by Georgia Fox
The seven bastard sons of Guillaume d'Anzeray are on a mission to find wives -- women to breed the next generation of a dark dynasty that many wish to see extinct.
It won't be easy to find brides from among the Norman nobility, for the d'Anzeray are upstarts, their family's fortunes raised through bloodshed and violence. As one holy man and chronicler of their times has written, "From the devil they came and to the devil they will return". But these brothers don't care much for holy men or for what is written about them. Now, with the future of their bloodline at stake these mercenary warriors need wives and they have no scruples when it comes to claiming the women they desire.
Sebastien d'Anzeray has found a wife, and so what if she happens to be someone else's? He'll have the wench bound in ropes and brought to him. He and his six brothers will soon have her tamed and ready to breed. But he's reckoned without this red-head's fiery temper. He might just be the one who finds himself all trussed up, and her prisoner.
Whorespawn
Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 2
by
Georgia Fox
M/F/M/M/M/M/M/M, GANGBANG, ANAL, SPANKING, SHAVING, CUCKHOLDING, DOUBLE PENETRATION, PUBLIC EXHIBITION, BRANDING, DUBIOUS CONSENT,
AND FORCED SEDUCTION
Twisted Erotica Publishing, Inc.
A TWISTED EROTICA PUBLISHING BOOK
Whorespawn
Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 2
Copyright © 2013 by Georgia Fox
Edited by Marie Medina
First E-book Publication: August 2013
Cover design by K Designs
All cover art and logo copyright © 2013, Twisted Erotica Publishing.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
DEDICATION
To: Ginger
"They were ruffians, murderers and wife-stealers. They took as they desired without bowing to law or God, or conscience."
Herallt, medieval chronicler, on the deeds of the d'Anzeray family
Chapter One
England 1072
She ran between the trees at reckless speed, barely stifling the cries of excitement that bumped in her belly with every thud of her steps across the mossy earth. This was her stolen moment, her secret pleasure and like any joy in this world it was slight and hard won, but all the more precious because of it.
The late summer daylight was only just beginning to fade, and there was still time to make it to the lake and back before supper. If she was very quick no one would ever know she'd been outside the walls again. Forbidden from bathing in the forest lake, it hadn't stopped her yet. She was hardened to punishments after five years of captivity and treated this command with the same disdain as all other rules imposed upon her by her husband.
Even if she was caught and whipped later, as long as she got to enjoy the cool water first that would be enough to see her through the pain.
The hill steepened and her pace increased until she was almost flying through the trees, very nearly out of control. Flushed and breathless she ran on, arms flapping and loose hair streaking behind. The image of diving into that cool, tranquil water after a long, dusty day, almost made her close her eyes. Perhaps she did, for a split second; that was all it took for one foot to catch on a tree root and send her, head over heels, into the bracken.
She rolled a short way before coming to an abrupt halt against another tree, and there she lay a while, winded, hot and irritated. Finally she scrambled to her feet again and descended the rest of the slope with greater caution until she was in sight of the lake.
Alas, when she reached her destination, Aelfa discovered that she was not the only sticky and tired soul betaken with the desire to bathe that afternoon. As soon as she heard the splashing, she stopped and glared through the branches, not liking her plans spoiled any more than she liked her wings clipped.
Someone swam in her lake.
But her anger dissipated in the next instant, to be replaced with another emotion for which she had no name. Aelfa swallowed a small cry and whirled around, almost falling over her feet for the second time. One foot anxious to leave, the other keen to stay, she turned back and forth a few times, until she stopped, assuring herself she had a right to look.
It was her lake. The stranger should be the one to leave—if anyone should.
Aelfa took a deep breath and chanced another look through the trees.
The man was naked. His back was sculpted in ripples of sunlight and shadow, his wide shoulders bulky with muscle as he lifted his arms and smoothed two massive hands over a head of shoulder-length, dark, wet hair. Every solid slab moved in perfect coordination. The water came half way over his round buttocks, little waves slapping gently against his flesh.
As she watched, fascinated, she heard him exhale a low groan of contentment and she knew exactly what he felt. The cool oasis, where dappled light fell through the bower of trees to dance upon the surface, was a magical spot, a dreamy paradise.
Pity he had to come and ruin it, she thought with a frown.
Again the stranger dipped his palms in the water and lifted them over his head, washing his face, hair and neck. Slender rivulets ran down his shoulders and dripped from the damp curls of black hair that lay flat against the side of his broad neck.
The last rays of sun trickled down through the leafy canopy, painting the lake with gold and daubing him with the same brush. For a moment he was still as a statue and beautiful as a god in all his naked, unabashed glory. There was something pleasing about a man when he didn't know he was watched, she mused; when he was not full of his own importance. Well, there was something pleasing about this one. And it was only about to get better.
He turned slowly in the water and lifted himself easily onto the bank of the lake, where a large chestnut horse stood patiently waiting, cropping at the leaves and shaking its mane.
Now every inch of the man was displayed for her admiration. Although she was alone and hidden, Aelfa felt the blood heating her face, but she could not tear her eyes away. As he stretched, his stomach muscles lengthened, pulsed and then tightened, coming to rest again in a shape that might have been chiseled in stone by a master artisan. Lower her gaze traveled its naughty path to a cock that was sizeable, even in repose. Longer and thicker than her husband's. Magnificent. Terrifying.
She crossed herself as she'd seen people do when they came on pilgrimage to visit the holy relics in the chapel of St. Benedict.
It seemed like the right thing to—
Oh, he'd just run his hand from the root of his cock to the head and now it stood firmer, almost fully erect, arching slowly toward his navel.
A little knot of tension in her belly began to melt and the bones in her legs softened, becoming as useless as snapped twigs. She sank to the bracken, her eyes never leaving the man.
Like his body, his facial features were cut with hard edges, the eyes a flash of fierce darkness, stunning and terrifying even from a distance. His lips were sealed tight, head tipped back as if in deep thought, and then he scratched his chest, long, lean fingers itching at a thin lacing of healed scars. Finally he stooped, reaching for his breeches and as she saw his heavy balls sway between his legs, Aelfa exhaled a sigh, wanton, wicked and wistful.
Perhaps it was that tiny noise that alerted the man to her presence.
He swung around and stared directly up at the trees behind w
hich she hid.
His eyes narrowed and then he sprang, still naked, into the saddle of his great, snorting warhorse.
* * * *
At first he thought the forest was on fire.
He squinted, concentrating on that small, wayward flare, a spark of red that glowed bright through the trees. He could almost smell the brittle sparking of dry sticks and bracken, but when Sebastien d'Anzeray turned his horse in the direction of that flame, he watched it dodge about in a manner most unusual for fire. In his experience a flame traveled upward or sideways, never did it dance back and forth. He decided to investigate.
Blinking as water dripped from his hair and ran down his brow, he ducked his head beneath the low branches and urged his horse forward. The flame stumbled and fluttered, but it was not long before he realized it was attached to a shapely young woman. Instantly his day improved for a little diversion was always welcome. Blood heat stirred, he quickened his pace. So did she.
Clearly, from the speed with which she tried to get away, the woman was guilty of something. She'd been spying on him, it seemed.
Sebastien spurred his horse forward and once they were out of the trees their speed increased again, the beast stretching its legs with powerful ease as they thundered across the deep grass of a meadow.
There she was, no longer sheltered by trees. A redhead with the arrogance to think she might outrun a d'Anzeray.
The anticipation of victory brought a lazy smile to his lips. He could already feel her soft body under his, all warm curves and gasps of indignation that would then turn to excitement.
But his celebration was short-lived when suddenly, much to his annoyance, the little fox vanished.
It was impossible.
One moment she was there and then she was gone.
His horse slowed to a trot, snorting and twitching its mane, just as infuriated as its master to find the prey gone from sight. One hand resting on his bare thigh, Sebastien turned about in the field, aggravated.
There could be only one explanation—witchcraft.
But he did not believe in it. Women were fiendish enough and never needed supernatural spells and curses to cause trouble.
No, she must be there somewhere, hiding. All he need do was have a little patience and wait until she showed herself.
On that hot day, however, patience was in scant supply. He'd ridden a fair distance and he was hungry, not to mention lusty. And Sebastien d'Anzeray did not like to lose.
* * * *
Hidden amid the tall grass, Aelfa lay flat and smirked, delighting in her escape. By her brow a cricket chirped busily, singing a serenade.
"Go away, fool," she whispered to it. "Would you lead the wolf to me?"
Her giddy pulse settled to a steadier rhythm and with her cheek pressed to the earth, she peered through the waving fronds and waited, listening. She thought she heard a soft, low rumble. Lifting on her elbows, she looked across the valley. Beneath an eerie copper sunset the long grass danced, stirred by a sudden strong zephyr that came out of nowhere to dispel the thick heat of the day. And now she felt that thunder through her body where it touched the ground. It trembled through her bones, made her heartbeat race, caused her skin to prickle and shiver.
He was coming. There, over the hill he rose, like premature midnight chasing away the daylight. Apparently he didn't give up easily. Had her red hair given her away?
Scrambling to her feet she dived onward through the meadow, cursing the wicked curiosity that made her spy upon him in the first place.
Chapter Two
"Where have you been, Whorespawn?" her husband demanded, cuffing her around the ear. "Are we supposed to starve here waiting for you to dawdle back and serve our supper?"
The potter's one-room cottage vibrated with his bellowing anger. The stifling heat that day had done naught, it seemed, to help his naturally sour temper.
"And what's this?" He grabbed her thick hair and twisted it around his fist. "Running about with your head uncovered. A wife covers her hair at all times." He yanked hard and the pain sliced through her skull, but Aelfa kept her lips tight. "Do you never listen to me, bitch? Mayhap there's something blocking your ears that needs knocking out?"
The second blow of his fat hand knocked her across the cottage. He followed and she dodged a third strike only by ducking and reaching for her apron.
Usually by the end of the day Aelfa was tired, her mind dull, her manner listless. If the potter found some reason to hit her—and he never needed much excuse—she would fall like a straw doll. Tonight however she was alive for once. Spying on that dangerously handsome stranger and then outracing him across a meadow, getting away by a hair's breadth, was like being revived by a splash of cold water.
Her pulse was racing and her legs ached from running, but it was a good ache. Inside she was so giddy that she barely felt her husband's presence, let alone his slaps. Fearing he would see the change in her, she bowed her head quickly and got on with the supper. Fortunately she could blame the heat for her flushed cheeks and the perspiration stains marking her gown.
When her lazy eldest stepson stuck out his foot and she tripped, scalding her knuckles on the cook pot, it didn't even matter. She had the vision of that naked beast to entertain her. Along with musings of what might have happened had he caught her. Under her gown, tiny goose bumps lifted across her skin as if the stranger was there and had touched her.
The potter's complaints bubbled away, fading in and out of her awareness. "If I find you outside the walls again—alone—I'll beat you so hard you'll wish you were dead. Ungrateful wench." He burped loudly into his bowl as he watched her move about the cottage. "I rue the day I ever took you in out of pity."
Pity? She wanted to laugh. He'd taken her in because he wanted free labor and that was all there was to it. She was a girl of thirteen when he married her. His wife had just died, leaving him with three sons to take care of, cook for and clothe. And Aelfa was about to be hanged in the town square for stealing food. No one cared that she stole for her sick mother. Thus the potter performed a "charitable" deed by making her his wife and saving her from the gallows.
"It was the red hair that lured me in," he added. "I should have known better and heeded my mother's warnings. She told me the thieving daughter of a whore would never come to any good."
When supper was over and his belly full again, he gave a series of belches, then leaned back on his narrow pallet, parted his legs, fidgeted under his tunic and ordered his sons out of the house. He beckoned to Aelfa.
"Come on then, Whorespawn," he growled, his small, spiteful, blood-shot eyes taking on that heated, distant gleam that made her stomach writhe with disgust. "Time to fulfill your wifely duties. Make haste!"
She got down on her knees, closed her eyes tight and leaned in to take him in her mouth. Quickly she flushed all thoughts of him from her mind and focused instead on the man she'd seen in the forest.
It was over in less than two minutes. "Christ, wench, you're in a hurry tonight, eh? You must be acquiring a taste for me after all."
Grabbing her hair again with one hand to keep her still, he jerked his penis out of her mouth, cursed, and sprayed her face with his seed, grunting wildly. With his fist clenched hard in her hair she could not get away from it, but again she kept her eyes shut and thought of her hunter in the forest as that thick, hot, sticky stream spattered across her lashes, her cheeks and her clenched lips.
He laughed, pulled her hair again, and as she stood to move away he kicked her feet out from under her so that she tumbled to her hands and knees on the hard earthen floor.
"Whorespawn! For all your crying and protesting, I always knew you'd soon learn to enjoy fornication. Just like your slut mother and her mother before that. 'Tis in your blood and the only thing you're good for, you filthy little wretch."
She was struggling to her feet when he shoved her down again, lifting her gown, he pinned her and she felt his flaccid cock flapping against her buttocks. He must be dr
unk, she realized, for apparently he thought he could fuck her even though he'd just spilled all over her face. His foul breath was suffocating as his great, sweaty bulk arched over her body and he tried thrusting his spent prick into her from behind.
"Just like a stray bitch in heat, you'll take it. Come here!"
When he couldn't mount her, the potter's rage erupted and then she could only shelter her head with her arms as the blows rained down upon her. He hit her until he'd exhausted himself and she was dizzy.
The potter's day only so briefly interrupted, he went out to clean his wheel in the back yard—a responsibility he never left in her unworthy hands—and Aelfa eventually found the strength to stand. She was sore all over, but at least the beating was done for today. She had begun to regard it as just another chore she must complete.
Her husband would be tired now after all that exertion and he would not want her again tonight since he'd already spent.
Aelfa hurried outside to wash her face in the rain barrel and there found the potter's eldest son who was the same age as she. His eyes, so like those of his father's, raked over her body with calm insouciance.
"One day you'll do that for me," he said, grinning evilly.
"By all means hold your breath while you wait."
"You'll have to be polite to me, or I'll tell father that you've been in the forest again. Where he told you never to go. And one day, when he's dead and gone, I could turn you out of this house if you don't do as I say."
One day, when he's dead and gone. Oh, how she longed for that day. Knowing her luck the potter would live forever.
