by Georgia Fox
"I fed and clothed you for five years, whore," he'd hissed at her when she was dragged back to him the last time. "I invested time and training in you, whore. No one runs from me. No one."
She liked Princesa better than "whore", she thought with a slight smile. Especially when Raul d'Anzeray growled it, like a wolf teasing her.
"What is that mark on your body?" she asked. "By your cock? It looks like a lion."
"It is the brand of d'Anzeray," he replied. "My brothers and I all have it. We decided when we were young that it would be our crest, the mark of our unity. Even if we are stripped of all that we have and left naked, we will be identified by it."
She sighed wistfully. "I have no family to which I can belong."
He said nothing.
They came to a fast flowing river that, due to recent rains, had broken a wooden bridge and almost flooded its banks. Here he dismounted to lead the horse across. She began climbing down too, but he urged her to stay dry.
"It will be safer for you on the horse," he said.
As they crossed the treacherous water, he kept one hand on the horse's reins, another on her thigh to be sure she did not slip. Barefoot he trod through the dark, churning water and must have cut his soles on rocks below, but he never complained.
Again that day he caught their food and cooked it. He didn't have to hunt this time, for several chickens crossed their path and he took advantage of the bounty. Without a word he cut her wrists free to let her eat, and when it grew colder that afternoon he shared his fleece-lined mantle with her, even before she shivered.
The girl he called Princesa could not recall such generosity in a man before. Even "Grandpapa" had not been like this, but then he was ancient and suffered pains in his joints, especially in bad weather, so his patience was thin, his temper by no means mellow.
She'd heard the d'Anzeray were fierce warriors in battle, so perhaps he saved all his energies for that.
"Have you killed many men?" she asked when they'd been silent for a while.
"What is many?" He shrugged.
"More than ten?"
His lips quirked. "You don't even know what ten is."
She sulked.
The warrior glanced at her face and then laughed. "Ten is as many as your fingers."
"I know," she snapped.
He grabbed her hand and counted out her fingertips. She was too consumed by his firm touch to pay much heed, but she liked him showing her. She liked how solemn his face became as he taught her the numbers—not only in her own tongue but in his too. It seemed he had more than one language.
"My mother was Spanish," he told her, when he caught her curious expression, "and my father Norman. Neither bothered to learn the other's tongue so we had to manage with both."
"You and your brothers?"
"Yes, all seven of us."
She digested this for a few moments and then exclaimed, "Your parents had seven children and never learned to talk to one another?"
He grinned in a charmingly boyish way. "They managed to communicate in other ways. Obviously."
"Obviously!"
"But over time I suppose my father learned a little Spanish, quite accidentally. And she learned a little French the same way. They were both too stubborn to learn deliberately. If they really wanted to get their point across in an argument they were sometimes obliged to try."
Princesa was amused by this story, and she pondered it with her head tilted. "Seven sons!"
"Yes." He sighed and leaned back on his elbows. "Seven bastards, for they never married."
"Oh." She hugged her knees. "I don't remember my parents."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. I can remember nothing from before you filthy Normans came and raped our land."
His eyes narrowed until they were little more than slender blades of silver. "You will take that back, slave. This place was a lawless, backward island until we came."
"No. 'Tis the truth."
"You will show your gratitude for my people saving this unruly land from the darkness of ignorance."
"I am supposed to be grateful then, that my family was trampled and slaughtered where they fell, my home burned to the ground, my entire village erased, and I was taken captive to be a slave?"
He answered quickly, "How do you know that's what happened if you don't remember?"
"Well, I know that much!"
"But you said you don't remember anything before the Normans came, so how do you know you had any family?"
She stared angrily. "Of course I had a family."
"Perhaps not. You may not even be of Saxon blood."
His casual manner infuriated her further. "I am! Just because you're a half-breed bastard!"
Oh, that put an end to his lazy pose across the fleece. He jerked upright, grabbed her by her hair and dragged her over his knees. "Say that again, no name slave whore."
"Half-breed bastard. Drunken, shoeless wretch. And ugly too."
He tossed up her gown and spanked her hard across her bare bottom.
"This is how my father dealt with my mother when she dared talk back to him," he growled as the second spank fell against her buttock.
She yelped, for that one stung worse than the first. "And we Saxons are the lawless savages?" she spat, struggling to get up. "You people are no better than swine."
He pinned her with his other arm and even as she kicked out behind her, he spanked her again. And again. Her bottom burned, but as his hard palm and fingers came down faster on her hot, smarting flesh she noticed a curious development. Beneath her belly, the bulge of his crotch began to grow, poking at her through his leather breeches. The more she writhed, the larger it became, and she parted her legs slightly, pressing her vulva down with each spank, bouncing slightly against the uncomfortable ridge. It was arousing to feel that pressure and after last night's teasing she was eager to get relief however she could tonight.
Suddenly he ceased spanking and slid his hand between her legs. She was slick enough that his finger slipped easily between her labia. He added another finger and then another, filling her pussy.
"This is how he calmed her too, when she was in a temper," he grunted, fucking her with his fingers.
"Ouch." She felt the need to complain although the friction of his ungentle fingers, combined with the throbbing in her arse had already begun the deep, heated throbbing in her nether regions.
"Apologize for calling me swine."
"Never! Pig! Boar!" She couldn't stop shouting. Didn't want to. A very wicked voice inside her urged her on in this rebellion, wanting to see how far he would go with her.
He pushed her to the ground on her knees and forced her upper body down into the grass. "Now you'll feel my belt, Princesa. Prepare yourself."
"Good. See if I care."
She could hear him removing the wide leather belt from his tunic. In the next instant the strap lashed against her backside and she bit her tongue. Her eyes watered.
"Now apologize," he growled somewhere behind her, breathless.
"No."
He swung his belt again, and the leather smacked her arse cheek with a loud crack. She closed her eyes and pressed her face to the cooling grass.
"You'll be too sore to ride in the saddle when I'm done with you."
"Then. I'll. Walk."
The third smack of the belt made her tremble, breath burning in her throat. But suddenly she wanted to laugh and pee at the same time.
Instead she spread her knees in the grass and moved her arse up and down, writhing as a powerful climax took possession of her body. She couldn't halt it. Her stinging arse was on fire and the heat radiated through her until even her nipples felt sore and unbelievably tender where they touched the dewy tips of the long grass.
* * * *
Raul watched his slave losing her haughty dignity in the grass before him. He could see her cunt tensing and quivering. Dropping to his knees behind her he quickly released his cock, grabbed her arse cheeks and parte
d them wide. Her anus winked at him. Had the Comte had her there too? Of course he had. She was irresistible. Every inch of her.
And if she was this mouthy with the Comte...this arousing...then it was no surprise why the man wanted her back again and offered such a large reward purse for her return.
He looked around quickly for something to ease his way into her bottom. She must have seen him grabbing a leg of roasted chicken, for she cried out that he had better not put that inside her.
He laughed, shaking his head. This slave liked to give orders, apparently.
Using the fatty chicken skin, he smeared the crack of her arse until it was slick, her puckered hole prepared as well as it could be. Then he pushed the head of his cock into her.
Her complaints fell away to moans and gasps.
Raul grunted, pushing his way into that tight alley, his arousal unable to wait, unwilling to give her any time to grow accustomed to the invasion. He wanted to subdue this Saxon wench. Had to.
He thrust two fingers into her cunny, pushing her down again into the grass, while she continually tried to raise herself up higher. Even now, filled tight, she fought, as if she didn't know how soundly she was already conquered.
The blissful, scorching heat of her impossibly tight arsehole closed around his cock like a carpenter's vise. It pulled him in, squeezed and held his prick until he saw only red hot smoke and thought his skull would explode.
Raul bent over her body, reaching for her hands, holding them splayed to the grass over her head. And then he rutted his slave girl like a dog on a bitch, howling to the sunset when he came in a glorious burst of semen, shooting it deep as he could between the beautiful crimson cheeks of her sore bottom.
Chapter Five
They came over a hill, and down through the fog a small cluster of thatched cottages appeared in the valley below.
"At last," he muttered over her head. "Here I can find some boots."
"I need the scarf retied around my hair," she exclaimed nervously.
"Why?"
"The color is too bright," she snapped.
He snorted. "If any man looks at it with lust while you are in my company, I will slice his throat open."
Her heart skipped. Leaning against his hard chest, surrounded by his strong, warm arms, she did feel protected and safe. But he did not know what he was up against and surely they were not far enough away yet. Besides this man had lost his horse and his boots. She couldn't help feeling he needed her as much as she did him.
How ridiculous it was that she should prefer this man to the last master, she thought suddenly, chagrinned. Here was a man who carried a disembodied head around in a sack and spanked her with a belt for disagreeing with him. What made her think he was any better than the Comte who had pillaged, raped and slaughtered his way through her Saxon village and taken her as a possession when she was a mere girl, a naive, terrified virgin?
This man was also a Norman and for many years his people had driven a burned out path of horror and death across the land. He was a Norman. There was really nothing more to be said.
Yet he had gathered herbs and plant roots that morning and mixed them into a paste to soothe the smarting cheeks of her bottom. He had even folded up his fleeced mantle so that she had extra padding under her as they rode.
"Perhaps you know now not to answer me back and call me a pig," he said to her, almost sounding...dare she think it...sorry?
"Perhaps," had been her deliberately equivocal reply.
In truth she thought she rather might like to be spanked again.
* * * *
They rode through the main gates of the bailey and were submerged immediately in a noisy crowd of people and beasts. Hens clucked and scattered out of his path, pigs trotted by grunting merrily and a goat, solemnly chewing a large green leaf, watched them pass with unblinking interest.
"Since you have no coin, how do you mean to get boots?" his slave had asked.
"You'll see."
He dismounted and helped her down. A sudden shout echoed above the general ruckus.
"Raul! What in the name of all that's holy have you got there?"
Looking over his shoulder he saw the tall figure striding through the crowd toward him, cloak fanning out like the wings of a giant black crow. Almost a mirror image of himself but dark-eyed and with closely cropped hair.
"Salvador," he greeted his elder brother with a smile. "I thought you would have this place in order by now."
"'Tis market day. I let the Saxon rabble have its head on such a day."
Raul felt his slave girl stiffen as she looked over at his brother. Salvador returned her appraisal, his eyes warming quickly while they roamed with evident appreciation over the golden-haired beauty.
"Did you bring a present for us, little brother?" he asked in their mother's tongue.
"No. She's mine," Raul replied coolly, in the language she would understand. "For now."
Salvador's smile faded, as did the brittle light that had momentarily broken through his dark gaze and transformed his stern D'Anzeray features into something less forbidding. Of all the seven illegitimate sons born to their parents, Salvador looked most like their Norman father, but had the eyes and temper of their gypsy Spaniard mother. It gave him the element of surprise for no one ever knew what he was thinking until that temper exploded on their heads.
"Well, I suppose I must welcome you into my home, Raul, even with no gift."
"I won't stay long. I have business in Canterbury. But I need boots."
Salvador looked down at his brother's bare feet. "You rode here like that?"
"I did."
Suddenly they were interrupted by more shouts and three more dark-haired men, two of them in chainmail hauberks, came across the yard to greet the new arrival.
He turned to his slave and explained in a low voice, "These are my brothers. Some of them."
She arched a sun-kissed eyebrow. "Only some?"
"There are two more still with our father in the east."
"Thank heavens," she murmured drily and, so he thought, quite inexplicably.
Tightening his hold on her arm, he led his slave inside Salvador's newly built fortress.
* * * *
The brothers teased Raul about his lost boots. They wanted to know how he came to misplace them, and she decided to speak up, even though he had not given her permission. She would save him from their needling.
"I took them from him and threw them in the fire," she said proudly. "We had a quarrel last night."
They stared at her and one of them— the one she now knew was named Dominigo— laughed uproariously. "And he did not toss you in the flames after them?"
"No. But he has punished me for it." She glanced at Raul and caught his frown before he had the sense to go along with her story.
"Yes," he muttered, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "I punished my slave girl, of course."
"Did you give her a good spanking, brother?"
"I managed, Dom. I don't think she'll burn my boots again."
The other brothers joined in merrily. "Or do you need us to help you reprimand the wench?"
"Because you know we're always willing to assist a brother d'Anzeray."
"We share the good and the bad, remember? Always. One for all. All for one."
The men around the table laughed. Even Raul. "I like that," he grunted. "It should be on our shield."
Suddenly Princesa felt goose bumps prickle under her sackcloth. She might have agreed to be his slave and do all that he commanded, but what, exactly, would he command? He drew her closer, tugging her until she perched on his thigh. It was a possessive move and yet his hand was only light on her waist while he chatted with the others, his manner casual now and more at ease.
She cautiously assessed each of his brothers. They were all muscular, of good height and solid breadth across the shoulders. They all had the same dark hair, two wore it shorter than the others and one had grown his beyond shoulder length. Their sk
in was swarthy, very different to that of her Saxon countrymen. Only Dominigo had the same mysterious silver eyes as Raul and they played over her like warm rain until she quickly looked away. From what she heard of their conversation —when they spoke words she could understand—Salvador was the eldest, with Dominigo close behind him in age. Ramon and Antonino were the two youngest who had remained with their father. Apparently d'Anzeray senior had enemies and required guarding by his sons.
Raul, she concluded, must be somewhere in the midst of the pack, along with the two named Alonso and Sebastien. So much to take in and names to learn. She might have to learn to count properly, she mused.
Surrounded by this army of big men she had felt fear at first, but that was replaced eventually by curiosity, then anticipation and excitement. They talked freely around her, and although they sometimes fell into their foreign tongue, she sensed that they did not do so to hide their conversation from her ears. It was merely habit that made them switch back and forth.
But even as the brothers laughed and joked together there was a wary undercurrent. They constantly parried and withdrew, testing their boundaries with each other.
Yes, she thought, "pack" was a good word for them. They were a litter of rowdy wolves, dark-haired and snappish when provoked, playful but not gentle with it, showing fangs to put each other in place as necessary.
Seated on Raul's knee, she did not feel in any danger now after that first flash of doubt. His brothers might show their interest in his slave, but her new master was in charge of her and they each knew it. He did not need to do any more than place his hand on her waist to mark her as his own.
Not like the Comte, who had shown his ownership by marking her face with a scar, thinking it would keep her from running off again.
