The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales)

by Trent, Louisa

  Accepting his escort, they completed their circular promenade of the gardens, arriving back at the gate where they had begun, and then taking the opposite route outside.

  Straightaway the difference in light and terrain struck her. Whereas the walled garden was sunny and bright, the land cultivated and tended, the area surrounding the keep was dim and heavily shadowed, the ground overrun with vines that would prick if one came too close. The two distinct areas were very much like the overlord himself—romantic and engaging on one hand, brooding and thorny on the other. Fortunately she craved both sides of him.

  Immediately following that thought, her master pulled abruptly away from her and drew his dagger. Before she could react, he held the blade to her throat.

  Choking, she wheezed, “Curses! You duped me. Just when I thought I had something to live for, you decide to kill me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What is this something that has rekindled your interest in life?” Spur whispered into Mitri’s ear.

  “’Tis you, my lord.”

  Christ, how she got to him! Even after taking measures to hold himself aloof from her, still she broke through his raised defenses and dredged up something so deep inside him he hardly knew the place existed.

  Until her.

  “Hush,” he said, his blade steady at her windpipe. “Have no fear. Killing you is not what this exercise is all about.”

  “Pardon me, but when a sneeze will send me to an early grave, fear is justified.”

  “In an ambush, fear is very much justified. But passive acceptance of your fate is not. I thought you had more fire in your belly than that. Take your fear and use it to fight back.”

  “This said by a warrior who I daresay outweighs me by more than four stone.”

  “There is more than one way to skin an animal. Have less physical strength than an adversary? Use your wiles.”

  “You are hurting me, my lord.”

  He immediately withdrew the blade. “I never meant to…”

  During his apology, she spun free. “I believe that might be one of those wily methods you spoke of. Here is another.” She kneed his testicles. As he clutched for his sac, she kicked out and landed two blows to his knees. The ground rose up to meet his face.

  From the dirt, he said, “A pity you have no weapon. You might have ended me on the spot.” Digging into his sheath, he produced another dagger. “Here. Use it as you will, only take care not to get carried away.”

  She snatched the blade from his hand and looked it over, drew the edge across her palm. When no blood sprang forth, she frowned.

  “My lord, why carry worthless armament?”

  “Demonstration purposes. ’Tis for training. My father taught my elder brother and me how to defend ourselves with that very weapon. I intend to teach you the same.” He stroked a thumb over his jaw and chuckled. “Though you did manage quite well completely unarmed.”

  “What good is learning on a dull knife?”

  “The best blade in the world is no use without skill. Learn how to defend yourself in our practice session with this dull blade, and I will place a better dirk at your disposal later.” His knees protesting, he got creakily to his feet.

  “I am not sure I could kill someone even after learning the necessary skill.”

  “Did you enjoy how my blade felt at your throat?”

  “Nay.”

  “Did you like that suffocating pressure in your chest? Do you fancy pain?”

  “Well—”

  He smirked. “Not that sort of pain. The sort of pain from which there is no release.”

  “Nay.” Her eyes twinkled. “I prefer when pain brings multiple releases.”

  “One of your finer tendencies.”

  “Very well. I thought this day would go differently, but such is life,” she said philosophically, obviously resigned to tedious military type of training. “What is your first lesson? Throwing a dagger, perchance?” She held the hilt high above her head as if to fling it through the air.

  “I pity the warren of rabbits hiding on the other side of that bush.”

  “Bunnies?” she screeched in horror. “I might have killed a bunny?” The dull weapon fell with a clatter from her hand.

  So much for that day’s training.

  He made a swift change of plans. “Daggers will wait for the morrow. Today, your first lesson is the bow and arrow. Come with me.” After sheathing both daggers, he held out his hand to her. She took his palm in hers, and as carefree as the lad he had never been, he led her down a narrow path lined with brambles until they came to an open area.

  She surveyed the environs. “What is this odd place?”

  “A target range. See those x’s painted on skinned pelts?”

  “Aye. How could I not?” She spun around. “They surround us.”

  “The x’s are markers.” He went to a leather chest, opened the lid, and brought forth a lightweight bow and a sheath of arrows, which he presented to her with a flourish. “For you. No crossbow, no longbow, a nice short bow made of ash on which to learn. Hit one target and I shall grant you your heart’s desire. Within reason, of course.”

  She took the practice weapon, plucked gingerly at the hemp string. “I have never before used one of these.” As a young maiden would, she demurely lowered her gaze. “I am but an inept female. How do I begin, my lord?”

  As the thick, sooty lashes swept her high cheekbones, he lost his train of thought. “Um—”

  “The lesson, my lord,” she reminded him. “How shall I proceed?”

  Considering she was the weaker gender, what could he do but step behind her and show her?

  “First, you take the bow, like so.” His arm flexing, he demonstrated.

  She sighed. “An easy feat for you to accomplish. Your muscles are absolutely massive.”

  His chest puffed. “I am sure with coaching you will do admirably, even without my manly strength.”

  “Oh, I doubt it very much. I am such a simpleton about these things,” she said modestly. “Now tell me—what comes next?”

  “Next,” he advised, “you insert the arrow in place. Like so.”

  Once again, he demonstrated.

  “Then,” he continued, “you draw back on the string. Like so.”

  Another demonstration.

  The arrow flew through the air, hitting the target precisely.

  She stepped out from the loose enclosure of his arms and poised a finger to her chin. Tap, tap. “Now let me think. What is my heart’s desire? Within reason, of course.”

  He placed the bow beside the quiver of arrows on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. “What mean you?”

  She grinned merrily up at him. “’Tis simple. Look yonder. I have fulfilled the terms you, yourself named for this contest. An arrow has cleanly pierced the target. Now all that is left for me to do is to claim my prize.”

  He had been had!

  She had tricked, outplayed, and outwitted him, and at his own game. Only a poor sport would argue that she had bested him.

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. When his mirth died down enough for him to speak, he said, “How could I have been so mistaken? You have no need for weaponry training, not with your conniving ability. Name it. What is your heart’s desire?”

  “You.”

  Such a simple desire. What could he do but comply?

  Uncrossing his arms, thus loosening his warrior’s defensive pose, he gave himself over to her. “Do what you will with me, wily Mitri.”

  “I wish to do everything with you, my lord.”

  “Could you possibly break the ‘everything’ down into manageable units?”

  Her dimples flashed. “Methinks you have fought in one too many military campaigns. But very well. First order—strip.”

  He nodded. “A fine start.”

  Strictly speaking, they stood outside his keep’s walls. But the area was not assailable due to the tangle of undergrowth. Any enemy crazed en
ough to encroach upon this part of the fortress would bleed to death from thorn sticks before ever reaching them. Apart from that, if by some stretch of the imagination, a foe did attack them, he had Mitri for protection. The female could outthink and outmaneuver an army.

  In a trice, he dispensed with his garb. Naked, he turned to her, arms outstretched, preening at would only be her awe. “There! I am yours.”

  Her appraising glance cast him into a fit of—

  What?

  Bald-faced terror was as good a description as any.

  And why? After all, she had seen his make before. As a matter of fact, she’d had him in her mouth. Naught here should concern him.

  Save—her narrowed glance was going on and on. Why? And her lips remained primly sealed, not a sound escaping. Why?

  Second-guessing was unlike him. Insecurity was something that happened to other men, not to him. A warrior of the highest caliber, he struck first and looked back never. Scars were part of a hard-lived life, but he was fit and whole and manly apart from the ridges and bumps. Furthermore, he had all his teeth. And not to be too arrogant, but his features, though on the large side, were not at all displeasing. No lady had ever screamed upon encountering his visage for the first time—though some ladies had drooled.

  What was wrong with him? Apprehension like this had never occurred to him with former partners, of which there had been an abundance.

  An abundance!

  All of which he had taken in concert with his brother.

  Now he was alone. All alone. Completely alone. His brother was not beside him to deflect some of her intense scrutiny.

  Why did she not say something? Had she no glowing remarks to make about his grandeur? Where were her bulging eyes, her puddle of saliva over his enormity?

  Perchance his massive erection had robbed her of talk. That had to be it!

  On second thought—nay. This was a conniver. Her wit was her strongest weapon. She would never lose her power of speech.

  Pray Christ she did not release that sharp tongue on him now.

  He slid a look at his jutting member. Egad! He looked smaller today. Had he come up short?

  Mitri had indeed seen his make, had held him in her mouth too, but this was different. One such occasion of intimacy between them had occurred inside his fortress. A keep’s interior is a dim and shadowed place, an advantage for even warty-nosed, dwarf lovers, with teeny-tiny male parts. Naturally he would look acceptable there. The other occasion of intimacy between them had occurred in the woodlands, where shadows play havoc with shapes and sizes. Today, however, was the true test of her opinion. They were out under the direct sun. No place for him to hide anything. And verily she examined him. Critically. For all he knew, direct sunlight shrank certain objects at close range.

  Like a man’s pride and joy.

  “I thought you somewhat larger,” she said, confirming his hypothesis.

  He gulped. “Larger?”

  “Before, when I held you in my hand and suckled you in my throat, I thought you tremendous. Then when we mated, you felt immense, like a dragon. But today I can see you fall well within the usual limits.”

  He most assuredly did not! There was naught at all usual about his dimensions. All his partners thought him of staggering proportions. He knew this to be so because they told him he was hard to take—generally whilst screeching profanities at him and smiling adoringly at his brother.

  Then Spur recalled something, something that she had divulged during her twilight sleep.

  Mitri had been a chandler. And not just any chandler, either. Her specialty was erotic candles. This female might have been virgin territory when first they met, but she knew her way around the male member.

  Obviously he failed to measure up to his competition—a hunk of beeswax.

  Rancor filled him. Correspondingly, his mood soured, and his mouth drooped at the corners. He stood there, mortally wounded. “Anything else you care to say?”

  “Aye.”

  Mustering up his courage, he said, “Go on.”

  “You take my breath away.”

  He rallied. “In truth?”

  “Aye. In truth. My heart pounds so. I can scarce believe I am here with you. I fear I might die of want if you stay apart from me any longer.”

  “Die?” he asked eagerly. “You might die for want of me?”

  “Aye.” Her eyes sparkled. “I just may.”

  “We cannot have that,” he blustered, remembering his manners. Rhapsodizing over her inability to breathe, her pounding heart, and her expiring at any moment was not polite. “How might I help?”

  She held out her hands to him, palms up as she beseeched him. “Lie with me. Lie with me here. Out in the sun. ’Tis what I wish for more than rubies and gold.”

  How could he resist?

  He toppled manfully at her feet.

  She followed him down. Her magenta bliaut puffing up around her hips, she mounted him there in the archery practice range. Thistles and brambles and thorns encircling them, she grinned down into his face, not at all intimidated by him, the surroundings, or the circumstances.

  “My lord, please to consider this your training ground,” she instructed. “If you learn but one lesson today, let it be this—one need not always resort to daggers and arrows to bring down the mighty. Ofttimes, games of the mind will suffice.”

  “I already said as much!”

  “Said is not the same as committing the lesson to heart.”

  He knew he would live to regret it, and yet, like a court fool, he said, “Go on. Instruct me further.”

  “If a woman plants a few doubts about a man’s masculinity in his ear, then follows up those blows to his pride with a pretty compliment or two, paid to stroke his conceit, in short order, that woman will have that man eating right out of her hand.”

  “I fail to see where any of this applies to me.”

  She settled herself over him, teasing the drooling head of his cock for an instant before lowering herself onto the crown. “Ah. Splendid. My, but you do surpass the usual fare. You are everything I remembered and then some. Your cock is not only luscious but positively huge.” She licked her lips and winked.

  Then he understood. Using the weapon of wiliness, she would have slain him. Had this not been a training session, he would already be lying senseless beneath her. What a crushing blow to his pride.

  But when she started to move, started to ride him hard, and he started to come, his loss of male pride seemed a small price to pay for his rapidly approaching small death.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mitri was about to come apart.

  She recognized the tightening of her loins, a spiral of tension that could lead either to frustration or to a blessed release. The latter sensation was an all too familiar one of late but she was not one to complain about a surfeit of carnal satisfaction. In these perilous times, they must all learn to grab at pleasure as they might. Joyous occasions were too few and far between to ever allow even one opportunity to go astray.

  She willed—nay, not willed, for she had no determination here—rather, she allowed herself to fall into the storm. Her mind a blank, no ability to concentrate, she let the void close over her, suck her into a place where only need existed.

  She needed this. As the need came with the warlord attached, she would graciously accept him too. There were compensations to be had for the inconvenience. Other than his lovely thick cock, that is.

  His protection.

  They were coupling outside the barricade surrounding his fortress, and yet she feared naught. Who else could say that in a world gone mad?

  Lord Devil would defend her with his last drawn breath. He would fight for her, die for her too. Not because he loved her, for indeed he did not love her, but because he was a prideful warrior through and through. ’Twould be a blow to his honor to allow an attack on her to succeed.

  Which was why she delighted in making jest at his expense.

  His conceit made a
n incredibly large target to poke fun at, far easier to hit than those silly x’s he had scattered hither and yon throughout the clearing.

  Mmmmm. She closed her eyes and let the crest carry her to completion. A delightfully slow and steady culmination.

  No slow and steady anything for the overlord. About to ejaculate, he jerked beneath her. Violently.

  She enjoyed his violence. He was at his most honest, his most pure, then. Though she did suspect the overlord was hiding something—a softer side, mayhap even from himself. She suspected the earl was not nearly as black-hearted as he pretended.

  She let that observation go. At the moment, she concerned herself only with this.

  As if she were on a steed, she clamped her knees to his thrusting hips, pinioning him in place, trying to maintain his violent thrusting whilst at the same time trying to slow him down.

  No use. The release she sought slipped beyond her reach as her partner came too soon on a grunt and a groan.

  Curses! Thwarted!

  Selfish, selfish royal. Every one of them was the same. Looking only to their own desires, they ignored the existence of anyone else.

  He picked up her hand, and then placed a kiss in the center. “I request your humble pardon, Mitri. The fault for your present state of limbo lies entirely with me. In my enthusiasm, I could not stay in beat with you.”

  Not entirely selfish then. Not entirely unaware of the existence of others. And though a scoundrel, not an entirely evil one—unless one was averse to splitting hairs.

  She was not. Had she not made a pact with the devil?

  Lord Spur was not the monster she had originally thought. Though he might not go contrary to his own self-interests and offer a hungry pauper his own meal, neither was he so despicable as to deliberately spill a bowl of thin gruel a starving beggar clutched. She suspected he looked after himself, first and foremost and, in so doing, managed to look after his populace too. Most likely, he did this by accident, not by any contrivance on his part. Nevertheless, the result was the same.