by Fox, Georgia
Thierry would have a fine view too, standing silently behind her. He could feel the other man’s desire flowing in waves, but Thierry would just have to wait, because Guy was in charge here.
“Let’s raise the wager,” she said.
“Hmm?”
“If you do not resist touching me, you will arrange a pardon for Raedwulf.”
“Hmm.” All the blood in his body was surely accumulating in his lower regions. His spine tingled. His throat was parched. “Raedwulf? Who the Hell is Raedwulf?”
“My brother,” she clarified tersely.
Oh yes. “Hmm.”
Now she flirted with danger, lifting that same leg higher until her toes rested on the back of his couch. He groaned, working his shaft harder and faster. To keep his other hand occupied he cupped his balls and lightly squeezed.
She thrust her hips forward to show him, trying to make him lose his dare. Reaching between her thighs, she spread her nether lips with her fingers.
A taut cough spat out of him and he sat up, slamming his feet to the floor, cock in hand. “Temptress.”
He could see she was ripe, dark pink and moist, wanting him as much as he wanted her. He already knew how the naughty wench liked touching herself for him to see. She did it now, one fingertip slowly moving over the crest of her labia, seeking out the most sensitive spot. His tongue tried to squeeze between his clenched teeth. He wanted to nudge her fingers aside and taste her, suck and nibble, work that pink pearl with his tongue, close his mouth over her comely slit and drink from her as if she was an oasis in the desert. Make her breath shatter into a thousand cries of delight. His skull felt tight. His lungs strained.
But he would not let her win this game. Could not give in and touch her or the wench would know how much power she had over him.
Thierry had silently moved into the light and hunkered down behind her for a better view. Guy tried to relax his thighs and calm his rearing cock. He slowed his hand. She was moving her hips, sighing blissfully, utterly unaware of the other man watching all, staring up between her spread legs. With two fingers she pressed down on her core and arched her back, breasts jutting upward, proud and full. Guy stared at the precious scarlet jewel between her fingers and needed, so badly, to lap at it with his tongue, to feel it swell with passion. One glance at his friend’s upturned face told him they shared the same grinding need to eat that pussy.
“Is this how you entertained yourself in that convent?” he muttered thickly.
A contented smile told him he guessed correctly. She was certainly well practiced with those fingers.
“That is a beautiful little treasure purse, Deorwynn,” he murmured. “Soft as kidskin. I can taste it from here and feel it open and wet on my tongue. I know how tight that warm haven would be on my shaft if I sought to steal away your treasure.”
She moaned softly, licking her lips, her fingers working faster at the little, glowing bud.
“Shall I tell you how I’d fuck you, Deorwynn?”
She shook her head, eyes half closed. Crouched behind her, Thierry had taken his prick out and worked it in his fist with a rapid rhythm. Guy was surprised she didn’t hear the slapping sound.
Looking again at her pink slit, watching her fingers burrow into it, Guy spoke softly and slowly. “First I’d mount you carefully, inch by inch; then I’d thrust faster and deeper. I’d take that little cunt to heaven on my cock. If you could fit me all in, of course. Do you think you could sheath all of me inside you? Look at me, Deorwynn. Look at what I have for you. What I want to give you.”
* * * *
Through dazed eyes she looked down at the man on the couch, at the massive cock in his hand, and knew again the reckless thrill, seeing him stare and hunger for her in that fierce way.
She gasped, her fingers working hard, while his eyes studied the motion, his face moving closer until his breath whispered across her knuckles.
“Can you feel me inside you, Deorwynn, as I can feel myself fucking you?” He stood the broad head of his staff only inches from her. “You’re squeezing my cock so hard, naughty wench. I feel every silken ridge of your sweet Saxon pussy, milking me. I’m coming inside. So deep inside you’ll taste me in the back of your throat. Hold me, my sweet.”
She came.
Crying out she almost lost her balance, but two hands came under her arms to catch her from behind, grabbing her bared breasts.
Another man was there?
Confused, she was still trembling with orgasm, her juices wetting her own fingers, as she looked down at the anonymous hands cupping her hot breasts and squeezing.
Suddenly Guy released in an exultant gush, spewing his seed across her stomach. “Did I not tell you she was a beauty, Thierry?” he gasped, half-laughing. “What say you?”
Thierry? Astonished, she fought those clasping hands and spun around to find his friend behind her.
“You were right, Devaux,” he chuckled. “Juicy as a mid-summer peach.”
She was horrified. The other man had been there the entire time and seen all.
“It seems I won the wager.” Guy grinned. “Didn’t need to touch you did I?”
She fought for breath, cursing and spitting. Finally she remembered to drop her shift and cover her lower half, the linen sticking to the thick, wet streaks of semen on her skin.
“Come back to the couch, my sweet. We’re not done. My friend and I have a hankering to share your ripe fruit and harvest all night long. You’ll be well entertained, just as you’ve entertained us.”
That was all she was to Guy Devaux – entertainment. Like a minstrel or a gypsy dancer. Or a whore to share with his friend.
“Never! Villain! Filthy, rotten, no-good Norman pig.”
“Yes?”
She ran for the door. Although she fully expected to be chased down, they let her go. She could hear Devaux laughing as she stumbled shakily down the corridor back to the women’s chamber.
* * * *
“It seems she dislikes the idea of sharing,” said Thierry, pouring himself some wine.
Guy pulled on a fleece-lined robe and belted it. “She will come around to the idea. In time.” He and Thierry had always shared women and there should be nothing special about this one to prevent it. But he would not force her. “She’s skittish. A wild pony.”
“So I see. A virgin?”
Guy did not answer that. He hadn’t told Thierry how the Saxon woman took his wife’s place in the bridal bed. She had yet to confess the truth and he needed to hear it from her lips before he spoke of it to anyone.
“Are you sure you want to share?” Thierry asked.
He turned his head, surprised. “Of course. She’s just a Saxon peasant.”
His friend nodded, but kept his gaze averted.
Guy sensed, for the first time in twenty years, that they both nursed a secret. He remembered Thierry had sat close to the woman at supper twice now and showed a lively interest in her conversation, not just her titties. He cleared his throat and walked back to his couch. “Are you certain you want to share, Bonnenfant?”
“Of course. As you say, she is just another Saxon peasant girl.”
Still no eye contact.
He felt a quick spur of annoyance. If Thierry had deeper feelings for this difficult and challenging woman then he was a fool. One wench was much the same as any other; he kept telling himself that, as he poked at the fire and drank his wine.
So she was angry with him now. What of it? He’d make amends tomorrow.
Chapter Nine
“She said you can have it back, my lord,” the guard muttered nervously, placing the filigree cuff in Guy’s palm. “She said she wants nothing from you, my lord.”
His jaw tightened as he glared down at the refused gift.
“She’d sooner eat cow dung than wear anything you gave her, my lord. Those were her exact words.”
“Yes,” he snapped. “I understood without the detail.”
Eyes downcast, the guard backe
d away.
His first thought was to chase her down and demand an explanation. Second thought was to let her boil away in her own anger. Let her worry. Let her wonder what he would do to her for this disrespectful behavior.
Because he had no idea yet how to handle this woman. Or his unbridled need for her.
Best go for a ride and clear his head.
Marching out to the stables, he greeted the grooms with his usual curt welcome. And stopped dead.
His anger—already vast that day, at everyone and everything—suddenly over-flowed. Thierry was there with the Saxon wench, chatting again in an easy, familiar manner. She had forgiven his friend it seemed, for last night’s incident. No doubt she blamed it all on him, even though Thierry was complicit in the scheme. The two stood by a dappled grey mare, the wench feeding it carrots while Thierry rubbed its muzzle. Their hands had almost touched again.
“Woman, what are you doing here?” It seemed as if the very thing he’d feared had come to pass; the acquisition of a wife had brought other women here to invade his male dominated space. Particularly this woman who tricked him, cursed him, aroused him with one sultry glance and made him feel a fool.
Her reply was pert. “Feeding the horses. What does it look like?”
Fury snapped out of him, “Do not address me in that disrespectful manner. This is no place for you. Why do you not tend to your mistress?”
“She does not need tending.” There was no fear in her face, no backing down.
Again his admiration for her stirred, although he was all too aware of Thierry watching curiously, waiting to see what he would do. “Go inside.”
“But Thierry offered to take me out for a ride.”
Now he was just as furious with his friend as he was with her. “You are a distraction to my men.” He inhaled a sharp breath. “And you are under my feet, in my way.”
“Then walk around me.”
He stepped closer, fists clenched at his sides. The horse whinnied, ducking its head, shaking its mane.
The woman stood her ground. What happened last night, it seemed, had given her brazen attitude an extra push, made her even more heedless of his orders. Abruptly he realized it had given her more cause to despise him.
But when he stared into her eyes he saw they were reddened, her eyelids a little puffy.
His actions had hurt her.
A strange cold emptiness lay in his gut and he didn’t like it. He looked to blame anyone else but himself. Rounding on Thierry, he exclaimed, “Why are you here? Have you naught useful to do?”
“The lady is fond of horses it seems,” the other man replied genially. “We were just talking about her childhood and how sheildhood ait”
“The lady does not go outside the gates. If you have nothing else to do, Bonnenfant, I can find you something.”
The woman exhaled a heavy sigh and pushed between them, leaving the stables with her mantle fluttering behind her, a fulsome oath muttered into the breeze.
Guy whirled around to face his friend. “I don’t trust that woman. She is not to go outside the walls, do I make myself clear?” It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice to Thierry, the first time he’d ever pushed his role as lord and master over their friendship.
Thierry frowned but nodded.
“Good. You might be randy as a bull for her, but that’s no cause to let her take the upper hand.”
“She was upset about last night and I thought I should apologize…”
“Apologize!” Guy roared, something snapping in his temple. “I see she knows how to play you, Bonnenfant. Be wary!” He swung away and then stopped, too hot to let the matter rest. He strode back again. “She’s only fluttering her lashes at you so that you’ll let down your guard,” he added, softening his tone, patting his friend on the shoulder. “I’m sorry to tell you this, as I now see you harbor some silly fondness for her, but the woman is clearly out to cause trouble here and I suppose she pays attention to you because she found a weak spot in your conscience.”
Thierry leaned away from that patronizing hand and propped his shoulder against a beam. Silent, he observed his old friend through narrowed, wondering eyes.
Guy cracked his knuckles, for want of anything else to do with his restless hands. “I thought we could ride today in the tiltyard. It’s been a while since we practiced in the lists.”
Thierry pushed away from the beam, arms folded, standing tall. “Excellent idea. The ladies can watch.”
Nodding, Guy turned and walked out of the stables.
The first thing he saw outside was that dratted Saxon wench up on the battlements, her curved shape silhouetted against the cool blue sky. She had not gone inside as he commanded. Further, she was up there again, where he’d expressly forbidden her to go.
* * * *
She heard him coming, but kept her face turned away. Let him try to haul her body down the stone steps. Perhaps he’d fall and break his damned Norman neck.
“Woman! Did I not tell you to go and tend your mistress?”
“Sybilia does not need tending. She tends herself very well.” She smirked at the distant scenery. “Better than I can tend myself it seems.”
He stopped just a few steps from where she stood. The wind pulled at her skirt, slapping it against her legs.
“Why did you let Thierry watch last night?” she demanded, still not looking at him. “I thought you were interested in hearing about my life. You told me I would never be hurt again. All the time it was a trap. It was cruel of you. I hope you enjoyed it.” She was afraid that if she looked, his powerful pre sence would draw her to him again and make her forget what she had to tell him. When he found her in the stables just now, she’d yearned for just one kind word, perhaps even a smile. How quickly she learned he had no intention of giving her either. She was in his way today. Under his feet, he’d said. It hurt like the sharp prick of a thorn.
He didn’t answer her question; instead he fired one of his own. “Why did you return my gift?”
She sighed. “I will not be your leman. I will not be your playmate, shared and passed around like a whore.”
Pause. “Deorwynn.”
She turned to face him at last and found such a look of utter yearning on his handsome face that it swept all her words away over the battlements. Why he’s a boy, she thought—shocked. The body was that of a man full grown, but inside he was young, still learning and unsure. She had no idea what she meant to say next and it seemed as if he was lost in much the same dilemma. A moment passed and then another. He struggled; she saw it in his jaw, his tight lips, but especially in his eyes. Too much blue, like a rare, luxurious cloth too fine for her to wear and yet coveted all the same, because she was a wretched sinner.
He stepped closer. She backed away.
“Sybilia will be angry if she hears you sent for me last night,” she exclaimed hurriedly. “She has already commented to me on your lusty, wandering eye, my lord.”
He ignored that. “Will you watch our sport in the tiltyard this afternoon, Deorwynn?”
“No. Tournaments do not interest me.” Neither did she want to see anyone hurt for “sport”.
“Then I command you to watch.”
She looked away again over the battlements and stared at the grim, winter-ravaged trees in the distance.
“Why do you come up here and look out so wistfully?” he demanded. “There is nothing out there better than I can provide for you within these walls.”
“I will not stay here. I will go where I am free and no one can give me orders. Or hurt me intentionally for their own amusement.”
“But you are a woman alone,” he muttered, his voice tight. “Where would you go?”
“I’m not afraid. Here I am also a woman. And alone.”
“You are not alone, Deorwynn.”
But it felt that way. Last night, for the first time in her adult life, she’d wept. There was no one she could turn to with this dilemma. She hated him. She yearned for him. He
should not be looking at her this way—yes she could feel the heat of his passionate regard even with her face turned away—and she should never let him close again, especially after his trick last night. His aggressive virility was too much.
The enemy. A Norman. Men like him had…
He moved. Hands cupped her face and he turned it, forcing her to look at him. The hunger in his eyes was brutal, the lines of his face suddenly more severe, his mouth determined.
He meant to kiss her again, in public.
“Don’t do this,” she whispered.
“I do as I please.”
“At the expense of others, women like me.”
He squinted down at her. Wind blew through his dark hair and ruffled it like the hand of an indulgent mother. “There is no other woman like you, Deorwynn.” His lips lowered, hovering an inch above hers. “Nowhere in the world. Of that I am quite certain.”
She was not impressed. “Yet you would share me with your friend?”
His brow wrinkled, his eyes darkened.
She swung away, ducked under his arms and shot down the steep stone steps as if a flaming arrow followed her.
* * * *
When he rode into the tiltyard later, he immediately saw Thierry already there, astride his stallion, leaning over to chat with the ladies who watched from the wooden stands under the canopy. The Saxon wench laughed with Thierry as if she saw no one else in the yard. Anger swept him, almost out of his saddle. Lifting in his stirrups, helmet under one arm, he cantered over to where they were and fought for some way to insinuate himself into their conversation—a difficult task for a man who rarely conversed with women and seldom found anything interesting in their chatter. Clutching at the only thought he could find, he suggested a quick joust with his friend to begin the display.
