by The Bargain
"Remove the tunic," the old man ordered. And de Wulf complied, lifting the shirt over his head and handing it to Aleysia.
She placed it on her lap, trying hard not to look at de Wulf's body, a difficult thing when he sat so close.
"I see a Saxon arrow has found its mark," the old man said, probing at the wound.
"Aye, Henry, and you are looking at the Saxon responsible for said injury," Renaud said, nodding at Aleysia.
Henry frowned. "In truth?"
Aleysia nodded. "In truth."
The old man laughed, a cackling sound that made Aleysia smile.
"Well, we shall have to cauterize the wound. Take a deep breath, my lord, and then release it slowly."
Renaud did as the old man said, his chest rising with the effort. A second later Henry yanked. The Norman flinched, his face turning red, but he did not curse as the old man produced the arrow and blood gushed from the cut. "My goodness, 'tis quite a gash."
"Now this shall hurt a little," the old man said, a moment before he poured liquor onto the wound.
Renaud closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before letting it out slowly. The old man stepped over to a hearth and grabbed a red-hot iron.
To her surprise, de Wulf reached out and took hold of her hand. For a moment she almost pushed it away, but then the old man brought the iron down on Renaud's shoulder.
The Norman's jaw tightened, his stomach clenched, defining the rigid planes of muscle there.
Aleysia winced as the smell of burnt flesh surrounded them. Sweat poured off Renaud's forehead, and she was hard-pressed not to wipe it off with his tunic, but she refrained. Ironically, she felt a pang of remorse for having been the one to cause his pain. She ran her thumb along his and watched his color slowly return.
"My lord, how do you fare?" the surgeon asked with obvious concern.
Renaud opened his eyes and smiled, and to Aleysia's chagrin, her heart gave a fierce tug. "I shall live to see another day, Henry."
"That is welcome news," someone said from the doorway. Aleysia looked up to find one of Renaud's men who had been on the ramparts, coming toward him.
De Wulf smiled up at the younger man. "I am well, Galeran. Have no fear. I shall be in fine form on the morrow. I had thought to keep you all from drills, but I think that would only make the men grow restless."
"I agree, my lord," Galeran replied, his gaze skipping to Aleysia. He did not look very happy to see her.
"Have you grown tired of tonight's amusements already?"
"Nay, I was concerned when I did not see you in the hall, and decided I had best check on you," Galeran replied.
"I am fine, but since you are here, you can do me a favor."
"Anything, my lord." Galeran glanced at where Aleysia still held Renaud's hand. Surprisingly, the Norman did not release it.
"Take Aleysia to the lord's chambers. See that a bath is prepared, and I shall be along shortly."
Aleysia released his hand and gave him his tunic, relieved to be escaping the room... and de Wulf.
"I shall see you soon, Aleysia," Renaud said, not moving to let her out of the entrapment of his solid thighs. Rather than climb over him, she slid by him, the front of her thighs brushing against his knees.
More than happy to get away from him and the stifling armory, she followed the young soldier out of the building, feeling de Wulf s gaze on her the entire way.
Renaud watched Aleysia follow Galeran out of the armory, as did every other man being tended to. What a find she had been.
Who knew such a treasure had been tucked away in the north country? A woman dressed in men's clothing, who could best any man with bow and arrow. God knew what other skills she possessed.
He looked forward to finding out.
He smiled, remembering her expression earlier in the hall when she had watched him fondle the wench. It had been cruel to do so.
Little did Aleysia know he had no desire to be with the woman who had serviced his troops for the past eight weeks, since they had burned her small village. In truth, the wench had seemed overjoyed to leave behind an overbearing father to travel with them, spreading her legs for any who would give her coin and attention.
But Renaud had never had the woman, nor did he want her tonight. He merely wanted to see Aleysia's reaction. He had thought the Saxon would blush and look away, or mayhap even cry, regretful of her rash decision to offer her body for her brother's safety. But she did none of those things, and instead stared boldly as though to say, Do what you will, Norman!
Even more, he thought he'd recognized curiosity in those haunting green eyes.
But then she had unexpectedly left the hall, and he had followed, much to the wench's displeasure.
Aleysia had trembled when she sat by him just now, trying everything in her power not to have her body touch his. He had trapped her between his thighs just to see how she would react, to see if she would flee as she had done earlier. But she had not fled. In fact, she had tried in her own way to soothe him—her thumb brushing along the edge of his.
Aye, if ever there was a woman ripe for the plucking...
"She is beautiful, my lord," Henry commented. The old man had traveled with him these past two years, patching up Renaud and his men, and in turn Renaud gave him protection. He had simply appeared one night at their camp, drunk and bleeding, asking to stay in exchange for his services. A healer, he had called himself, and no one had asked further questions. And he had served Renaud and his men faithfully since that day. "Eyes like I have never seen. Almost haunting, wouldn't you say, my lord?"
Renaud smiled. "Indeed, she is beautiful."
Henry spread a salve onto the cauterized wound and wiped his hands clean with a rag. "Is there anything else, my lord?"
Renaud looked around the armory at the wounded. He would not go to his chamber before he spoke with each man. They had all fought valiantly today, and they would be rewarded, even if it be with just a kind word.
He stood, his body aching, his knees popping, reminding him that he was not getting any younger. Though he wanted nothing more than to retreat to his chamber, take a hot bath, and make love to the beautiful Saxon, he instead rested a hand on his vassal's shoulder. The young man had lost part of his ear, and he trembled greatly. "You did a fine job today, Malgor."
The knight clamped his chattering teeth together. "Thank you, my lord."
"Get well so you can join us in drills in a fortnight or so."
"I will rejoin the ranks long before a fortnight, my lord," Malgor replied with resolve.
"Very well, then. We shall see you on the field when Henry agrees you are well enough."
Next was a knight who had fought with Renaud for the better part of a decade. A nasty-looking gash on his side oozed blood. Renaud clasped the man's hand. "Henry had best put the rod to you next, Gautier."
The man flashed a toothless smile, compliments of a blow to the mouth a month before.
It would be an hour before Renaud made his way out into the outer bailey and toward the tower, where his chamber and a beautiful Saxon woman awaited him.
CHAPTER 3
Heaven help her. What had she gotten herself into?
Aleysia's heart hammered in her chest, watching as a handful of servants entered the large chamber. They carried buckets of hot water, and one by one, they poured the steaming water into the large wooden tub.
She knew de Wulf had indicated she could take a bath, but she had no such inclination, especially since she had bathed in the river just last night. Granted, the water had been cold enough to steal the breath from her lungs, but she had suffered through and even washed her hair.
Nay, the bath would be for de Wulf. After all, he would be filthy from his days of pillaging. Given the circumstances, he had no time to stop and bathe—the animal that he was. Too busy killing men, women, and children... and sleeping with whores, much like the one he had left in the great hall.
Mayhap he was with the woman now? He had been in quite a hurry to get rid
of Aleysia.
Her stomach coiled in a tight knot remembering the baron's gray gaze. Aleysia noted the dark gleam in his eyes when he looked at her, his stare unrelenting. It had seemed the man could see straight through her clothing.
An old woman whom she remembered well from the days her family had ruled the land, glanced at her while she emptied the bucket of water into the tub. She cast Aleysia a sympathetic smile.
They all knew her fate. Even now, she could not forget the knowing grins of the Norman knights as de Wulf had walked with her toward the great hall.
They all knew what she had offered in way of a bargain.
And a bargain it was. Nothing more, nothing less.
Her body for her brother's safety.
Unable to stand still, she walked toward the window and looked out, her fingers curling around the heavy iron bars, yearning for a freedom that now seemed so far from reach.
Her breath formed fog. Night was fast descending upon Braemere. In the distance she could see the manor house where she had been born and raised. The beautiful stone mansion would now be overrun with Norman knights, as was the castle. And in the uppermost chamber of the tower, her brother sat, shackled, awaiting certain death. Poor Adelstan.
Men's laughter brought her out of her musings and the horrible thoughts of her twin's fate. She must find a way to get to Adelstan and together they would escape. They would flee to Scotland and she would marry Laird MacMillan. Duncan had been patient with her delaying their wedding these past months, accepting her excuse that she still mourned for her parents. But even the Scot was growing weary of excuses. When he'd left for Edinburgh, he told her that upon his return, they would go to the chapel and be done with it, once and for all.
It was not like she was opposed to the match. Duncan was a handsome man, nearly twenty years her senior. She felt safe with him, save for his temper, which frightened her at times. Though she did not desire him the same way he desired her, she knew in her heart that she could be happy. She would be a loyal wife to the Scottish laird who had lost his first wife in childbirth.
One could love without desire.
And once again she recalled the desire in the Normans gray eyes. Even now her skin prickled, remembering that hot stare, and the way his gaze lingered on her body.
Running her hands up and down her arms, she knew she must bear the pain of this night... for her brother's sake.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Aleysia's heart pounded loudly in her ears as the door opened and the Norman appeared. He seemed even more massive than he had earlier, standing a full head taller than most men, and broader of shoulder. So large was he, he seemed to fill the entire room with his presence. Silver-gray eyes stared at her intently, sliding over her in a way that made her tremble.
She kept her gaze averted to just beyond his right shoulder. Her uneasiness grew with each second of silence, while she forced back the panic that threatened to paralyze her. "May I see my brother?"
"Adelstan is fine," he said, reaching behind his neck and pulling off his tunic, tossing it aside.
She had not been able to fully see his body before, since she had been so close. But now she could see all of his powerful frame. He had white scars that marred the golden skin of his flesh. Battle wounds. He would have another scar on his back, thanks to her.
He rolled his shoulders, as though he hoped to release the ache, the motion sending his muscles rippling. Her gaze fastened on the defined bulges of his abdomen and the line of hair right below his navel that escaped beneath the braies he was busy untying.
Her heart skipped a beat. She had seen a man's naked body before. It could not be helped when she lived in such close confines with Adelstan and his men.
But she had seen no man quite like the Norman. He was perfectly formed—every solid inch of him. Once again she recalled when the wench in the great hall had touched his huge cock. The flesh between her thighs tingled at the memory.
Despite the fact he was her enemy, her fingers itched to touch his golden skin, feel the hard planes of muscle and tendons beneath. Strong and powerful, he made her feel impossibly feminine, even in her men's attire.
Aleysia steadied herself for what was to come. She would give this man her body, but nothing else. She would do what was necessary to save Adelstan.
Renaud could smell her fear.
Standing with chin lifted high, shoulders ramrod straight, Aleysia's gaze seemed to be on everything in the room but him. His lips twitched. She might pretend to be unaffected by his presence, yet he had seen the fascination in her light green eyes when he'd taken off his tunic. The way they had followed a downward path over his chest and abdomen, stopping at the edge of his braies. Her throat convulsed as she swallowed hard. She was curious.
In truth, her innocent stare made him want her all the more. To rip off her clothes, toss her on the bed, and fuck her until she was too tired to stand. Make her forget Laird MacMillan and her pledge to marry him.
Furious that the Scot had once again entered his thoughts, he deliberately pushed his braies down his legs. Slowly. It had the desired effect. Aleysia's cheeks burned and her eyes widened before she turned away, facing the window.
"You did not bathe."
"I saw no need," she replied, a touch too quickly. Silent minutes passed and still she did not move. He glanced at her, to find her on the tips of her toes, gazing out the window.
"I thought it might relax you."
"I have no need to relax."
He fought a smile. By God, she was a proud one. What a magnificent lover she would be.
Walking to the tub, he stepped in and sat down, relishing the feel of the warm water against his stiff muscles. Who did she look for? Her betrothed perhaps? It stood to reason the Scot would come running for his intended. Was Laird MacMillan even now plotting a way to snatch Aleysia out of his grasp—or was he even aware Aleysia was at Braemere? If she were Renaud's intended, nothing could stop him.
He frowned and sat back against the tub's edge, imagining Aleysia without her clothing or the damned cloak that she held so tightly to her, almost like a shield. Already his sac was heavy, and grew more so at the thought of her in all her naked glory.
Two servants entered the room, one a portly woman of sixty, and behind her a young woman about his age. The older woman poured her bucket of water in the tub, averting her eyes. He could not say the same for the younger. She stared boldly. When it was her turn to pour in her bucket of water, she smiled, her gaze skipping from his, down his chest and abdomen, to settle on his cock. She licked her lips and leaned farther as she poured, offering him a nice view of her ample bosom.
A sound of disgust came from Aleysia's direction, and Renaud smiled inwardly. So, the fair maiden had seen the wanton looking at him. Dare he hope she was jealous?
"My lord," the coy servant said, her greedy gaze finding his once more. "Would you like me to wash yer back for ya?"
The older woman gasped and pulled the girl along toward the door. "Forgive her, my lord. She is shameless."
Renaud grinned at the women. "I have someone to wash my back— else I would be delighted for you to do so. Mayhap another time?"
"Any time, my lord," the buxom servant replied.
Renaud glanced over at Aleysia. Arms crossed over her chest, she shook her head as she stared out the window. The door closed behind the servants and she jumped, but still she did not look at him. "Come closer," he demanded.
Finally she looked toward him. With a loud, exaggerated sigh, she took three steps forward, the movements slow, as though her legs were made of stone.
"Remove your cloak."
With trembling hands she untied the cord that held the cloak together. She pushed it from her shoulders, where it landed in a puddle at her feet.
The dark braies clung to her long, slender legs, defining their perfection. His blood quickened in his veins, flooding his groin with heat. "Remove your clothing."
"My lord!" sh
e said in a rush. "I—"
"I want to see you."
She swallowed hard and looked to the door, as though she expected to be rescued.
There was no man or beast that would keep him from taking this woman.
Not even Laird MacMillan.
"I am waiting, Aleysia."
Jaw clenched tight, she turned around, giving him a full view of her backside. He stifled a groan. If she thought to thwart his desire by showing him her back, she had been mistaken. In truth, her heart-shaped buttocks enticed him nearly as much as her front. The tight breeches hugged the soft curves of her ass and hips.
Unconsciously, he reached for his cock, his fingers sliding around the rigid length.
Sweat that had little to do with the warm water, beaded on his brow. As he stared, his fingers tightened, squeezing, sliding up his hard shaft and back down again.
She removed her tunic, letting it slide from her fingers to the rug. For the space of a heartbeat he saw her naked back, the slender lines, the indentations just above the curve of her firm buttocks. And then her long hair swung, hiding her from him. He could see her tremble as she slid the braies down her legs and made quick work of the garters, chausses, and boots. He released a groan and shifted his hips. She was beautiful, and she was his.
The edge of the tub was high enough that she would not know he stroked himself. At this point, he didn't care if she did. He needed release, because he would not spend himself the moment he touched her. Nay, he would savor the taking—caress her until she writhed beneath him. "Turn around and let me see you, Aleysia."
With a muttered curse, she turned, her green eyes flashing with hatred as she met his gaze.
His heart missed a beat. She was breathtaking.
Full, firm breasts with rose-pink nipples gave way to a small waist and softly curved hips. Her stomach was flat, the curls of her womanhood slightly darker than the hair on her head. His stroke increased as he stared at the soft, tight curls there, imagining the treasure hidden within. A virgin, an untouched prize. How hot and tight she would be. He grit his teeth as his blood quickened, his climax coming on, fast, strong. Aleysia reached up and ran her hands down her arms as though to warm herself. The motion made her already full breasts look even more so. He envisioned his cock there, between the soft skin of those ample mounds, thrusting.
