The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales)

by Trent, Louisa

  Clearly scandalized, she gasped, “Beringed bosoms, but—”

  She never completed her protest.

  Spur polished a jutting crown, then buffed it.

  With his lips. An adoring kiss.

  Followed by a worshipful bite.

  “Ohhhhh.” She arched her throat. “Ohhhhhh.”

  Spur pulled away. “You were saying? But what?”

  “Naught,” she denied vigorously. “I was saying naught.”

  He smiled. “A quiet woman is a joy unto herself. Oft does my brother say so. Though a woman who opens her mouth to a man must also be extolled. Talon says that as well. I cannot forget the joy I felt when you welcomed me down your throat.”

  “I should not let you do this to me. I am so very angry with you!” Up went her arms, tossed in the air.

  Down went the fur, plummeting to the floor.

  There was much to admire in an upset female, and Spur admired all of it then.

  “Why?” Nym moved the cloth to his guest’s bared belly. “Why is she angry, my lord? What did you do?”

  In a much put-upon tone, she replied, “His lordship had me.”

  Nym frowned. “The Devil you say.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “Aye, I do say. He is the devil.”

  “Nay,” Nym explained. “That is what the Lord Spur is called—the Devil of Nettlewood.”

  “An apt name.” She pointed a finger at the aptly named. “The Devil had me whilst I slumbered.”

  Nym clucked his tongue. “Fie, my lord. You can do better. Putting her to sleep during a rut should tell you something about your technique.”

  “I never had her! Not exactly. Not specifically. ” He spoke directly to his guest. “You. I never had you. I ejaculated, aye. But I did naught more.”

  Nym looked at him askance. “Really? That is all you did?”

  “All right. I slipped a little ways inside her passage but went no farther.” He glanced at his guest. “Though you were extremely vocal that I should.”

  “I have no memory of any of this,” she fretted. “None.”

  “See? If I had you, you would recall every vivid sensation.”

  “Unless, my lord, you had administered—” Nym sent him a censoring look. “Did you use—”

  “Silence!” Spur roared. His squire knew about the sleeping draught. And its properties. None of which he wanted revealed. “Nym, you are dismissed. Leave this chamber at once.”

  Chapter Ten

  Mitri stood in the middle of the floor, not knowing which way to turn.

  After thinking to convince the overlord of her innocence in the crime of treason, she would just as soon say hang it all and kill him instead. Only then, for her crime of murder, she would indeed hang it all, and now she very much wished to live. And why?

  Him.

  Life had taken on a whole new meaning because of the man she wished to kill.

  A quandary.

  Oh, Lord Spur was the devil, all right, and now he demanded she pay him his due.

  “Open your legs to me, wen—” Her warden shook his head. “How are you called? Wench is discourteous, and given your hot nature, maiden hardly suits you.”

  “Mitri,” she said and mindlessly splayed herself.

  Oh, she was just so confused.

  Immediately he began drawing the cloth slowly and enticingly between her loosened thighs.

  Her lids grew heavy and then drifted closed. Lost in sightless sensation, she tilted her hips to meet each swipe of the linen, cooing “Aye aye aye.”

  A drop splashed in the bucket. A lovely wet palm slid between her legs and rubbed upward into the notch.

  “Mitri,” murmured a masculine voice, a devilishly cunning voice, “I like that name.”

  “My father chose it, and my mother agreed.”

  “Agreeable women have much to recommend them.”

  Her jaw, formerly tense with anger, loosened, then went lax. As if too heavy to hold upright, her head slanted to her shoulder. And her nipples! Despite her willing them not to, they peaked outrageously.

  Now what was he up to?

  Her eyes snapped open to see.

  Ceasing all pretense of bathing her, Lord Spur had dropped to his knees. He now knelt between her bare feet.

  “Tell me something about the man who sired you,” he commanded.

  As if she could speak.

  Smiling dreamily, she tried. “My long-deceased mother was a common serf, my father a freeman tenant. His status was a noninheritable boon for military service in his youth. Once, long ago, you see, Da had risked life and limb for Lord Harold. In gratitude, the baron set my father free.”

  “Your father was a brave man.”

  “Aye. That he was. Very brave.” And her sister, Ysenda, took after him.

  “So why are you not a freewoman?”

  “Unfortunately the baron’s gift to Da for his act of heroism did not extend to his future family. And so I was born a simple peasant, but one slippery step up from a slave.”

  Lord Spur tongued her belly. A twirl sent the tip into her navel.

  She trembled. “Though we all did benefit from Da’s courage. None of us owed Lord Harold obligatory daily servitude at his demesne. We paid our rent every year, and that was that. No hiking up to the manor every day to work the lordship’s fields before plowing our own.”

  After playing at her belly for a spell, he mouthed a southerly path to her mons and boasted, “I know all about plowing.”

  At least when it came to women, she mused, as he farmed her fallow flesh.

  Virgin help her, next he blew a gusty, hot breath across her moistened loins, the same as she had done to him the day before. Then he pressed his lips to where he had blown. The fluttering—akin to a butterfly’s rapidly beating wings—tickled, and Mitri had all to do not to giggle.

  Oh my. The nobleman was kissing her where only beeswax had ever touched her before.

  Just as swiftly as the thought entered her mind, she reconsidered the reflection.

  Only beeswax had touched her—not counting last night, an incident she could not recall. And yesterday, of course, which she had submitted to only under duress and so hardly counted. But this time, unlike those previous occasions, she was not only mindful of what was happening but consenting to what was happening.

  Though strictly speaking, what other option did she have but to consent?

  This overlord had chained her to a stone wall. She was his prisoner, charged with complicity to murder of the most heinous variety. Lord Spur thought she had whored for a mercenary leader who had locked innocent souls inside a burning building. And still he wished to couple with her.

  What kind of unprincipled man was he?

  A devil, she answered. The Devil of Nettlewood.

  And what kind of unprincipled woman was she for so eagerly submitting?

  A spineless one. For try as she would, she could not stem the flood of anticipation rising up within her.

  Right or wrong—wrong, wrong, so wrong—he provoked her. To anger. To lust. To every strong and complicated—and unnerving—emotion a woman might possess.

  How to deal with the tangle?

  By being confused, she guessed. No other solution came to her.

  Even as her mind protested this, the most intimate of kisses, her body gave way. Even as her soul condemned her for her wrongful reaction to him, her loins desired more of the same. And suddenly, above all the other conflict raging within her, came another astonishing contradiction: she did not want him, a reprehensible overlord whom his populace termed a devil, to think ill of her.

  Laughable to care about the good opinion of such a bad man, but there ’twas; she had an irresistible urge to clear her name. And to do that, she had to tell him what she could of the truth. Right now. Right this very moment. Her sister was no longer close by. And she would not mention Ysenda anyway. There was no reason to delay.

  Unable to let this go any further until she explained, Mitri c
ried out, “Cease!”

  And just like the snap of two fingers, the devil stopped his handiwork and rose to his feet.

  Tears for all those victims rolled down her cheeks and drizzled into her mouth. She tasted salt on her tongue as she pleaded for the belief of a devil. “I had naught to do with the killings.”

  “Nay?”

  “Nay,” she sobbed in return. “I met the mercenary leader, a rebel called Axehand, in the most dire of circumstance. I need for you to hear from my own lips that I never consorted with him, that I played no part in the atrocity.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  She wiped at her eyes. “Lord Harold was not my enemy. My father risked his life for him. How could I have been involved in ending a life my father almost lost his own to save?”

  Lord Devil appeared to mull this over; his answer was long in coming. “I never thought you capable of murder. With that said, by your own actions, you condemn yourself as a shrewd opportunist. For whatever the reason, you took advantage of the situation and sold yourself to me to escape the burning settlement.” He narrowed his gaze, assessing her. “Also, you have given me ample cause to suspect you enjoy bed sport. Do you deny this last?”

  She dropped her chin to her chest. Her lies were finished, done. “I cannot deny you inspire carnal want in me or that I am helpless in the face of that want.” She raised her gaze to him, defiance replacing her former docility. “As to the rest, I had good reason to act as I did.”

  “Will you tell me this good reason?”

  Her reason was her own, and she would neither apologize for it nor explain. Though she desired the warlord, he was still of the nobility and therefore not to be trusted. Her sister was out of harm’s way. For now. But Ysenda was a serf. And now that she had lost Lord Harold’s protection, ’twas within this overlord’s jurisdiction to find her and claim her as part of his holdings. Her sister would fight unto death to prevent her enslavement. Even the possibility of such an eventuality sent shivers through Mitri.

  In answer, she vehemently shook her head.

  He sighed. “So stubborn. Know this. You shan’t go to the dungeon.”

  “My thanks.”

  “But you will remain my honored guest, your visit of indefinite duration.”

  “A chained guest, regardless of the supposed honor, is still a prisoner. And not knowing the duration of the sentencing turns a visit into torture.”

  Her chin wobbled with tension at her own audacity. Who was she, a peasant, to arbitrate with a royal overlord? He could slap her down to the floor and grind his heel into her. She was chattel, to be disposed of at his whim. The only worth she had was what he bestowed upon her.

  “You argue well. And make a sound case for your release.” He nodded. “I shall have your chains removed. Naturally you will still be subject to my authority.”

  She shrugged, her indifference feigned. In reality, she could have jumped up and down at his response, which was the best sort of compromise. Her temperament differed from that of her independent-minded sister. With her resourceful nature, Ysenda could make it on her own outside the secure walls of a settlement.

  Mitri cringed at the prospect of being cut loose to fend for herself. A slave’s life was harsh, but the protected status of a serf suited her. For now. This man, for all his arrogant royal blood, could keep her safe. Not cherished, certainly, for the overlord might himself do her harm, but at least with him she understood whence came the threat. ’Twas not knowing what the future held that sent her into spasms of fretfulness.

  That would change once she made plans. Then she would leave this place and strike out on her own.

  “I have nowhere else to go,” Mitri finally responded and honestly too, if not enthusiastically. “The countryside is unsettled, and your fiefdom appears heavily guarded.”

  “The thorns and my reputation discourage invaders. Any outside force who attempts to intrude will be slain.”

  Though bold, she asked him a question as if she were his equal. “Do you have the numbers and provisions to outlast a mercenary attack?”

  “Enough. As a last resort, my brother, Talon, a warlord of notable record, has agreed to reinforce the might of my army. Rest assured, I will keep my populace safe. ’Tis only one particular member of that populace that causes me concern.”

  “Me?” she squeaked.

  “Exactly. You state you have no knowledge of the mercenary leader, that only through happenstance do you even know his name. Very well. I believe you. But we had an agreement, which I upheld. Do you intend to do the same to your end?”

  Before she could formulate a reply, he held a finger to her lips. “A female is allowed to change her mind. Should you decide not to fulfill the terms you yourself set, then you and I will simply assume the usual obligations toward one another. You will serve me as any of my serfs would, in a capacity other than a carnal one. Though I believe that would be a waste of your natural talent and abilities. I believe your hot nature likes what we have begun here.”

  To make his point, he molded her breast with a hand and squeezed. Squeezed hard and determined.

  Both of them knew her peaked nipple won him the argument.

  “Mitri, I did not spend inside you whilst you slept. I ejaculated outside. On your belly. Between your breasts. Within the crease of your backside.”

  “You penetrated my passage. You told Nym so.”

  “Not all the way. Only enough to know you are no virgin, no maiden. Enough to know, you would have enjoyed my delving you deeper.”

  Loving his firm hold on her yielding flesh, Mitri licked the salt from her lips, remembering how the salt of his ejaculate tasted on her tongue. “Aye. I do like carnal pleasures. I enjoy everything you do to me. My behavior shames me, but shame does not decrease my excitement. Verily, shame increases my lust.”

  There! She had said it, admitted the unthinkable to a decadent and immoral man whom his own people referred to as the Devil.

  “I might hurt you,” he told her, looking deeply at her with his silvery gaze as if expecting to find fear there on her face.

  He could look all he wished. Excitement was all she felt.

  She told him so. “I long for the hurt.”

  “At my whim, I shall restrain you in leather and metal.” He ran his hand almost lovingly over the collar she wore. “Not as my prisoner, but as my carnal slave. You will make an appealing one. In addition, you will willingly submit to all my carnal demands, acceding to everything I name, even to those activities you find repugnant.”

  “And if those activities go too far?”

  “You have only to say three words, ‘set me free,’ and I shall do so.”

  “You would let me leave?”

  “Aye. Freewoman status. You saved my life, as your father saved the life of Lord Harold. I am indebted to you the same. Say the words, and you may go at your will. Say the words, and I shan’t hunt you down and bring you back as I would an escaped serf.”

  “And if I say the words now, this very instant?”

  “Then free you will be. You may leave these gates with a purse of gold to start anew elsewhere.”

  What a generous—and cruel—choice he presented. She would be a fool to stay. A liar and a fool to say she stayed because she was destitute and had no other place to go. With a purse full of gold, she could go anywhere, search out her sister, and make a new start. A purse would provide her with the necessary funds to go into erotic candle making on a wider scale. To be her own person for the first time, belonging to no man, having no master set the rules. She could govern herself!

  But if she left here now, him now, she would never experience coupling with a ruthless devil. And though he held out the bait all peasants aspired to—freedom and independence—’twas his very authority that drew her.

  She settled for evasion. “I never take unearned money, Lord Devil.”

  “Stay, and you will earn every coin.”

  “As a whore. Your whore. Payment makes m
e so.”

  He smiled. “Then stay for the pleasure and leave without the gold. That will make you a virtuous hedonist.”

  He certainly did live up to his name. The man was satanic. For, the way he set up this new agreement, he need not accuse her of prostitution. If she left with the coin, she called herself a whore.

  “I shall stay for the pleasure and leave with the gold,” she said softly, owning up to the consequences of her own actions. No blame. No excuses. No horror over her fall from grace. They were two people, a man and a woman, coming together because they both wished it. What could be more simple? And when he tired of her—or his carnal play grew too intense for her—she would leave with a means to start anew. If that made her a whore, she accepted the description and his other description of her as well—that of a shrewd opportunist.

  A practical woman must have the means to protect herself, and she had found that means through the usual distinctly female route—by bartering the use of her body for the protection of a powerful man. And since that was her intent, she might just as well enjoy his usage.

  At her assent, the warlord dropped to his knees before her and returned to mouthing her. She thought for sure she would die from his tonguing. He stroked up into her passage as an artist must surely ply his brush, delicately sweeping the tip over her in some places, expansively wielding it roughly in others. And all the whilst tension built inside her, a knot of desire that demanded expression.

  In an attempt to stifle the sounds of her release, she held her knuckles to her mouth. Her harsh screams escaped nevertheless, the cries of her ecstasy bounding to the rafters, the excruciating pleasure more potent than any she had ever instigated herself.

  She sobbed, “You devil.”

  He straightened to a stand. “Your praise is premature. I am not done with you yet.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Pulling her restraint, the overlord forced her to follow him back to the bed. Mitri floated along behind him as if buoyed on a puffy cloud, and on that puffy cloud, she drifted downward until she reclined naked on her back on the mattress, straw stabbing her hindquarters as he mounted her.