The Virgin Proxy

by Fox, Georgia

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2011 Georgia Fox

  ISBN: 978-1-926950-78-5

  Cover Artist: LF Designs

  Editor: Marie Buttineau

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Anastasia

  THE VIRGIN PROXY

  The Conquerors, 2

  Georgia Fox

  Copyright © 2011

  Chapter One

  Wessex, England 1080

  “I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.”

  These words, frequently uttered, rolled easily off her tongue.

  To be just as often and just as smoothly ignored. “Brother Saul said he distinctly heard your laughter.”

  “He was mistaken.” The young woman knelt with her hands held out and once again denied it was her bare posterior hanging from the bell-tower that previous evening. She solemnly maintained that Brother Saul’s shock, when he looked up to check if there was a full moon and found that, yes indeed, there was one —of a less celestial nature, had naught to do with her at all.

  “We shall get our proof, girl.” Sister Agnes wrapped her across the knuckles with a knotted stick.

  The miscreant kept her stoic face. “How? Bend us over in a parade, so he can look at all our asses?”

  Incensed, Sister Agnes swiped that stick once again across the suspect’s hands where two scarlet lines already formed. It wouldn’t occur to the nuns that the woman before them enjoyed the fiery sting of pain, but she’d learned, over the years, that this was one way to be sure she still lived and breathed when all else around her suggested the contrary. In this place where the sensation of pleasure was strictly forbidden, it was better to feel pain than nothing at all.

  The door behind her creaked open and immediately the inquisitor bowed a respectful head. “Mother Superior.”

  A tall, rail-thin figure glided across the floor. “Stand, Deorwynn.”

  The accused stood, fists at her side, her gaze unwavering. Although she made an attempt to subdue her lips, they were untamable. A slight upward quirk on one side, punctuated by a deep dimple in her cheek, made her appear amused even when she was not.

  Surly and irritable, the Mother Superior exclaimed, “Since you are now orphaned and no marriage provisions were apparently left for you, I’m afraid we must take you in as one of our own. You will…”

  “No!” Her entire being was ready to fight.

  The old woman paused, eyes gleaming with spite, before she continued, “You will become a Bride of Christ.”

  “I’d rather die,” Deorwynn replied flatly.

  “So you will. Eventually. We must all meet our maker in time. And I daresay the Devil is especially eager to get his hands on you.”

  The Mother Superior turned away, signaling to the nuns behind her. They left their charge alone, closing the door with a hearty thud in their wake.

  A great wrenching fear burned in her throat as she heard the bolt drawn across, but she swallowed it quickly back down. Let them take away every material thing she had. There was one thing they couldn’t take with their cruel, gnarled claws—her spirit.

  Deorwynn of Wexford would not be down beaten. Many people had tried to crush her and failed. When she first came to the convent, as a child of six, her family were wealthy and important, her father an Eaorl, one of the powerful overlords of Saxon England. But only a year after she arrived at the convent the filthy Normans came to conquer. They stole away her family’s land, her home, and they slaughtered three of her brothers on the battlefield. Her father and one remaining brother became prisoners of the new Norman king. From that point onward Deorwynn’s status changed. The nuns gleefully used a firmer hand in her “guidance”, but to no avail. The “rot”, as they called it, had set in.

  During her fifteen years at the convent, Deorwynn had received more lashes for her disobedience than anyone else in the history of the place, according to Mother Superior. And Deorwynn basked in her fame. May as well be known for something, she thought. Deep inside, she clung to the hope of being rescued one day. Having watched other girls leave, one by one, fetched by their families or their betrothed, she waited patiently to be remembered. But she waited in vain. Now her dispossessed father had died of a fever in the Norman king’s custody, still refusing to pledge fealty to the conqueror. Her one surviving brother remained a prisoner, but the nuns had clearly given up waiting for him.

  Blowing on her throbbing fingers, she pondered the milk-white sky through the window and assessed the possibility of squeezing her body between those iron bars. Perhaps, five or six years ago, it might have been possible – when she was a slim, shapeless creature. Sadly she now had breasts and hips. She was once warned that she would regret them when they filled out; sure enough, she now cursed them bitterly for their inconvenience.

  It seemed the old fortune-teller who came to the gate recently had been right.

  “Your life is about to change, young woman,” she’d said, as she studied her rune stones. “You come to the end of one path and turn down another.”

  Deorwynn was a firm believer in fortunes and omens. For some time now she’d suffered a recurring nightmare about big black ravens, clustered in the stark, twisted limbs of a dead tree, their evil eyes staring down at her. That was surely a dark omen if ever she saw one. The old woman’s warning had further assured Deorwynn that something bad loomed.

  But the fortune teller had also said, “What is lost will be found again.”

  She wondered what that could be. Her shoes probably, she concluded, realizing she’d left them behind in the bell-tower. She was well and truly skewered then. The recovery of her shoes would be all the proof needed to condemn her for that crime.

  Suddenly the door shuddered open and another young woman entered, bringing with her a cloud of scented air.

  Deorwynn sighed. Of all the girls to come and crow over her it must be this one—the most trying little fool ever to share her breathing space. Sybilia Senclere was sired of the evil Norman blood, although she’d lived in England for some years. Positively angelic in appearance she had long, fair hair and a shape well-curved, but delicate and dainty. When one looked at her, it was almost as if the sky itself broke open and sent a shaft of heavenly light down upon her. Deorwynn would not have been surprised if a chorus of devotional song followed Sybilia’s graceful footsteps across the stone floor.

  “What do you want, tiny-brain?”

  The other woman closed the door and turned, smoothing her hands over her fine woolen gown. “I owe you my mother-of-pearl broach since you won the dare.”

  She’d almost forgotten the reason for her midnight exploit in the bell-tower. “Yes. Where is it then?” She held out her hand. “My prize if you please.”

  But Sybilia walked to the barred window and gazed out. “I have a proposition for you, Deorwynn of Wexford.”

  “I am not in the mood for another wager.” She fell back across the pallet and stared up at shattered cobweb hanging from a roof beam. It dangled in the draft, broken and deserted, but still clinging on desperately. “Go away. Why aren’t you packing your things?”

  Sybilia was about to be married, leaving in the morning to join her betrothed at his fief. Rumor told he was an arrogant Norman Lord with a merciless temper and violent
disdain for anyone he considered inferior to himself—especially women. They called him the Mad Bear of Brittany. Deorwynn could think of no one she’d rather see this girl marry.

  “I heard about your father,” Sybilia ventured.

  “Yes.” It was hard for Deorwynn to feel too much sadness for a person she hadn’t seen since she was six and, even before that, was seldom in the same house with her. The few memories of her home and family were of her brothers teaching her to ride at the tender age of three and letting a gyrfalcon sit on her hand. She remembered its hooked claws digging into the too-big gauntlet they put on her hand, and the little hood it wore as it glared down at her with piercing black eyes.

  “Sister Annunica says you will become a nun now.”

  “So they think.”

  Sybilia’s timid steps paced before the window. She cleared her throat. “I can offer you another choice.”

  “Choice?” Deorwynn propped herself up on her elbows. She didn’t trust Sybilia as far as she could kick her, although that was probably a fair distance.

  “I am afraid to travel alone. I would like you to come with me as my companion. My handmaid.”

  She scowled. “What for?”

  “To have you there with me—a familiar face will help me settle to my new life. You are so strong Deorwynn. So brave. Nothing frightens you.”

  Her first instinct was to laugh it off, but something in Sybilia’s eyes, akin to genuine terror, gave her pause. That casual flattery, thrown out with ease, helped get her attention too, of course.

  “Would you rather stay here?” the other woman persisted. “After a while, if you come with me, you’ll be free to go where you please. You may even find a husband.”

  Of that she was extremely skeptical. The world was noticeably lacking in men who wanted a penniless, landless orphan with a tendency to speak her mind and no fear of punishment. “Mother Superior will not…”

  “She would not dare refuse me anything after the donation my father is making to her convent. Besides, do you think they would rather have you stay under their feet, if presented with another option?”

  She had to agree. The idiot made sense for once.

  “But there is one other thing.”

  Aha! She knew it! There was always a catch.

  Sybilia stared at her intently, thorough gaze sweeping along her sprawling length. “You are …untouched…are you not?”

  Deorwynn sat up, interest piqued. “Untouched?”

  “Virgin.”

  “Of course.” She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t for want of trying, but few opportunities had come her way to amend the situation and the best she could own up to was a quick fumble with the fishmonger who trundled his cart into the yard once a week.

  “Good.” Sybilia took a deep breath. “Then you will be my proxy on the wedding night.”

  “Your what?”

  “My husband expects a virgin bride. If he finds me amiss in any way he will beat me, possibly kill me. They say he is a man without mercy.”

  Deorwynn stared. “You’re not….”

  “I am not a maid. I am in love with another. I gave myself to him last year when I went home to visit my sick mother. My family will not allow us to marry. He is poor. A groom. A Saxon peasant.” Tears dampened her lashes. “I am trapped now, you see, in this other marriage that is arranged for me.”

  There was another lengthy pause while Deorwynn straightened her thoughts. It was hard to imagine prim and proper Sybilia succumbing to lust with a groom, and a Saxon at that, when she was so proud of her Norman heritage. It was indeed an enlightening discovery, even gratifying for Deorwynn to know she was not the only bad girl in the world. In fact, she was positively saintly compared to Sybilia, even if it was simply due to the dearth of available men.

  “I need a virgin to take my place on the wedding night,” the young woman clarified, probably assuming her silence meant she didn’t understand. “It will only be once.”

  Abruptly Deorwynn laughed. “You don’t think he will know the difference between us? Then what will happen to us at the hands of this man who has no mercy?”

  Sybilia had a ready answer. “You will wear a heavy veil in bed. I will say it is traditional in my family to wear such a veil on the wedding night.”

  “And if he takes the veil off me?”

  “He must not. Tell him you’re shy. Anything.”

  “But you and I are nothing alike. No veil will be thick enough to obscure the truth entirely.”

  Sybilia smiled stiffly. “We are of the same height and build, both fair headed with brown eyes. People have said many times how alike we are in looks. Have you not heard them?”

  But Sybilia was beautiful. How could she look like her? Deorwynn had never thought herself remotely pretty, although she stopped searching for her reflection in shiny surfaces long ago. Despite her determination to remain skeptical, she couldn’t prevent the little flutter of hopeful vanity suddenly warming her unhappy, lonely heart. She even felt the customary frown melting away from her brow.

  “And we both know how little attention men pay to our faces,” Sybilia added. “Do this for me, Deorwynn and I will ask my new husband to recommend a pardon for your brother. He is still imprisoned by the king is he not?”

  Oh, it was too cruel. Sybilia knew exactly how to work under her hardened skin—first with flattery and now a tug on her seldom played heart strings. Her brother, Raedwulf! How she would love to see him again, safe and sound. She’d almost given up hope, although she’d never admit that to another living soul.

  She nodded slowly, thinking it through. This was a chance of escape and must be considered. Whatever Sybilia was up to, times were desperate, opportunities scarce.

  What did she fear? That the Norman would hurt her? She’d been hurt before, many times. She could tolerate pain more than most women, and if she stayed here it would be far worse, with no end in sight. She chewed frantically on a jagged fingernail.

  There was more than pain to consider. There was the possibility of death at the hands of an angry Norman warrior. Well, as the Mother Superior had said, they all faced death eventually. She was one and twenty and still a maid. Did she want to die a virgin and take her last breath in this cold, heartless place that tried to suck the very soul out of her? To never feel the sun on her face again? Then hope would truly be lost.

  If there was a chance, however slim, that this ruse would work, she should try it for Raedwulf’s sake. Even if, to do so, she must put herself into the dirty hands of a Norman pig.

  It was a sad state of affairs indeed when bedding the enemy was the only preferable option, but as Sybilia said, it was for one night only.

  Mother Superior had warned smugly that the only way to freedom for Deorwynn would be laid out dead in a freshly dug grave. But it wouldn’t be like that after all. Her way out would be laid in a Norman’s bed.

  Chapter Two

  Guy Devaux sat with his legs spread wide, head back, eyes closed. The only sounds in the room were the putter of candles, the crackle of burning wood in the fire pit and the regular sucking of the woman kneeling between his thighs. Weary after a day’s hunting, he’d almost fallen asleep, when a log tumbled in the fire and shot sizzling sparks across the flagstones. He sat up straight, opening his eyes.

  Glancing down at the bobbing head in his lap, he sighed, frustrated. He’d forgotten the woman was there. She could have sucked all night and he wouldn’t be close to spending. Annoyed, he grabbed a handful of her long hair and eased her away. “You’re not milking a cow, woman.”

  The serving wench gazed at his manhood, her eyes half-lidded with desire. Her large nipples poked through her gown and he knew that if he slid a hand under her skirt she’d be wet for him. He’d fucked this one before and remembered her as an easy, placid mount, the sort one could ride without thinking about. The swing of her broad, sensual hips had caught his attention that evening when he rode into the yard with the sweat, blood and dirt of the hunt on his skin. He
’d called her to his private chamber, intent on releasing a pent up load. But now, looking down into her blank, ignorant, unquestioning face he found there was nothing here he wanted. Nothing at all.

  “Let me try again, my lord. You are tense this eve.”

  He waved a hand impatiently. “Get out. Leave me alone.”

  She left quickly, at least having enough common sense to see his foul mood building. He was still refastening his breeches when Thierry, his right hand man and closest friend, entered the chamber.

  “Devaux, are you ready to…?”

  “Don’t you ever knock?” He grunted, reaching for a goblet of wine. “I just had a woman in here.”

  “But I …”

  “Just because we’ve shared women before, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t knock.” He slumped back into his chair. “When my bride arrives this chamber will finally become private. I hope.”

  It was almost four years since they arrived here to oversee construction of a castle fortress, but Guy Devaux and his men were still not quite adjusted to life in one place. They were more familiar with battle than with peace; accustomed to rowdy campgrounds, close quarters and long months on the road. The concept of privacy was still an odd, unnecessary thing to these soldiers. Guy tried hard to adjust to it, because apparently privacy—time alone with one’s thoughts—was much prized amongst men with great minds. And he yearned, one day, to be considered as such. He was even learning to read and write. In the meantime he worked on transforming himself from battle-hardened mercenary, flying by the seat of his breeches, to a man of property and responsibility. It was no easy change to make, especially when his best friend continued to forget they were no longer young men unfettered and free to enjoy life. Well, one of them was not.