The Virgin Proxy

by Fox, Georgia

  Rotten Norman pig. Murderer. Thief.

  Tonight she would get her vengeance for what his countrymen had done to every poor, ravaged, helpless woman in this land they heartlessly conquered. These Normans were cuckoos, taking over the nests of other birds. Well, tonight, he would know what it was to find a cuckoo in his own nest.

  “Make sure he pulls out before he spills his seed,” Sybilia lectured.

  “Of course!” She spat on the ground. “Do you think I want to be landed with the filthy Norman scum’s bastard?” It was pure Deorwynn, that remark, and it clearly satisfied Sybilia.

  “You don’t find him handsome at all?”

  “That big-nosed old boar? Why? Do you?”

  Sybilia flounced away. “No!”

  “Because you are in love with another man,” Deorwynn reminded her.

  “Yes.” She plucked at her skirt with nervous fingers. “Yes I am.”

  “Good. Let’s get this over with then, so you can ask him for my brother’s pardon.”

  Sybilia was busy inspecting a plate of figs and nuts.

  Deorwynn repeated, “So you can plead with him for my brother’s pardon.”

  “As soon as you have done this service for me, I will mention your brother to him. Now get on his bed and arrange yourself. I’ll blow out the candles. If he complains, tell him you’re bashful. Burst into tears or something.”

  That might work for some women, thought Deorwynn with a sigh, but her tears did not flow on command. She climbed nude onto the bed, the veil her only covering, and lay back against the pile of pillows.

  Sybilia snuffed all the candles, except one by the door. Then, raising the hood of her cloak, left the chamber with no further words of advice.

  Deorwynn lay very still, listening to the low crackle of the meager fire and the stomp of her heart beat, amazed it could be so regular under the circumstances. Unlike her heart, her mind churned with scattered thoughts, pulling in two different directions. She was about to give herself to the wretched enemy and yet a small, naughty part of her was very glad to be the one waiting for him in that bed.

  He was late. Damn him.

  Men like this one had killed her other brothers in battle and stolen away her family’s land, taking it as their own, despoiling it with their filthy, decadent Norman ways. She wanted to spit again, but her tongue was too dry.

  Through it all her heart thumped onward, brave and steadfast in the enemy’s path.

  Chapter Four

  Footsteps approached at last. There were voices outside and then the door opened. Sitting up, she wished for something more than that voluminous netted veil to hide behind. Earlier it looked ridiculously thick, now it felt too transparent.

  He stood just inside the door, gazing across the chamber at her. The solitary candle flame wavered in the draft, gilding the side of his face with fragile gold leaf. His eyes pierced her through that veil, picking out his prey again as he did last night.

  Suddenly losing her infamous warrior courage, Deorwynn grabbed a pillow and held it before her naked body.

  He came all the way in, closing the door. “Why are there no candles? I ordered them all lit.”

  “There is one,” she pointed out feebly, clutching the pillow.

  “Not enough. I can’t see a blessed thing.” He took the lit candle from its sconce—not, she noted, made of a human skull, but of iron—and moved to relight the others.

  “No,” she shrieked. “Please. I…I’m…” What was she? What was the word? Only now did her heart let her down. It beat so hard and fast that it filled her throat and she couldn’t exhale another word.

  Surprisingly he stopped, her stark cry being enough to make him relent and leave the other wicks unlit. She was mystified. This man, a ruthless ogre who trampled dead and dying Saxons under his feet like ants, apparently took pity on her.

  He prowled around the smoldering fire-pit and into the shadows. Soon she heard the rustle of clothing being removed, the chink of his belt buckle and scabbard hitting the stone floor. Evidently he was used to having someone tidy up after him, she thought, or else he didn’t care if his clothes laid on the floor all night. She certainly wouldn’t pick them up for him. That was Sybilia’s job.

  It occurred to her with a sudden mischievous spark that she had the better duty. How glad she was not to be his everyday wife and just his lover.

  His lover. She shivered, but not with maidenly fear.

  Even wreathed in folds of shadow, she could make out his large shape as he came toward the bed. A glimmer of weak firelight caressed the muscle in his chest and shoulder as he raised his arm, raking the fingers of one hand through his hair. “You have been told what to expect?” he mumbled.

  She nodded and then, remembering he might not see, murmured a quiet, “Yes.”

  He stilled at the foot of the bed, his tall shadow looming over her. “Yes…my lord,” he corrected sharply.

  Deorwynn felt one of her scowls coming on, but she banked it. He wouldn’t see it beneath her veil and in the semi-dark, so it was wasted. She was supposed to be that idiot Sybilia, she reminded herself—the woman who was ready to forget her previous lover the first moment she laid eyes on this great hunk of blue-eyed manhood. Had Sybilia been the all-important virgin, she would gladly have tumbled in that bed tonight, but since she was a faithless trollop instead of the pure maiden her new husband demanded, Deorwynn had the dubious pleasure instead. Thus, playing her part, she replied with all sickly sweetness, “Yes, my lord. Whatever you say, my lord.”

  He lowered over the bed, a hand on either side of her. And sniffed.

  She backed away. “Is something amiss?”

  “Thought I scented the faint odor of sarcasm. Surely not. If my lady knows my temper is not to be trifled with.”

  “But I—"

  Grabbing her ankles, he pulled her under him. “Stop wriggling.”

  “Ouch your hands are cold!”

  “Your hands are cold, my lord,” he corrected her in a low, dangerous tone.

  She repeated the phrase nervously.

  He snatched away the pillow she held and tossed it from the bed. “Remove the veil.”

  “But I’m shy.”

  “It’s very nearly pitch dark in here, woman. What are you afraid of?”

  “The unknown,” she murmured wryly. “You, my lord.”

  “I’m your husband now.” His hands parted her knees wider, holding them with ease, his strength overpowering her straining attempts to close them again. He ducked between her thighs and she cried out in shock as she felt one strong lick moisten her nether lips. Reaching over her head, she clutched at the nearest bed post as if it might somehow save her.

  “This will prepare you,” he informed her, his breath tickling her sex. “I am large and you are small, so you need this.” Again he lapped at her, faster this time, his tongue slipping part way inside her folds at first, then thrusting deeper. She heard a soft grunt of approval. Then he stopped and whispered huskily, “You’re tight as a vise. Don’t clench. Lay back.”

  Men like this one had killed her brothers in battle, she reminded herself yet again. They stole away everything her family possessed and…

  They apparently had very long tongues that could lick the bark off a tree.

  He stopped again. “Are you grinding your teeth?” he demanded.

  “No.”

  “I hear them grinding. Be calm. Trust me.”

  She snorted. “Trust you? Ha!”

  There was a pause. A too long pause. She held her breath. Dear God had she given herself away already?

  Suddenly he pressed his open mouth hard to her pussy. His hands scooped under her bottom, jerking her down the bed, tearing her grip from the bed post. Melting into the nest of furs, arms stretched overhead, she chastised herself with a hasty lecture.

  Don’t think of him as the enemy now. You’re supposed to be Sybilia. If he discovers that you are not, he will cut your throat and hers too and there will be no reprieve
for your brother Raedwulf.

  So.

  Forgive me father.

  The one above, as well as the one buried below.

  His shoulders wedged her thighs apart and that long, serpentine tongue swept from ass to mound. Another low sound of appreciation told Deorwynn he liked the taste of her. And the curling of her feet on his shoulders would tell that she liked the feel of him.

  She made no more effort to close her legs, but arched her back, gripping the fur beneath her, biting her lip. She felt the hot, wet snake slithering upward again, wriggling against her labia, sliding inside her. There it flicked and fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird and she writhed, hips circling, lifting off the bed as the pleasing sensation stole through her maiden’s body and readied her valley for plowing. She had not expected the Norman swine to take so much time over her deflowering; to care whether she was prepared.

  While the length of his tongue tasted her intimately, his large hands reached up, over her stomach, feeling for her breasts. He pushed the edge of the veil aside impatiently and grabbed the swelling mounds, squeezing them in his great claws, while he drank her nectar, questing deeply with his determined tongue. In shamefully little time, she came to a shaking climax, squeezing her quivering sheath around that delightful tormentor, her thighs trembling. She heard and felt his groans vibrate inside her sex and knew he was excited, pleased.

  Breathless and sopping wet, she was ready now, her pussy well prepared to yield its virgin treasure.

  * * * *

  He didn’t know how or why, but he knew the two women had swapped places. What trick was this? If they wanted games, he’d give them games.

  After leaving the wedding feast, he’d spent an hour searching the castle for this woman, his need for her having grown to intolerable heights. Throughout the evening’s entertainment he’d been unable to watch anything or anyone but her; then she’d disappeared from his view, about the same time his bride left to ready herself for his bed. He’d turned the castle upside down looking for Deorwynn, planning to have her first tonight.

  Now he found her—in the last place he’d expected—already in his bed, in his bride’s place, and wearing a veil. As if that would fool him. She had no idea what she’d got herself into, trying to make a fool of Guy Devaux.

  This naughty little kitten, who led him on a chase all over his fortress, would get more than she bargained for. The other one he’d deal with come dawn; for now he was busy handling the Saxon wench, and she was not the sort he could ride without paying full attention. There was a streak of wildness in her, an unpredictable quality he found alluring, even as he recognized the potential danger in saddling such a mount. But saddle her he would.

  He knelt back on his heels, regaining his breath a moment, savoring her honey on his tongue. “Get astride me,” he grunted. He knew he wouldn’t last long the first time—she’d had him in this state since last night—but even if it was quick, he’d make it count.

  “Don’t you ever say please?” she demanded.

  He thought about that and answered with more honesty than she deserved. “I have no need to. People do as I command, or face the point of my sword.”

  “And yet you expect me to be polite to you. My lord?”

  He curbed the instinct to shout at her. There were too many other things he wanted to do to her at this moment and shouting would use up precious energy.

  “Get astride me. If you please. My lady wife.”

  “That’s better.”

  No woman had ever dared try his temper like this. He glowered at her through the shroud of night. Occasionally the guttering light of the half-dead fire touched her shoulder or the side of her breast. Once or twice it found the glimmer of impertinence in her eyes as she watched him through that veil.

  Finally she complied, straddling his thighs, her hands resting on his upper arms. He folded her veil up over her shoulders, so he could feel her breasts against his chest. Then he gripped her waist, easing her down onto the head of his cock. He felt her excitement, heard her muted gasps as she prepared for her initiation. She was just as keen as he. A woman fearless and dangerous, hot to the touch. He’d never known the like on this side of his dreams.

  He could still barely believe he’d found her waiting for him in his bed.

  Keeping her poised at the tip of his manhood, he slid one hand between her legs to hold her dampened nether lips apart with his fingers, then eased his cock head inside. Again he paused, tantalizing her and himself, moving both hands to her bottom, squeezing and cupping her small rounded cheeks.

  He heard her gasp of wanton desire, urging him to take her, and he laughed low, bending his head, moving his lips and tongue over her luscious, perfectly ripened bubbies. She pressed down, trying to mount herself on his prick, but he held her lower body still, determined to let her have the rest when he couldn’t wait another second—not before.

  First one, then the other, he flicked his tongue over her nipples. He sucked gently as she arched, trying to spread her legs wider and sink down. Impatient hussy. His groin ached, his balls tightened. He laved and suckled her breasts, worshipping them, his lips tugging, his soft laughter teasing the taut pink buds at their peak. Her fingers boldly stroked through his hair, scraping at his scalp and she worked her hips, rubbing her wetness over his swollen, pulsing cock head. She was exquisite and wanton. He couldn’t have asked for a better wedding gift.

  “Down,” he commanded gruffly. “If you please, my lady.”

  Knees slithering across the rumpled furs, she lowered onto his rock hard shaft. Just as he felt the tightness and anticipated the barrier that would bring her to a halt, he grabbed her bottom, forcing her down ruthlessly. The pain would be sharp this way, but over quickly.

  When he pierced her maidenhead she screamed and a low, victorious roar shot out of him before he could swallow it. Below, in the courtyard, his men cheered in celebration. Guy’s heart beat rolled like thunder. He couldn’t catch a breath. She was incredibly tight, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails probably leaving bloody half-moons. He wished he could see her face.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped, one hand stroking her hair through the veil, the other arm wrapped tight around her waist. I’m sorry? He was horrified to hear those words bursting out through his lips. He’d never said that before. Never. But when he felt her rapid, uneven heart beat and heard her scattered breath exhaled in pain, he wished he’d spent even more time preparing her. She was so small compared to his great, muscular frame.

  Through that heavy, maidenly veil he sought her mouth with his, overtaken with the need to kiss her. Soft lips parted under his, but the gauze remained between them, moist with their urgent breath. With one hand he tried to lift it, but she clung to the veil, holding it down, even as the embattled kiss continued. He might have wrenched it from her hands, but in an unusual rush of giddy tenderness, he resorted to licking her mouth through the veil, circling her full, opened lips with his tongue, as if persuading her to let him in.

  In the yard below, his men were loud and rowdy, drunk and stupid on too much wedding ale. They would suffer tomorrow on the training field. This practical thought broke through the pleasant fog and he realized there was an odd, needy noise coming from his own throat, almost pleading with her to let him remove the veil and hold his lips to hers.

  To compensate for that weak moment, he wasted no more time on her comfort or those mushy, trifling caresses. Hands gripping her waist, he moved her up and down his throbbing dick, pumping his hips, squeezing the muscles in his thighs and buttocks with every savage thrust. He thought of last night, when she’d looked up at him, dewy eyed and breathless, showing him her breasts. He thought of her teasing tongue licking the bead of semen from his crest, her eyelashes feathering over his roused flesh.

  He came hard, gushing into her body, holding her down on his ramrod, sharing every broken breath his mate inhaled. Then he kissed her again. The veil still got in the way, but he hunted, chased her lips
through the material and possessed them as heartily as he’d taken her virginity.

  She was his now. His playmate.

  Merry as a boy with a new pony to ride, he didn’t care where the other woman was, because he had what he needed. Tomorrow, surely, he would feel differently, but for now he as content with one woman. She was all he wanted.

  Chapter Five

  Deorwynn bent over, kneeling on the end of the bed, while he stood behind her and slid his finger, coated in something warm and wet, into her anus. Meanwhile his hard prick parted her pussy lips yet again and she welcomed it, squeezing and caressing with her sheath. She should have been sore by now, but she was in no mood to refuse him anything. The sensations he gave her were incomparable; she’d given up trying to think of words that might suit her current state of joyful, unbound carelessness.

  If he did not soon fall asleep, Sybilia would never have a chance to slip into the bed before dawn light and she would never be released from her duty as the proxy virgin. Deorwynn knew she should be alarmed by the thought. Should be. But this adventure had stopped feeling like a duty about an hour ago, when she heard him cry out with his first climax. She was surprised, gratified even, that it shook him as powerfully as it did her. Then she wanted to kiss him—to kiss the filthy rotten, no-good Norman—and she was thankful that his instinct was the same, his mouth, hot, wet and rapacious, seeking her lips through the thick veil. She’d not known he was about to spill, until she heard his hollow cry and felt the warm liquid flow into her. It was too late to stop him. First thing tomorrow she’d have to make a potion to prevent her womb quickening.