The Virgin Proxy

by Fox, Georgia

  Thierry readily agreed. “My lady,” he said, holding out his hand to Deorwynn. “Will you honor me with your favor?”

  Infuriated, Guy watched as his wench untied a ribbon from her long braid and held it out for his rival. “Perhaps the lady will honor me with her favor,” he exclaimed, reaching for the ribbon at the same time.

  A shocked murmur rippled through the onlookers under the canopy.

  Deorwynn held the ribbon away from his thrusting, gauntleted hand. “I think not,” she murmured, holding it out for Thierry instead. “You will be my champion, sir.”

  Snapping his head around, Guy looked for Sybilia and saw her staring with cold eyes, the color high on her face. “Ah, there you are,” he said, as if he’d been looking for her. She was clearly not deceived. His attentions toward Deorwynn were too marked. Unfamiliar with these feelings, never having competed for a woman in his life, he had no awareness of what he did or how it was perceived by others. Until that moment, as a breathless hush fell over the crowd.

  He glanced sideways at Deorwynn. She was smiling for Thierry, coy and flirtatious. Ignoring him.

  Very well. If that was how his naughty little kitten wished to play it.

  He held out his hand toward Sybilia. Without a word, she gave him her own blue ribbon and when his squire hurried over with a lance, he tied the fluttering strip of cloth to the end of it. Thierry, he noted from the corner of his eye, tied the other woman’s ribbon to his tunic, making an extravagant show of it. Placing it over his heart.

  Fool. With a scornful smirk, Guy turned his horse and galloped down to the far end of the lists.

  * * * *

  The harsh winter sun beat down in her eyes, making her squint. She was glad of the excuse to keep her eyes shaded with one hand. No one would tell that she couldn’t bear to look. She didn’t want to see these men riding hard at one another, lances clashing. It made her sick, but she stayed on her bench beside Sybilia and said nothing. The crowd around them cheered merrily and the feeling in the air was almost festive. But Deorwynn took no pleasure in watching men fight for entertainment. Why must they do this to one another?

  The Norman had made a scene by trying to steal her ribbon. As if that was not enough, now he showed off like a hot-headed pubescent.

  Ah but Guy Devaux was a boy. Had she not already concluded that? What else could she expect from him?

  Now this display.

  He wanted her notice. He did not know how else to get it.

  Her fingers clenched tight, gathering up fistfuls of her gown. Suddenly her heart swelled until she thought it might burst.

  And she knew what this meant.

  The men turned at the end of the lists and clattered down again, lances poised. She flinched, then closed her eyes. As the horses thundered by it shook her seat. She heard their snorting breath and smelled the dust and sweat. It choked in her throat. She did not know who to cheer for. She’d given Thierry her favor to wear and yet if Devaux was hurt…

  She put her head down, bending at the waist, overwrought suddenly with a multitude of emotions.

  A gasp shot out of the crowd. Wood splintered and cracked. Horses whinnied.

  She sat up quickly, opening her eyes to see Guy falling sideways from his horse, his lance snapped and hanging. In the next moment Thierry was out of his saddle, ripping off his helmet. All around her people were up off the benches, crying out. There was blood.

  She couldn’t look. She must look. Dear God. Don’t let him be badly hurt.

  Hands to her face, she ran down from the stands, feet flying as if they had wings, completely forgetting everything else. Forgetting he was not hers to worry about.

  She loved him for heaven’s sake. He’d treated her abominably, clumsily. Yet her feelings for him could not be choked down and denied.

  Her heart was mistaken of course. One could not forge love from deceit and he had deceived her.

  As she had sought to deceive him.

  Did that not make them equal?

  Thierry reached him at the same time. She dropped to her knees and helped remove his dented helmet. There was blood on his chausses under the chain-mail that hung almost to his knees. The massive hooves of his warhorse clomped in the dirt around her, until Thierry yelled for the startled squire to take the reins and calm the animal.

  The Norman’s eyes were closed and a long scratch ran down his face, the fall having scraped the helmet against his head.

  He looked unusually pale. She wanted to sob his name and hold his head in her lap, but slowly she regained her senses, remembering where she was. And what he was. A Norman and another woman’s husband.

  A cluster formed around the fallen warrior and they prepared to lift his great bulk, shoving her aside impatiently. Amid the clamor his hand moved, catching hold of hers. Inside his large gauntlet, his hand was strong, holding her much smaller one so tightly he almost cut the blood from her fingers.

  “I couldn’t see where you’d gone,” he murmured, eyes still closed, black lashes trembling against his sweat and grime stained cheeks. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

  Then they carried him away and her hand slipped from his.

  As the crowd thinned, she saw Sybilia, still in the stands, watching her. There was no emotion on that face, nothing to show she feared for her husband’s life or cared even that he fell. She was more concerned about Deorwynn’s actions than the near tragedy that could have left her a widow so soon.

  Chapter Ten

  He lay on the bed, his wounded leg stretched out, wearing only his under-tunic and padded gambeson. His head hurt, but on the whole he knew he’d escaped far worse injury.

  Cursing yet again, he stared at the roof beams and recalled the moment when it happened. Glancing over to find the Saxon wench in the stands, he’d panicked when he couldn’t see her. For just a split second he let down his guard and Thierry’s lance caught him off balance. His friend stood at the foot of his bed now, apologizing for something that wasn’t his fault at all.

  It was her fault, he thought bitterly, the woman who’d bewitched him into behaving completely out of character.

  He winced as his thigh flexed. May as well face facts. His feelings for this woman were new and unusually strong. And feelings they were, whether he welcomed them or not, whether a man should admit to them or not. They made him weak, obviously. They must be studied before he could vanquish them and move onward.

  “Send the woman Deorwynn to tend me,” he muttered gruffly, interrupting Thierry’s anxious warblings.

  There was a pause.

  He turned his head against the furs. “Well? Why do you delay?”

  Thierry scratched his chin.

  “I see you have something on your chest man, so spit it out.”

  Finally his friend ventured, “You like this woman, Deorwynn? You are stirred by her more than any other.”

  “No,” he answered at once, too proud to admit he’d been set adrift.

  “You’re sure?” Thierry asked.

  “Of course. She’s a mere peasant. And a Saxon. We’ve had this discussion before. What interest would I have in her?”

  Thierry shot him a dark look.

  “Beyond that,” Guy snapped. “She’s no different to any other serf.”

  “It is no more than a passing fancy?”

  “No.”

  Thierry nodded slowly. “In that case, my lord, I ask your permission to woo her properly. Make her my wife. If you have no thoughts of her yourself.”

  It shocked him to the core. He should have seen it coming, but he’d been blind, too busy thinking about himself. He cracked his knuckles. “She’s a Saxon peasant. An orphan. You can do much better for a wife.”

  “But I like her very much,” Thierry said simply. “Very much. I think it would be easy to settle with this one.”

  He was amazed. How easy it was for his friend to make such an admission. Guy tasted blood in his mouth and knew he’d bitten his tongue. With difficulty, he rose to
his feet and limped around the bed, as if he had somewhere important to go.

  “She may only be a peasant,” Thierry added, “but she has a pleasing way about her and she’s clever, amusing. She…”

  “Has a gorgeous pair of tits and a pert round ass.”

  His friend chuckled. “All that too, my lord.”

  Guy stared down at his wounded thigh and then limped to the nearest arrow slit. “Of course you can have her. But there is something you should know.”

  “Oh?”

  “She is not a virgin,” he said carefully, looking out at the dull sky. “You asked me last night and I didn’t answer, because I thought we only meant to play. As we’ve done before, many times. Now I know you’re serious about this wench, so I must tell you.”

  There was silence. He turned to look at his friend.

  Thierry’s face hardened. “I thought you’d only looked and not touched.”

  Guy said nothing. The two men stared, each waiting for the other to blink.

  “I see.” Thierry rolled his lips tight. “May I ask when it happened?”

  He owed no one any explanation, but he suddenly needed Thierry to know how thoroughly he’d had her. Casually he brushed his shoulder with one hand, sweeping away a speck of dried mud. “She was a fine, sweet piece of virgin pussy. Shame you missed out.”

  Thierry took one step around the corner of the bed, drawing closer, and then stopped on the balls of his feet. “Damn you.”

  “Damn you my lord,” Guy corrected softly, gaze still pinned to Thierry’s.

  The other man’s eyes narrowed, unable to stand the heat that long. “I should have stuck my lance through you today and let your bloody horse trample you into the dirt. My lord.”

  “Yes, you missed your chance there too.”

  A few tense seconds passed, Thierry hovering, fists clenched, Guy boldly staring back, half-naked and scornful, relishing his victory.

  Abruptly Thierry raised a hand to his eyes and laughter splintered out of him as if he might split apart with his amusement.

  Guy frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” Thierry gasped, laughter shaking his shoulders. “I never thought I’d see the day. I couldn’t resist giving you a little test. Forgive me.”

  “What?”

  The other man wiped his eyes, still unable to quiet the laughter that bubbled out of him. “You’re in love.”

  “I’m what?” he exploded.

  “You. The Bear of Brittany are in love.”

  Guy limped back to the bed, scowling. “Don’t talk nonsense. You always were a romantic fool, Bonnenfant.”

  “I suspected it when you went through with a sham wedding ceremony. Then I saw you staring at her during the feast. You couldn’t take your eyes off her. Three times you held out your goblet for more wine and almost got it poured into your lap because you couldn’t keep your hand still. I’d never seen you like that. Never. Then, last night, when you let her run off without stopping her and today, the little display of strutting in the tiltyard.”

  “Strutting? I never…”

  “Just like a cockerel, all puffed up with arrogance because she chose me for her champion.”

  “Why should I care what…?”

  “I know, I know. Why should you care what a little Saxon peasant does?” Still chuckling, Thierry strode to the door. “Mayhap you ought to think about the answer to that yourself.” He winked. “I’ll send her up to tend your wound, my lord.” Then he added with teasing solemnity. “I believe it was Le Coup de Foudre. You were struck down the moment you saw her, Devaux.”

  Guy stared, open-mouthed in outrage as the other man disappeared, laughter echoing down the corridor. Disrespectful wretch.

  “She’s no different to any other wench,” he yelled after the laughing man. “I’ll prove it to you, Bonnenfant.”

  He couldn’t bear to be seen as weak.

  Le Coup de Foudre? If that mythical thunderbolt had happened to him, it happened when he hid in the cookhouse, behind the screen of drying hides and caught her touching herself in the bath. Never had he been so instantly, so violently aroused by the sight of a naked woman as he was by her. It was as if he scented his mate. She made his mouth water.

  He sank tentatively to the edge of the bed. Suddenly he wasn’t sure he wanted her tending his leg. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea. He made a fool of himself over this woman. Well, he’d just have to prove his infallibility—not only to Thierry, but to himself. He would give her to his old friend, share her readily. It mattered not to him.

  But it was too late to send for another woman. She was tapping at the door already and then, not waiting for any reply, she came in with a bowl of water and a rag. Her long braid was retied with a new ribbon; her eyes were downcast. She was the very picture of a meek, harmless maiden with only good deeds on her mind—all things the little Saxon troublemaker was not.

  Speedily he lay down, making much of the pain in his thigh.

  She shot him a skeptical look and he closed his eyes tight.

  “I was instructed to come and wash your wound,” she said.

  He rolled his head against his furs and moaned. “Yes. I am ready for you.” When he stole a glance from under his lashes, she was approaching the bed cautiously. He lifted his gambeson and tunic, to let her see that he was indeed ready for her.

  There was just a subtle tightening of her pursed lips, but that dimple in her cheek deepened and her eyes flared.

  “See what you’ve done to me,” he groaned, his cock twitching.

  She set her bowl down beside his bed.

  “Are you not sorry, Deorwynn to cause me this much agony?”

  “I have done nothing to you,” she replied briskly, rinsing her rag in the water and squeezing it hard. “Any agony you suffer you did to yourself.”

  “How so?”

  “No one forced you to ride like demon out there.”

  “Did you forget something, Deorwynn?”

  She looked up.

  “You forgot my lord,” he added. “It seems to me there are too many people showing me disrespect lately. First Thierry, now you.” He folded his arms. “I should punish someone for this insubordination before it spreads—gets out of hand.”

  She dabbed his thigh gently with the damp rag, wiping up the dried blood. His prick lifted, trying to brush against her arm. “I see you are not so badly hurt after all,” she muttered, keeping her eyes on the task. “Mayhap I should send your wife to tend you. My lord.”

  “Not now. Later you can both tend me.”

  He watched her cheeks redden.

  “Did she mention it to you, Deorwynn? I asked her to arrange it.”

  “No.”

  “Curious. I mentioned to her on our wedding night, as she lay in my arms.” He grabbed the end of her braid. “I did not expect her to defy a command.”

  Ignoring his hold on her hair, she finished cleaning the wound and then took a small clay pot of herbal lotion from her apron pocket.

  “What’s that?” he demanded.

  “Poison. You’ll be dead in an hour with any luck.”

  He huffed. “My wife warned me about you.”

  “And yet you send for me to tend you. I thought Normans were supposed to be clever.”

  He wound his hand around her braid, slowly pulling her closer to his bed and his lips. “I keep my friends close, but my enemies closer.”

  “Then do your enemies not have you surrounded?”

  He should have been furious with her for forgetting the “my lord” again. He was not, however. “Saucy-mouthed wench. What’s in the lotion?”

  “Herbs to guard against infection, of course. Although I daresay it’s too late and your leg will fall off anyway.”

  “Lucky I’ve got a third one then,” he quipped, winking. He couldn’t help it, she made him feel light hearted. Her presence was a wonderful antidote to a bad mood and even when he’d planned to play the invalid and work on her sympathy, his spirits w
ere too lively when she was beside him.

  He lay as still as he could—hard indeed for a man with too much energy—while she applied the salve. Then he bent his leg so she could bind a clean cloth around his thigh.

  “Stop flexing your muscles,” she remarked wearily. “I can’t tie the bandage if you keep doing that.”

  His fist tightened in her hair. “Stay with me a while.”

  She strained to look over her shoulder, fighting against the pull of his hand on her hair.

  “We are alone this time,” he assured her.

  “Good.”

  “I thought you liked Thierry.”

  She merely looked at him, her lips silent.

  “I suppose you cheered to see me brought down by your gallant champion,” he mumbled sulky again at the thought of her favor tied on his friend’s tunic. It matters not. She is just another woman. I can share her with Thierry, as I have done in the past with others. He was only six and twenty. There were a great many more women in the world to have before he was an old man. Guy Deveaux could not allow this weakness to invade his heart. Many warriors, stronger and tougher than this Saxon wench had failed to bring him to his knees. What was so different about her?