Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh

by Ann Jacobs

  Will laughed at the warning. “Never fear, my misguided Lord of Misrule. I’ll guard my back. And my cock. Where is the plump pigeon we sandwich fucked yestereve?”

  Gavin wondered that himself, until he remembered. “She said she came from the village. Mayhaps I’ll visit her there ere I order the firing of the Yule log. Nay. I want not to wait that long to fuck her again.” He spied the other wench, and bellowed, “Mavis! Come you to me.”

  The wench bowed low, giving both twins a fine view of her pert, ripe breasts. Gavin took her hand, bid her rise. “Fetch Evie to me. She stole away yestereve while we two dozed. Off with you. I’d see her ere we go to drag in the Yule log.”

  His lady mother shot him a look that needed no translation. She was not happy that he’d publicly singled out one of the castle sluts. She’d be less thrilled if he ordered another one to service him before one and all. When she turned back to his father, though, Gavin decided another order might serve him well. “As Lord of Misrule, I order the Earl and Countess of Summerfield to retire to their bedchamber. Methinks they need more rest this Christmas Day.”

  His father laughed, then stood and took Lady Jasmine’s hand. “We thank you, my Lord of Misrule. I’ve been away too many wintry nights, and I long to pass this day with none but my lady. My people, I wish you all a Happy Christmas. We will take our leave, and join you again ere the feasting begins—with permission of Gavin, Lord of Misrule.”

  After waving his parents away, Gavin set the assembled knights and ladies to dancing and singing familiar carols while he waited impatiently for Evie. His time for play could end at any moment—would necessarily end with the arrival of his betrothed. While he didn’t expect to care particularly for her, he’d not insult her by dallying with a peasant wench before her aristocratic nose. ‘Struth, he held out a shred of hope that in Lady Evelyn he’d find the sort of love his uncle Giles had discovered with the stranger he’d been ordered by King Henry to wed.

  Still, Gavin intended to make the most of his remaining freedom.

  * * * * *

  “Sir Gavin said you’re to come to him now, m’lady. He be Lord of Misrule and ye dare not disobey.” Mavis wrung her hands. Apparently the idea that she’d be punished if she couldn’t produce “Evie” petrified her.

  “Surely he’d not cause you harm.” Though Evelyn had heard tales of debauchery that she now knew firsthand were true, she doubted Gavin would resort to violence against those who served them—Lord of Misrule or not. “‘Tis impossible that I masquerade before the entire gathering of revelers masquerading as a serving wench.”

  “If we dressed ye in Cook’s gown—”

  “Think, girl. That disguise does nothing to change my face. All who see me will know who I am if they’ve ever laid eyes on me before. Those who haven’t will figure out quickly enough who Sir Gavin’s bed wench was, when I appear as myself to say my marriage vows.” Though she’d not been to King Henry’s court, Evelyn had hardly been a recluse. Chances were good—excellent—that at least one of the knights and ladies celebrating Christmas and the upcoming wedding at Summerfield would recognize her no matter how she tried to disguise herself.

  “God’s teeth. ‘Twill cause a furor of gossip. What have I done?”

  Mavis scrunched up her forehead as if she were in deep thought. Finally she spoke. “Mayhaps ye should ask for yer betrothed husband to join ye here. Confess yer deception. It’s for sure he’s hot to fuck ye, so he might forgive ye.”

  And Gavin’s destrier just might grow wings and fly. But Evelyn could come up with no less odious solution, however hard she tried. She began rifling through the trunk that held her wedding finery. When she found a sheer white silk gown and forest-green velvet tunic, she thrust it into the maid’s trembling hands. “All right. I cannot see any alternative, though I expect he will want to throttle me. Help me dress, and then go tell Sir Gavin that the wench Evie wishes him to meet her in this tower.”

  “Evie wouldn’t meet him dressed fit to kill, m’lady,” Mavis said, a dubious expression on her face as she looked at the luxurious fabric. “She’d meet him in somethin’ she knew would stiffen his rod right quick.”

  From Evelyn’s observation of yestereve, she deduced that it took very little to make her future husband’s cock stand at attention. She wasn’t certain, however, that she wanted it randy and ready this morn. Mayhaps…but no. She needed to greet him with dignity, explain away her actions of the night before.

  Bones of Saint Aegis, what had she done? While there was a small chance Gavin would accept her having disguised herself to meet him and learn if he desired her, only the veriest idiot would stand for her having fucked not only him but also by his twin brother while she played the role of wanton wench.

  “It matters not. My only hope is that he will want my properties enough to wed with me ere he slaughters me the way you say he did the boar on this morning’s hunt.” Evelyn snatched the garments from Mavis’s hands and yanked them over her head. “Hurry, sew the sleeves on and lace the tunic. As tightly as you can.”

  Why should she care how she looked? ‘Twas certain Gavin would not. Still Evelyn sucked in her breath while Mavis laced the sides of the tunic, holding her arms out of the way. Knowing it to be her best feature, she left her hair uncovered, brushing the pale strands until they shone before catching it up within a jeweled snood.

  “Go, Mavis. Summon my Lord of Misrule ere I lose my courage and jump from yonder window.”

  Chapter Four

  “M’lord of Misrule, the lady Evie begs ye meet her in the guest tower.”

  Saucy wench. Dared to defy the Lord of Misrule. Gavin’s cock twitched. It ever liked a challenge. “Rise, Mavis, and take me wherever it is that Evie cowers. I’ll not take my displeasure out on the messenger.” He glanced about the hall. “Will, I cede you the duty of dragging in the Yule log. I’ll return to light it ere long.”

  “You need not my help in taming Evie, brother?”

  “Nay. We may enjoy her later, once I’ve tied her to my bed where she belongs.”

  * * * * *

  The thought that Evie had been fucking with one of his parents’ noble guests irked Gavin as he followed Mavis up the winding stairs. Why, he didn’t know, because ‘twas obvious she was naught but a castle whore. He noticed when they reached the solar door that Evie was occupying the space he imagined his lady mother had ordered saved for the guest of honor—his bride.

  And that Mavis was rapping respectfully on the closed door and waiting for permission to enter.

  What the…was that Evie? In silk and velvet, her ample tits practically spilling from the low neckline of the gown. Jewels in rainbow hues glittered from the gold mesh snood that barely contained her pale tresses. The buxom whore must have lost her mind, pilfering the finery of one of his parents’ guests. God’s nightgown, but she looked good enough to eat, cleaned up and wearing something other than that greasy servant’s gown. She looked better wearing nothing at all.

  Quickly he stepped inside the door, slamming it in Mavis’s worried-looking face and throwing the bolt. No need to get a guest involved in Evie’s punishment. He’d relish doing it himself. Mayhaps he’d even take her to the Great Hall, order the revelers to pay her homage as they would a great lady—as they would his bride. Strip her naked and fuck her in broad daylight, before the assembled knights and men-at-arms.

  Gavin opened his mouth to speak, but naught came out. Evie held him speechless. Enthralled. Mayhaps he’d take her with him when he left here, buy her raiment like this, and lock her away in a tower at Castle fitzSimmons for his pleasure alone. Once he’d done his duty and gotten an heir on his bride, he amended when his conscience tweaked him.

  “You dare to steal our guests’ raiment?” he asked when he found his voice.

  “‘Tis mine. I am Lady Evelyn, your betrothed wife.”

  “You lie. You’re Evie, a castle whore who pleasured me and my brother yestereve. You could be flogged for being here, you know. Take o
ff that purloined finery, lay it carefully upon yon chest, and service your Lord of Misrule. I may yet let you go unpunished. Or I may not.”

  Her pale eyes flashed fury—or was it fear? “I tell you, I’m Lady Evelyn fitzSimmons, soon to be your bride. Do I sound like some peasant wench?”

  She sounded not like the jade he and Will had fucked until she fainted from the pleasure of it. Today her Norman French sounded fit enough even for King Henry’s court. And her tone as haughty as the jongleur had described. But ‘twas impossible. No lady would have… “Disrobe or I shall rip the garments off your ripe, trembling body.”

  She made no move to obey, and that infuriated him. He stepped closer, so close he felt her heat, her fear, and laid a hand just below the crest of her left tit. “If I find the mark of Satan on this ample breast, I’ll know for certain that you lie.”

  “Nay, you will not. You will know your bride came to you, wishing to learn if she could summon your lust. Evie and Evelyn are one and the same.”

  As though he’d been scalded, he jerked back his hand. “The marriage is off,” he snapped, ashamed that even now his cock rose to salute the jaded bitch his sire had contracted for him to wed. “I’d not breed my heirs upon the veriest of whores.”

  “Who are you to name me whore? Think you I’m any more anxious to be plowed by a whoremaster who calls for not one but two peasant wenches to slake his lust on his arrival home, before he even breaks bread and slakes his thirst for wine?”

  “You risk your safety, Madame. Enlighten me. For what earthly reason did you decide to play my whore when in a few short days you’d have become my bride? To fuck not only me but also my brother?”

  “I’d heard…that you were a cocksman of some repute. I wanted not to wed with you if—” She paused, as though reluctant to go on. “—if you could not dredge up the desire necessary for you to do your marital duty with me.”

  “You heard I sometimes couldn’t stiffen my rod for a lover?” Gavin searched his memory, but couldn’t recall ever having suffered that malady.

  “Nay. But I lost two suitors my guardian brought to me…two who said they’d not abide a fat, pale pigeon in their beds. I wanted to be sure you were not—”

  “Well, you found out. Madame, your appearance does not disgust me, but your actions of yestereve certainly do. By the Rood, you allowed my brother to fuck your ass while you sucked my cock. While I plowed your cunt and filled you with my seed.” God’s nightshirt! The memory of her cunt milking his cock as he climaxed deep inside her was as vivid as if it were happening now. He might have gotten her with child already. He’d never even thought of pulling out, the way he always did with the wenches he fucked.

  His sire had threatened to disown him and Will if their seed took root in the bellies of any Summerfield villeins. He could only imagine the punishment that would result from him impregnating a lady and leaving her unwed. “The marriage is back on,” he spat out, the expression on his handsome face anything but happy. “You may already carry my heir.”

  “What if I do not wish to wed with a whoremaster who likes to share his women with his brother and God knows who else?”

  “‘Tis not your choice. I will tell the priest you carry my child and you’ll not be able to refuse to say the vows.”

  The flat, unemotional delivery of his edict told Evelyn more than words could have that Gavin planned further punishment. Punishment she deserved, without a doubt, yet he deserved it, too. After all, ‘twas he who’d called for two whores to pleasure him. He who’d invited Lord William to come join in the fun. It was he who’d moved on her and in her in perfect tandem with his twin. Such perfectly coordinated fucking was not a skill learned in one or two encounters unless her guess was seriously off.

  “Will you share me with your brother after we are wed?” she asked ere she could hold back the words.

  His smile belied the chill in his voice. “You liked it, didn’t you? Me in your cunt, Will in your ass? Stuffing you like the Christmas goose now roasting in Cook’s oven for tonight’s feast? You ask if I’ll share you again once we’re wed? I may, since you’ve proven it creams your cunt so well. I’d not wish to deny you your bawdy pleasures. Will and I have ever shared—our training, our knighting…’tis natural that we’ve shared our wenches, too. I see no reason now to stop.”

  “‘Tis against God’s laws.”

  “So is fucking. That doesn’t mean fucking isn’t done every day, every hour, by everyone from the King to the lowest of serfs. Evie, I know you like it. Like it well indeed. You came so hard I thought you’d scream the castle down when Will and I were tandem fucking you. I am glad to find you have blood as hot as mine. Mind your mouth, or I’ll confine you to a tower—and confine my fucking to a willing mistress or two, once we settle in at Castle fitzSimmons. And do not ever think of cuckolding me. The only fucking you’ll be doing in future is with me—and Will, if he visits and I wish to share.”

  Gavin obviously thought he held the upper hand—in truth, he did. Still Evelyn couldn’t resist pointing out again that as she had sinned, so had her betrothed.

  His dark eyes flashed fire. “You are fortunate ‘twas I and not my brother who took your cunt, for you’re not high enough in the king’s favor to be given to a future earl. I’ll hear no more whining about my actions, now or ever. Come, there is no reason for you to hide in the tower. And I’m too angry with you to fuck you now. Partner me in the revelry, but remember, I demand your obedience in all things.”

  Thinking acquiescence the better part of valor, Evelyn meekly followed her angry betrothed down the stairs. ‘Twould be time later to test her seductive skills—learn whether they were sufficient to persuade Gavin that having sex felt better than exacting retribution.

  * * * * *

  By the time the Lord of Misrule returned to the hall and introduced his betrothed to the assembled crowd, the roe deer had been hauled from the fire and taken to the kitchen for further preparation. The twelve-foot long Yule log they’d cut last spring lay near the door, ready to be dragged to the huge fireplace and lit with the charred remains of last year’s log. Laughing, Gavin led the knights and men at arms in the annual ritual, lighting the crackling heartwood kindling in remnants of the cooking fire. He touched the blazing kindling to dry bark on the huge log, lighting it instantly.

  The instant igniting of the log foretold good luck for the household, just as eating the first offered mince pie was said to prevent bad things happening in the coming year to the one who ate it. Evelyn munched a flaky pie Gavin had given her, saying a silent prayer that the superstition was true. If it was, Gavin would forgive her…and their marriage would be one of joy and contentment.

  “Let the merriment begin. I command you all to celebrate Christ’s birth—and the crowning of the Conqueror a hundred and eleven years ago this day.” Gavin lifted his goblet, downing its contents in a single swallow.

  Thankfully, Lord William’s attention focused on a red-haired, skinny wench wearing what Evelyn thought looked like the MacFarlane plaid. Strange. She’d heard Summerfield warred with Clan MacFarlane over some dispute or other. “Who is that woman with your brother?” she asked Gavin when he returned to her side.

  “Lady Margaret MacFarlane. She is my lord father’s guest—or should I say hostage? Our men-at-arms caught her on Summerfield lands yestereve, and Will brought her here. Though his intention was to hold her as surety for her wily father’s good behavior, it looks as though he’s decided to use her for another purpose.”

  Evelyn didn’t doubt that, for Will had his hand in the Scots maid’s bodice, feeling her skinny tits in full view of anyone who looked. He bent, whispered something in her ear, smiling at her reply. He squeezed her shoulders, then strode toward Evelyn and Gavin.

  “I beg your aid, oh Lord of Misrule. I’d have you order Lady Margaret to bathe me.”

  “Consider it done.” Gavin slammed his goblet on the heavy oak table, drawing the attention of most of the revelers. “Mistress Mar
garet MacFarlane, I command you to go now and bathe my lord brother, Will. I expect him to smell as fresh as the flowers from our mother’s rose garden ere you’re done.”

  Margaret blushed prettily. Evelyn envied her that, for when embarrassed, her own cheeks turned fiery hot and her pale skin mottled most unattractively.

  Gavin lowered his voice, to where only those close by could hear. “Fuck her for me, too, my brother. Unfortunately I must stay and order the merrymaking.” He gestured toward Evelyn, the action insulting. “And, of course, entertain my dear betrothed. I assume you notice the resemblance between her and the buxom whore we pleasured yestereve.”

  Will had the grace to lower his gaze. Oh, no. Here it came. The heat, the blotches and splotches. Knowing her cheeks and chin were fast becoming a hideous mass of red and purple welts, she was determined not to let her embarrassment show further. “Sir Gavin is too kind. Few of my suitors have ever likened me to a favored whore.”

  Gavin’s furious look satisfied her that she’d managed to get under his skin.

  Chapter Five

  As Gavin and probably his wanton future wife well knew, Will could care less about the bath he’d requested that Lady Margaret MacFarlane give him. When they arrived in his room, though, a steaming tub awaited them. His cock twitched when he remembered how sweetly the Scots wench had fitted against his chest, belly and groin on the ride back to Summerfield last night. All day he’d wooed the lass. Now he savored the prospect of bedding her.

  Damn it, she’d made his cock rise to attention, his ballocks tighten in their sac the moment he’d found her struggling against the hold of two of Summerfield’s men-at-arms. Though at first she’d refused to identify herself, she’d obviously been no serving wench, for her garments had been much too fine. Now she stood before him, sleeves carefully removed from the white linen gown she wore beneath her plaid, young but ripe, rosy-cheeked and possessed of eyes the color of a stormy sea. Reddish-brown hair framed her face in a riot of curls. When she bent to pick up soap from the stool by the tub, her dark green MacFarlane plaid gaped, providing him an arousing view of the upper curve of small, firm breasts.