you to make a potion guaranteed to inflame the bodily lusts. We will begin by boiling some water. Watch everything I do, and next time I shall allow you to do it.” Ladling water from a bucket into a small black caldron, he affixed the kettle to a hook and swung it over the fire in the little fireplace in the corner of the private chamber.
No one was allowed in this room except a large orange male cat called Saffron, unless they were invited by Guy d’ Bretagne. “Saffron is the king of the castle,” Guy told her, laughing. “He has fathered more kittens than any cat I have ever known. I suspect him of lapping up the potions that sometimes fall to the floor.”
He drew Belle over to a clean but worn wooden table, and handed her a small grater. “You will grate these almonds for me,” he said, handing her a small bowl of them. Then he turned away to busy himself, and she watched him with wide eyes, fascinated. He took down from a shelf two jars. Opening one, he spooned out a thick, dark, gold substance into a narrow-mouthed pitcher. Capping the jar and returning it to its place upon the shelf, he opened the other vessel. She could not see what was in it, but he added two pinches of the contents to the pitcher. “Are the almonds grated yet?” he asked her.
“Aye,” she answered, swearing softly as she nicked her knuckle.
“Give them to me.” And he mixed the grated nuts into the pitcher with the other two ingredients quite thoroughly. When the water was boiling, he began ladling it into the pitcher until the small vessel was filled. Again he mixed the contents completely. Then taking two narrow crystal goblets from a cabinet, he poured the warm golden liquid into them, handing her one. “Drink it down quickly!” he ordered her, quaffing his own portion.
Belle drank, and it was sweet, yet there was a sharp underlying taste to the potion that she could not quite place, although it was familiar. The liquid coursed through her veins, and she was suddenly aware of a tingling sensation that seemed to concentrate itself in her nether regions. She shifted nervously, and then, to her amazement, he opened his gown to reveal his manhood, rampant with desire. Wordlessly, he lifted her up, impaling her on it as she wrapped her legs about him and clung to him as he backed her up to the very same table she had been grating the almonds upon. He began to piston her with long, slow strokes of his mighty weapon, quickly bringing them to mutual satisfaction.
Setting her down at last, he noted, “ ’Tis not as strong as it should be.” Then he murmured some words over the remaining liquid in the pitch
er that she could not understand, his elegant hand making a graceful sweeping motion over the vessel. “There! That should do it. We shall give the remaining portion to Vivi and Hugh, and see what they think of it, eh, Belle?”
She nodded, and then asked him, “What is in the potion, my lord? Besides the almonds and the hot water, I mean.”
“I will tell you next time,” he promised her. “For now it is not necessary that you know. Not until I allow you to make it yourself. Did you enjoy its effects, my pet? I far more enjoy pleasing you than punishing you. Now, Vivi, she enjoys occasional pain. It seems to arouse her to extreme ardor. Hugh tells me he whips her with great regularity, and afterward she is wild with passion.” Guy caressed Belle’s hair, which, thanks to another of his potions, was growing longer and thicker with each passing day. “You did not take well to my hazel switch, did you, my beauty? You did not like it at all.”
“Nay,” Belle told him. “I did not, my lord.”
In retrospect, Belle thought, it had been a good thing that he had beaten her that morning. The memory kept her strongly in mind of how dangerous this man was, and of how her very life was held in his hands. She could do nothing to help Hugh until she could gain Guy’s full trust, and perhaps even his love, and get out of the confines of his apartments. She thought perhaps now that he was teaching her simple tasks in his magical chamber, she might be gaining his trust. Yet she remained fearful of Guy d’ Bretagne, and helpless in the face of his spells and the pleasure-pain tortures which he continued to inflict upon her. As for love, was he even capable of it? Isabelle did not know.
One day before Guy left Isabelle, he fastened a narrow strip of gilded leather about her hips. A single matching strap hung from the front of the girdle. To it was attached a small phallus shaped like a thumb. The strap was drawn down between her netherlips and the phallus inserted in her sheath. It was made of leather, and studded with tiny freshwater pearls.
Then he pulled her into his lap and began to play quite suggestively with her breasts. Soon she could not help squirming against his knees. When she did, the phallus pressed against her, arousing her wickedly. Seeing the surprised look on her face, he laughed wickedly. “It is to remind you of your duty while you wait for me,” he told her.
“I am bored just waiting,” she told him daringly. “I can read.” She sat very still now, lest she be tortured again.
“In what language?” he asked, fascinated by this new knowledge of her.
“English and French,” she said.
“I will see you have manuscripts with which to amuse yourself,” he promised, and then left her.
He kept his promise, and Isabelle read each day when she was alone. Still, it was boring lying about naked, waiting for Guy d’ Bretagne to rejoin her.
Several weeks passed in this fashion. Then one day when Guy came back, he had with him a beautiful tunic dress and long skirts. He handed them to her. “You will join us in the Great Hall tonight,” he said.
“There are no undergarments,” she said.
“You do not need them. I have had the tunic dress lined in rabbit’s fur for warmth,” he explained with a small smile. “Are you not pleased that you are to join us?”
“Yes,” she answered him, kissing his mouth sweetly. “While I do enjoy my own company, my lord, the company of others can also be equally stimulating.”
The tunic was beautiful. Made of copper-colored silk, it was embroidered in copper metallic threads and sparkling golden gems she did not recognize. She had never seen so rich a garment, even at King Henry’s court. The high neckline was round, and the long sleeves jeweled at the cuffs. The simple soft wool skirts were dark green in color and lined in a soft silk sarcenet. When he had bathed her and dressed her, he took up a brush and slowly groomed her beautiful hair, which had by now grown back nearly to her shoulders.
Brushing Belle’s hair has become one of my most sensuous pleasures, Guy thought as he drew the bristles through the thickening mass of red-gold. Then he sprinkled it with gold dust. “You are almost too beautiful to share,” he said quietly when she was ready. “I hope I do not regret my decision to give you a small measure of freedom, Belle. Still, it is time for you to meet my sister.”
“I have seen her in the hall. She is extremely beautiful, my lord. I wish,” she sighed, “that I could see what I look like.”
He laughed at her little vanity. “Come,” he said, taking her hand and leading her over to a cabinet that stood against the wall. Opening it, he revealed an enormous oval-shaped mirror that was most wonderfully clear. “Voilà, Belle! Do you like what you see?”
“Is it me?” She was astounded by the woman staring back at her. “Is it really me? What is this mirror made of? It is not of silver. Is it magic, my lord?” She was fascinated by the image she saw, and turned this way and that. This woman who stared back at her was hardly the Isabelle of Langston she knew. That Isabelle was a pretty but practical girl. This creature was a beautiful, sensuous, and very voluptuous woman. Was this, too, magic?
“The mirror is a magic of sorts, Belle,” he said to her, “but the thing it does best is it tells the truth. What you see in it is exactly what you are. Are you pleased by your image?” He stepped behind her now, and she saw his handsome face reflected back at her.
Isabelle nodded.
“Come then,” he said, closing the cabinet and leading her from the room.
As they began to climb down the narrow stone staircase, Isabelle suddenly realized that she was afraid. There was a sort of comfort in the big warm hand clasping hers. It was good that she would see Hugh this night, for she was beginning to have feelings for Guy d’ Bretagne that she knew she should not have, even if those feelings were engendered by his sorcery. She had to fight this enchantment. She was Guy’s mistress for but one purpose: to free Hugh Fauconier, her husband, so they might return to England, to their child.
“Hold your head high, Belle,” Guy commanded her as they entered the Great Hall, to traverse its length to the high board. The noisy hall was filled with servants and men-at-arms.
Isabelle focused straight ahead. There was Hugh! Her Hugh! Her eyes devoured the long, plain face and hawklike nose. They lingered upon his big mouth. She could almost feel the pressure of that mouth upon hers, and swallowed back a sigh. She liked the way he now wore his dark blond hair; long, and tied back with a length of leather. It gave him an almost primitive look she found strangely attractive. It was so different from the close-cropped hairstyle of the Normans. They mounted the steps to the high board, and Guy squeezed her hand.
“Sister,” he said, “this is Belle.”
Vivienne d’ Bretagne looked straight at her, and Isabelle was struck at how much she looked like her brother. They could almost have been twins, each with thick-winged dark brows over almond-shaped violet eyes. Vivienne had heavy dark hair that tumbled to her shoulders, and a heart-shaped face with absolutely perfect features. From a distance she had been beautiful; up close she was spectacular. Belle wondered how she could win her husband back from such a woman. Love. She had to remember that the power of true love could overcome anything. It had to!
“You are very beautiful,” Vivienne d’ Bretagne said in a tone that was slightly disapproving. Never had she had to share the high board in her own castle with a woman who could match her beauty. Usually Guy’s little mistresses were pretty, but no more.
“You are very beautiful, too,” Isabelle responded, deciding that a bold approach was perhaps the better one in this instance.
For a moment Vivienne looked surprised, but then she laughed. “My brother said you were brave, and I can see he has not lied.” She turned to her lover. “Hugh, mon amour, come and greet Guy’s leman. Is she not lovely? One would never know that her mother was a peasant.”
Isabelle’s gaze swung to Hugh. His wonderful blue eyes surveyed her impersonally. Those eyes, which had once been warm and loving when they alighted upon her, were cold and assessing as they roamed over her now. He d
id not smile. “She’s pretty enough, Vivi,” he said, “but my taste runs to black-haired Breton wenches.” He turned away from Belle, leaning over to kiss his mistress.
“Come, Belle, and sit,” Guy said, helping her to her chair. Isabelle heard his voice speaking to her, and she obeyed him, but shock was coursing through her body. The man who called himself Hugh Fauconier looked like Hugh Fauconier. She could even hear an echo of Hugh’s voice in the harsh tones of this man, but this Hugh was not her Hugh. Could she ever get him back? What had begun as an adventure was turning into a nightmare of horrendous proportions.
The menu was filled with foods known for their aphrodisiacal qualities: cold, raw oysters, taken from the sea below La Citadelle, and served in their half shells; roasted quail, and a rabbit stew with onions, leeks, and ginger; long stalks of pale green asparagus; and for a salad, braised Brassica eruca, a type of cabbage famed for its strong amatory powers. They ate from gold plates, and drank wine mixed with gentian root from carved pink quartz goblets. The addition of the gentian was to but increase their erotic tendencies. Everything placed before Isabelle was exquisite, but she had little appetite for the morsels Guy offered with his elegant fingers. Concerned, he murmured against her ear, “Are you all right, Belle?”
She was instantly on her guard. They must not know who she was and why she had come to La Citadelle. Turning her head, she managed a smile. “I think I am overawed by all of this,” she told him. “I had gotten used to your chambers being my world. May I have a sip of wine to encourage my appetite? And perhaps a bit of quail, and some of those lovely grapes, my lord.”
He held the cup to her lips, letting her drink her fill, and the wine seemed to restore her. He fed her the quail as she had requested, smiling as she licked his fingers clean with her facile little tongue. “A bit of bread and brie?” he tempted her, and she ate it. Then he fed her the grapes, one by one, and when she licked the juice from his hands, he reached out to take another small bunch, saying, “For later,” and they laughed together. For a moment it was as if they were in their own little world, and she did not have to face the horror of what had happened to her husband.
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