Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7)

by Jayne Fresina

  She'd struggled along all this time with scant pleasure for herself; was it so very wrong that she should seek some out now, while she could? A few hours of pleasure. She would devote herself to prayer afterward, make her knees sore from crawling on a pilgrimage. Anything. If she could have this one pleasure first.

  Helene, you know very well that this is not how God works. The shrill voice of her guilty conscience chided her, but she ignored it.

  Salvador might be a villainous, uncouth beast, but he was perfect for a little illicit gratification. He was not the sort of man to treat her as if she was fragile, thankfully. Nor was he ever likely to start caring about her or wanting to marry her. He was well known to be heartless, a man of base needs who suffered no conscience or qualm about how those desires were sated, and marriage to such a man was out of the question. She'd heard how he and his brothers shared their women and lived by their own heathen rules. The wives were all pretty young women, so she'd heard— probably awestruck creatures who were innocent and knew no better before they were snatched up by those wicked brothers.

  Those poor, addled women were very different to Helene de Leon, who knew her own mind and would never become so obsessed with a man that she lost all her self-respect and—

  Her thoughts halted as if they'd galloped into a wall, and her face grew warm as she was forced to relive the way she'd lain outside his gate and toyed with herself while he watched.

  It was nothing more than a lapse. A brief dalliance.

  She reached for the poker and stabbed at the fire violently. Salvador was merely the instrument by which she enjoyed her moment of rebellion. He was nothing more to her than that. She was not in danger of venturing out of her depth with him. She would not become one of those doe-eyed simpletons who pined for a man.

  And when Gilbert de Vernon arrived to marry her, she would surely pay penance for these sins in which she now indulged. Nothing in the short letter had hinted at a date by which to expect the new husband. It could be a month from now. It could be tomorrow.

  Her heart seemed to deflate, sink through her chest and shrivel until she could barely feel it beating.

  Another husband. One had been enough. She thought she'd escaped, been forgotten.

  Alas, nothing good lasted forever.

  The night air was thick with heat that evening, held over from the sun even long after it had faded. Nothing seemed to cool her down.

  "I'm going for a stroll around the walls of the manor to get some air," she announced to Elyce who sat nearby mending garments by the light of the fire. Even as she spoke she wondered why she explained herself. She ought to do as she pleased without feeling that need to assure people of her innocent motives. Robert used to tell her that she talked too much, especially to the servants. But Helene talked to keep herself from feeling so alone.

  As soon as she was outside, her "stroll" took her directly to the stables, and there she saddled her horse again without calling for the aid of a groom. No doubt she'd be forced to take a guard with her again, but she'd find a way to keep him busy while she met with Salvador. No one, she was quite sure, could ever suspect her of anything more than a meeting of perfectly innocent business with her neighbor. Even if these meetings did happen by moonlight. Why not? Both she and Salvador were busy during the day— had too much else to do.

  Helene recalled seeing her father welcome people to their castellany at night. Men who came to drink wine and tell stories of their glory days. If that was what men did, why should she not do the same with her neighbor?

  "Is the demon no longer our enemy then, my lady?" the guard asked her as they rode together again the half mile to d'Anzeray's castle walls.

  "Of course he is still our enemy."

  "But—"

  "Sometimes one must be close to one's enemy in order to know what they are thinking. That is what my father used to say."

  This seemed to satisfy her escort's curiosity and once he had thought about it for a while he said, "And while he thinks you are his friend, he sends you field labor and oxen, my lady. That is most clever."

  "Yes," she replied, smug. "Why else would I pretend to befriend the ill-tempered old bastard?"

  * * * *

  His brothers were half asleep by the fire when the soldier came to Sal and announced that the Widow de Leon was at the gate. "She insists upon seeing you, although we tried to send her on her way, sire."

  Instantly Raul woke from his stupor and leapt up, eager to put the "old crone" in her place. He suggested that Sal let him scare her off once and for all.

  Alarmed, heart pumping hard, Sal assured him he could manage. "Stay here and I'll handle her," he growled. "I'll be but a moment."

  He swept out, running a hasty hand back through his hair, aware that in the company of his brothers he'd drunk more wine than he wanted to tonight. They'd kept him talking and he hadn't been able to slip away and shave his face smooth. She'd have to put up with his bristles when he took his taste. He'd try not to scrape her soft skin too much.

  When she saw him approach the gate, she handed her reins to the escort at her side and told him to wait for her. "I shall not be long," Sal heard her mutter.

  Hmm. That was what she thought, he mused.

  Tonight she wore that hooded cloak again and he was impatient to get it off her, to put his mouth on her. All over her.

  He signaled for the gate to be opened and the guards did so warily, casting him puzzled glances. Not that they would dare argue or question, of course. Sal had heard that the widow Calledaux allowed her serfs to converse with her as if they were equals, yet her tone with him was always so haughty and superior that he didn't know if he believed it.

  Perhaps she saved that harsh, cold tongue for him alone. Well, lately, he'd been saving something for her alone too.

  "I thought you understood to wait alone at the gate for me, as before," she snapped at him.

  "I was busy."

  "Oh, then I'll go away again."

  He grabbed her arm at once to insure she stayed. Her escort reached for his sword, but Helene quickly shouted up at him to wait behind at the gate.

  The young soldier looked vexed. "But, my lady, I must—"

  "I do not need you to stay with me. Stay here with these soldiers and look after our horses. Perhaps these men can show you some hospitality." She added wryly, "If they have any."

  Sal instructed his men to bring a mug of ale for her escort and then, worried his brothers might come out to the yard, he quickly steered her around behind the wall of the blacksmith's forge.

  "How dare you?" she exclaimed. "Unhand me."

  "Hush, woman. Keep your voice down."

  Her hood was dislodged by the speed as he moved her out of the guards' sight, and when light from a nearby rush torch caught in her hair Sal felt that now familiar pulse thudding through him again. "You should not come out without your wimple," he chastised her.

  Her eyes widened. "I'll do as I please."

  How young she looked. Beautiful. He raised a hand to touch her hair, but she stepped back, her shoulder to the stone wall of the forge. "You said you wanted to taste," she reminded him.

  Sal chewed on his tongue, a ripple of anger seizing him suddenly. She was the first woman he'd ever wanted who recoiled from his touch that way. Usually they succumbed easily. Not this wench, however. "What will it cost me to put my filthy, unworthy hands upon you, Lady de Leon?" he growled.

  "You just did so," she glanced down at her arm, "without my permission."

  "Oh, I mean touch more than that, my fine lady."

  She laughed softly. "Then I require a vast deal more than two oxen and some shifty-eyed farm laborers, d'Anzeray."

  He frowned. "Shifty-eyed?"

  She raised her chin, tipping her head back to look up at him, her glorious hair swaying and gleaming in the light of the torch, tempting him intolerably. "Your workers would not even look me in the eye. It was most disconcerting."

  Sal felt his frown and his anger meltin
g away. He smirked. "Good."

  They stood a while in the gently puttering torch light, just looking at one another.

  "How long has it been since a man touched you?" he muttered, watching her mouth, longing to feel it on him.

  "Since my husband died, of course." She looked away as if remembering and then her eyes returned to meet his. "Well before that, in fact. He was too sick..."

  Sal felt warm relief gushing through his veins. "And no man since?"

  "Certainly not."

  It was too easy to forget what he was meant to be doing while he studied her features and all the luscious colors he could find in her hair. But then he remembered the proximity of his brothers.

  "Make haste then, Lady de Leon. I want my taste of your honey."

  Chapter Eight

  Helene looked around to be sure they were in a spot that could not be overlooked, then she opened her cloak to show her nakedness beneath it. She heard d'Anzeray make a soft, low sound and she warned him again that he could not put his hands on her.

  Those dark eyes narrowed. "I can make you moan without using my hands," he assured her cockily.

  She shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but her pulse was ticking madly, her blood speeding around her veins. "Get on with it then."

  The man knelt before her and she felt his breath on her bare stomach. "If you would be so kind as to lift your leg, my lady," he muttered. "Rest your foot on my shoulder and lean back against that barrel."

  She did not like being given commands by him, but she was extremely aroused already, so although part of her— the good part— obeyed slowly, reluctantly, the wicked part of Helene de Leon, wanted to thrust her hips at him and give a few commands of her own.

  The barrel behind her was sturdy, fortunately, for when his tongue touched her pussy she jumped and trembled. If the barrel had been empty she would have pushed it over and lost her balance.

  But after that first touch, his tongue passed over her sensitive flesh with the gentleness of a feather. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, her back arching, her left foot pressing down on his shoulder so that only the toes of her other foot touched the earth. He moved the tip of his tongue back and forth slowly and then up and down. Her breathing grew heavy and haphazard as the arousal deepened and her carefully tended pussy began to blossom. She moved her hips, gasping, felt herself moisten with that honey he wanted.

  And then he plunged his viper's tongue between her folds. It went deep. He curled it and thrust again. In and out.

  She bit down on her lip to keep from crying out.

  As his tongue caressed the tight walls of her neglected pussy, she felt her climax coming too fast. Oh, no, not yet. She tried to hold it back, fighting the red hot desire to grind her cunt into his face, and he must have felt her struggling, for he slipped his tongue back out and began a slow, more tentative licking motion, barely touching her this time.

  She exhaled a harsh breath and pushed her lower body forward, urging him on, but he teased her— one moment wriggling his tongue against her pink pearl quite savagely, then lapping around it with only light dabs. He expertly knew how to keep her hovering on the precipice. He legs trembled and her sticky honey flowed for his clever, cruel tongue. She clenched her buttocks, riding wave after wave, but holding back from going over the edge.

  Just when she thought she would explode, he leaned back and blew a soft breath over her wet cunt. Helene wanted to howl. Now she lifted her other foot off the ground and as he hitched closer to her, she let both her legs slide over his shoulders.

  Salvador opened his mouth wide enough to take her entire pussy in and then, with a fierce grunt that vibrated through her body, he feasted on her, working his tongue against her clitoris and then stabbing it inside while he sucked. And sucked.

  His lips clamped hard on her hot, quivering flesh and she could not breath. Did not want to. Ever again.

  She came in a rush, her buttocks pushed against the rim of the barrel in a way she knew would leave her marked. She did not care. Her thighs squeezed around his face and his sharp bristles scraped her skin.

  Again, she did not care.

  His tongue plundered roughly, rapaciously.

  He forced her to another peak and another climax before she had barely calmed from the first. And then, against her rules, he grabbed her bottom, holding her there with a strong, determined grip while his tongue slid down and began to work its way into her anus.

  Helene was shocked. She knew he was a beast, of course, but to put his tongue there? Good God! She gripped the barrel on either side of her hips and felt her face flush hot, but she could not stop him. He nuzzled her cunt and dug his tongue in and out of her anus until she came yet again, biting her tongue so hard she tasted blood.

  Finally he released her and she came back to earth. With both feet. He stood, wiping his mouth and grinning at her.

  Her wits and her stability regained she slapped that grin off his face. "I did not give you permission to put your tongue there."

  Hands on his hips, he glared down at her, eyes fierce, almost black. "Mayhap I'll fuck the quarrelsome attitude right out of you, wench. As your husband should have done." He grabbed her around the waist, dragging her up against his hard body. She felt his cock pushing through his breeches, forceful and demanding. For a split second she considered letting him do what he wanted, but then her common sense prevailed. If she gave him everything now, she would have nothing left with which to barter. The simple truth was that she didn't want their game to be over yet. Not yet.

  So she writhed to get free and slapped him again. His other cheek this time and even harder. "Don't think I'm one of your usual hussies, d'Anzeray."

  Lips pressed in a firm line, he stared down at her.

  * * * *

  Sal wanted to laugh. Even with his cheeks stinging. One of his usual hussies? Didn't she know that he would have fucked her by now if she was one of those women? Apparently she had no idea how different she was.

  Helene de Leon was an anomaly in his life, he realized. She was a woman he admired so much that he hadn't fucked her. It was more than desire and lust. He even felt respect for her, the way she had managed her property and survived without a man at her side. It was never good, as his father would say, to think too much of a woman, or to let her know how often one thought of her, for then she would think to get the upper hand.

  Now she'd gone and slapped him, and he ought to punish her for that. No woman had ever dared raise a hand to him in anger. He knew how he ought to handle this. He knew what his father would advise.

  She stood before him with her cloak still open, her body exposed for his hungry gaze.

  "What?" she whispered harshly. "Don't you dare think of touching—"

  Sal bent his head to kiss her exposed nipple. It was like velvet on his tongue, and he closed his eyes, sucking gently. The heat of the evening drove her soft, sweet scent of herbs and flowers up in a gentle wave to his nostrils and increased his appetite. Her skin was very fine and clean, like some precious cloth he would have to steal because it was too expensive even for his well-filled coffers.

  Her hands had moved, as if to push him back, but instead they settled on his shoulders like skittish sparrows. Then as her breathing quickened again, he felt those fingers regaining strength, digging into his shoulders. Slowly they began to explore, making their way down to his breeches, where she laid a palm against his hardened length. She ran her hand up and down as if measuring his cock, and he groaned, pushing himself at her hand while he flicked his tongue over her extended nipple.

  He heard her gasp. "You're too big."

  Sal took his mouth off her nipple and chuckled softly. "There's no such thing." Just thinking of it, of forcefully penetrating her high and mighty pussy— possibly while she fought to slap his face again— made him swell another good inch.

  She took her hand away as if he'd burned her venturing palm. Suddenly she closed her cloak, hiding her body. "This has gone far enough," she
muttered. "I gave you more than the taste you wanted."

  "Touch comes next." He stepped toward her again, but she slipped out of his clutches, pulling up the hood of her cloak and backing away from him as she moved toward the corner of the forge.

  "I must return home. It's late."

  Now only her face was visible for his admiration. The light of the torch caressed it gently for there was little breeze tonight and the flames were barely disturbed.

  But his heartbeat was another matter.

  Sal felt the strange temptation of asking her to stay. Asking.

  What the devil was she doing to him? This small woman with the odd violet eyes and the strong hands that slapped without fear?

  Although she had claimed to be leaving now in haste, she stood still, staring back at him, her full lips pursed as if she was puzzling over something too.

  Suddenly a man's voice was heard loud and clear in the yard. "Where is my brother? His supper gets cold."

  The guards must have pointed him to the forge, for the sound of Dominigo's clumsy, big feet grew louder. Sal swore. Her saw her eyes flare in panic, so he signaled for her to be silent. He shouted back, "Dom, I'll be in presently. Go back."

  "What are you doing out here?" the other man's voice shouted.

  "Naught. Go inside."

  "Aha! Now I see." Dom's face loomed into sight around the corner of the forge, appearing right behind Helene, who was frozen to the spot. "What's this? A naughty midnight tryst, eh, brother?"

  Thank Christ she'd put her hood up, thought Sal, feeling again that unusual possessiveness when it came to her stunning hair. "Aye, 'tis just a little...milkmaid. No one important. Only a woman. The usual hussy." That would get her back for the slapped face, he mused.

  She glared at him and her lips parted, but she kept her back to the other man and didn't speak. Now her expression was haughty and proud again, as it usually was when it faced him through a gate, or over a wall. Quarrelsome woman. Sal knew he had let her absorb too many of his thoughts these past few days. Perhaps it was the summer heat affecting him.