The Good Sinner's Naughty Nun

by Fox, Georgia

  "We're easily forgotten," said the cheery wife of the fisherman who rescued them, "until its time to collect taxes." She set two bowls of soup on the table and bade them eat. "You must be cold and hungry," she exclaimed. "Can't do naught on an empty stomach." She was a motherly lady, immediately kind to the strangers that drifted into her husband's nets. "Then we'll get you out of those wet things and find you something dry." She raised her voice to shout at her husband, "Find some breeches, Harold, for the young man here. And he'll need a belt to keep them up since you're plump as a barrel and he's...." her eyes twinkled as she let them stray over Thierry's arms and chest, "got that fine...well-hewn shape...yes indeed."

  When the couple's pretty young daughter entered the cottage soon after with a bucket of milk, she too cast her eyes longingly over the tall, handsome man dripping saltwater all over her mother's clean-swept floor. Thierry smiled at her and she almost dropped her bucket.

  Vivienne observed all this and rolled her eyes. She finished her bowl of soup and then another, too hungry to care how it tasted. Eating kept her busy, kept her from thinking of the wrecked boat, the people all swept away, their screams echoing through her mind. It had reminded her of the day her mother burned in the town square. As a girl of thirteen, slight of build, wild tempered and undernourished, she'd thrown herself at the soldiers who lit the faggots beneath her mother's feet. She'd even bitten a few of them through their clothing and drawn blood. But they'd shaken her off, thrust her aside easily. That same sense of helplessness and despair had come upon her in the storm. It had brought back the terrible stink of burning flesh and her mother's screams as the fire consumed her body. It was a horror Vivienne had held inside her for seven years, but in the cruel jaws of the storm it was unleashed again.

  "I'd like to bathe," Thierry said suddenly. "Is there a tub I can use?"

  The fisherman's daughter replied that they had one in the shed. She would gladly prepare it for him.

  I bet you would, Vivienne thought acidly. "I'll do that," she said. "There is no need for anyone else to have the trouble of drawing and heating water. Besides, we can share the bath."

  Everyone looked at her as she finished her last spoonful of soup.

  "Oh..." She smiled. "Did we not say? We are man and wife."

  No other woman was going to get her hands on that man, she thought angrily. She'd saved him, hadn't she? Well, she hadn't saved him for some other woman's benefit.

  She expected him to argue with her, deny her story. Instead he took her hand in his and kissed it. "Newlyweds," he said, grinning at the fisherman and his wife. "Just."

  Immediately their hostess was all giggles and congratulations. The daughter looked distinctly disappointed. Thierry's hand tightened around hers and his smile became glazed, stuck to his face. When she tried to pull her hand away and reach for a cup of cider, he would not relinquish it.

  Chapter Nine

  "Husband and wife? Why would you tell them that?" He lowered himself into the bathtub, slowly relaxing in the warm water, letting the many knots in his tired limbs unwind.

  She hung his wet things before the fire. "No doubt you wanted the fisherman's daughter to tend your bath instead. Sorry to disappoint you by stealing away the opportunity of yet another conquest."

  He shook his head and wriggled a finger in his ear. They were still partly blocked it seemed from the seawater, or else this hard-hearted woman was making jealous noises. "We should make our way upward along the coast back to Hythe. It can't be too great a distance."

  "The fisherman said he'd never heard of Hythe."

  "I daresay they don't travel far. This small place is their whole world and for them there is not much beyond it."

  She was silent, still arranging his things before the fire, tipping his boots upside down to let the water and seaweed drip out.

  "I need to know what happened to the boat and my men," he added, head throbbing again as he thought of all those souls lost under his command.

  "Yes," she murmured.

  "It's my responsibility."

  She brought a small cup over to the bath and knelt. Quietly she began to wash his hair, when he hadn't asked her to do it. A brief protest died on his tongue as the warm water swept over his weary face and washed the salt out of his hair. It was more soothing and reassuring to him in that moment than anything she could have said, but he didn't deserve comfort did he?

  "We can't stay here," he said, his eyes closed. Another scoop of water dripped over his head.

  "I know," she replied with a tiny sigh.

  "Although I suppose we can stay one night." He was bone tired; heart, mind and body exhausted. She stroked his hair back. No one had washed his hair for him since he was a boy.

  "Tell me about Bishop Ravillard," she said softly.

  Thierry opened his eyes. "Should I not be the one asking you about him?"

  She sat back on her heels, her fingertips trailing through the water. "He had my mother burned for witchcraft and then he became my guardian. I was thirteen."

  He stared, watching her face and those features already so familiar to him. She had a slender nose, too fine for a peasant, and lips that were surely designed and carved by an artist of magical talents. Just looking at them he wanted to kiss her, even now, tired as he was. "You've worked for him ever since?"

  Vivienne nodded, then rested her chin on her arm.

  "And he did send you to seduce me for that key."

  "Yes."

  "How many other men has he sent you to seduce?" The anger was still there, but muted now. Too much had happened that day for all this to matter as much as it did before. The Grim Reaper had cast his shadow over them both, come to take them, and then been thwarted by some lucky chance, or mischief, or divine intervention. Whatever it might be called. He didn't know what he believed in, or what he didn't anymore.

  The answer she gave was indirect. "You were to be the last," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. "Then he promised me my freedom."

  He should have pushed her for a proper answer, but he was very much aware that had he never met her, never chosen to take her with him on the boat that morning, he might not be alive now. Hearing her voice had spurred him into swimming for the raft, and her hands had tugged him out of the water just when his strength began to ebb. He would not have stayed afloat a second longer. She was special to him. Therefore he did not make her tell him how many men there had been before.

  All that mattered was today. Not yesterday.

  The nine lives of Thierry Bonnenfant had surely all been used up in that storm. His friend, Guy Devaux, used to tease him that he would run out one day. From now on he'd better be more circumspect and make the most of the time he had left.

  "Now you must tell me your story," she pressed, her fingers moving up his chest, leaving little drips of water to roll down over his muscle.

  He leaned back, closed his eyes and sighed. "Ravillard is my father."

  Her hand withdrew. The sharp intake of her breath pierced the peaceful stillness of the cottage.

  "I am illegitimate, of course. My mother was married to another—to Guillaume Bonnenfant—when she had an affair with the Bishop. The man who raised me never knew he was not my father. Neither did I, until Guillaume died and then my mother told me the truth."

  Vivienne's fingers resumed their caress, but timidly, barely touching.

  "You see, my father—the man I'd always thought was my father—left me an inheritance. A prosperous fiefdom in the Languedoc. As my mother pointed out to me, it was unfair that I should have it since I was not his true blood. She had no love for me. I was the child that reminded her of a shameful sin she'd sooner forget. She wanted my younger brothers to have the land, for they were Guillaume' real sons. It was only right and just, she said." He opened his eyes, captured Vivienne's wrist and brought it more firmly to his chest, placed her whole palm to his heart so she would feel how it drummed hard and fast. "I agreed with her. I relinquished the inheritance and lef
t. I joined William of Normandy's soldiers and never went home again. When the Bishop found out that I'd given up my claim he was furious, wanted me to go back and fight my brothers for it. He wanted that fiefdom and through me he planned to get his hands on it."

  She was watching him with wide eyes, drinking it all in. He'd told his story to only a very few people who were close to him. Not one of them was a woman, until now.

  "But I would not feed his greedy appetite for land and power. I refused to do his bidding, wanted no part of his ambition, whatever he offered me. He's never forgiven me for that."

  Her cheeks were flushed. She'd tied her hair back in a long tail, but one frond had escaped to curl willfully under her chin. Thierry raised his hand to her face and touched that lock of hair, curling it around his finger.

  "I was not so strong as you," she whispered. "I have given in and served his greed."

  He nodded. "Of course. I am a man and you're merely a weak woman. What else could you do but give in?"

  There was a pause. Her eyes narrowed. He broke into a slow grin.

  "I should have let you drown, Bonnenfant."

  "And miss out on all this, splendid maleness?" He gestured down at his body. "You know why you saved me, Sister Vivienne. You like my particular brand of sin."

  "You might be a sinner, Thierry Bonnenfant," she exclaimed, leaning in to kiss his damp lips. "But you're an honest one. If there could be such a thing."

  Her little kiss—surprisingly sweet—had a dizzying effect, increased by the fact that when he reached for her she slid backward, out of his grasp and stood, turning away. With a swift pang of disappointment, he thought she was leaving the cottage.

  Was she now becoming prudish suddenly? The fisherman and his wife had given them half an hour alone to bathe and there was still plenty of time left.

  Then, to his relief she began to remove her tattered garments, dropping them to floor and stepping out of them as she untied her hair and let it fall down her back.

  Thierry caught his breath, that spark of delight never lessening each time he saw all that splendor unleashed.

  * * * *

  "Move over then."

  Instead he parted his legs so that she must sit between them, her knees drawn together. her toes under his buttocks. It was a small tub, not made for more than one person and Thierry's size filled most of it.

  Bishop Ravillard's son. She was still trying to accept what he'd told her. She searched his face for similarities. Perhaps there, in the arch of his proud nose. Other than that there was nothing to remind her of the monster who ruled her life for seven years. Fortunately. Thierry was Thierry. There was no one else like him in the world.

  The Bishop would think her drowned at sea. She was free at last. The thought made her afraid suddenly. All this time she'd longed for freedom and now she had it, what would she do with it?

  Thierry slid his arms under her knees and drew her closer, water sloshing over the sides of the tub.

  "You're making a mess, Bonnenfant."

  He smiled, lifting her knees higher, carefully placing a leg over each shoulder.

  "What are you...?"

  His hands cupped her bottom, lifted her forward and then she felt his cock, erect and waiting for her. The lukewarm water made everything slick and supple already and the penetration was easy. From that angle, with her feet dangling over his shoulders, her pussy primed and positioned directly over his manhood, it was also deeper than ever, a thorough possession. She wrapped her arms around his neck and left him take control as he lifted and lowered her on his shaft.

  His soft moans bit into her shoulder and she kissed his neck, his ear.

  "Just what I needed," he joked gently, "after the day I've had."

  She knew the wreck and the loss of his men had shattered him. Vivienne wanted to bring comfort in any way she could. Let the mourning come later; he needed her to take care of him now. He lifted her higher against his body and leaned back. Now her pussy rested on his belly and she felt the broad head of his phallus bobbing against her buttocks, while his hands kneaded her cheeks and his breathing changed to that heady rasp. Her legs slid from his shoulders, down over his arms. She sat straighter and offered her breasts to his mouth. He briefly buried his face between them, kissing and nibbling at her dewy skin. Then he took her right nipple between his lips and suckled, a low purr of delight squeezing out of him. She knew what he really wanted, of course. Her virgin entrance. But for that she'd make him wait until tonight when they would sleep together in the hayloft, masquerading as man and wife. For now she moved her hips, rubbing her pussy over the hard ridges of his stomach.

  His sucking became frenzied, his hands trembling around her buttocks. Finally he lowered her again onto his rod. Her nipple slipped from his mouth and he whispered her name as she sank onto him.

  * * * *

  Looking down into the water, he watched his cock disappear into her cunt, inch by slow inch. Savoring the pleasure, he kept her poised a moment then drew her back up as she was half way down his staff. She tensed, mewling with need, making him smile at her eagerness to be filled and mounted. Once again he proceed to lower her onto his dick, only to pause and raise her, enjoying the tease, suddenly finding his arms were not nearly so tired as he'd thought. The undulating water intensified all sensation, every kiss, every lick seemed repeated all over his body. Time to lower her again a little way. First her pussy lips, spread around his cock, touched the surface on re-entry, then the tiny silken curls of her pubic hair. Again he stopped, raised her a half inch. Then another. Her eyes were wild now, the look in them such as he would see in his horse when he let it out to run in the paddock after the training field. She arched forward. He thought she meant to kiss him and he opened his lips for it, but instead she lowered her head further and bit his nipple. Lightening shot through his body to his cock. That did it. He grunted, pushing his hips upward to meet her, ready to lose himself in that stupendous carnal delight.

  Whatever was in that box of relics, he mused, the real treasure had been here all along. And now it belonged to him.

  * * * *

  The fisherman's wife, Edyth, found them dry clothes and Vivienne soon made herself useful helping to prepare supper, while Thierry talked with the woman's husband, ascertaining as much as he could about their surroundings, asking where they might find horses to borrow. She heard the fisherman say that his nephew was taking a cart to market in the nearest large town early tomorrow. He could take them that far, if they desired it, and they might find horses there.

  Vivienne felt a sense of ease about this place and had begun to fantasize about staying there forever, but she was not foolish enough to think this was any more than a fantasy. Bonnenfant wanted to get back to his life, discover what happened to his men. He was a lord with property, a nobleman of importance. A humble fisherman's life was not for him.

  "Your husband is handsome," her hostess exclaimed over the cooking pot.

  "Yes," she muttered, "and well does he know it."

  The lady tittered. "Still, it is his right to be vain with so much beauty."

  He was a generous fellow too, she thought with a sigh, and he liked to share that beauty, as well as his remarkable skills, with many women. He was not the sort to settle down with only one.

  "How did you meet?" the smiling lady inquired.

  Vivienne made up a hasty story and embellished it well with romance to please the fisherman's wife. "I am his father's ward. We have known each other since childhood and were always in love."

  "Ah yes. I can see that." The good lady nodded. "I see the love between you."

  Laughing nervously, Vivienne looked over and caught Thierry's eye. He hadn't heard their conversation, but he smiled and winked at her.

  Her heart dropped to her knees and somehow dragged its way back up again, still beating.

  She'd never been in love, imagined it was perhaps only something made up by minstrels and jongleurs. But it would account for the torn feelings sh
e suffered—the anger one moment, confusion the next. Joy simply when he smiled at her.

  This would not do at all. She was appalled. When Edyth asked her to go out and look for mint in the herb garden, she was glad of the chance to slip outside and cool her cheeks.

  The cottage sat on a slight hill overlooking the water. A narrow, muddy lane wove its way to a cluster of similar thatched homes and animal pens further along the bay. The sun was just lowering beyond the horizon of a calm sea, no sign remaining of that ugly storm. She wandered down to the water's edge and walked along by the reeds and bulrushes, her mind running sultry fingers over her conversation with the fisherman's wife.

  She sincerely hoped Thierry Bonnenfant had no clue about her feelings for him. That would be disastrous. He would mock her and then run away as fast as he could. Under no circumstances could he desire a deeper bond with her—the whore who was sent to thwart his mission. He probably still thought of her as the cause of all his bad luck, the witch that conjured the storm and killed his men.

  He fucked her because, in his mind, that was all women were good for and she was currently available to him. That was all.

  The fisherman's boat was tied up at the water's edge, bobbing gently, reeds brushing against its sides. A gull disturbed by her footsteps, flew up in a flurry of annoyed feathers and swooped off over the water. She watched it, her hand raised over her eyes, sheltering them from sudden glare of burnished sunset. When something nudged her foot, she looked down and saw a remnant of wood, part of a barrel. It must have drifted in the same direction as they had after the storm. Her heart ached as she stared at this piece of wreckage. Nausea rose up in her gullet. Closing her eyes tight, she pictured the soldier Dominic's scarred face. He had saved her last night from the grasping hands of the other men by the campfire. There was a quiet good in him, a patience few men had, and more than an ounce of humility that would not have gone amiss in many men she'd known. Would he wash up too somewhere along the shore? Sister Heloise, who had shown her kindness that morning, had she too been drowned? Why had they been saved—surely two of the worst sinners on board that ill-fated vessel?