by Fox, Georgia
“I hope you’ll be content here,” Sybilia had remarked. “Life here is very…” she shot Wulf a sneering glance, “…rustic”
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Emma had replied, still smiling gently. “It will be a pleasant change for me.”
“Of course. Since you were sent here you have no choice but to like it.”
“True. Although I could have been sent somewhere far worse.”
“Worse?” Sybilia had chuckled, glancing again at Wulf.
He’d admired his new bride for her strength in not slapping Sybilia’s prideful face on sight. Many times already he’d been tempted to do it himself.
By coincidence it turned out that Emma had met Thierry before. Years ago in France he knew her brothers and was apparently a frequent guest at her father’s manor. Wulf had watched Emma greet Thierry with a smile when she recognized him.
Now, from a distance, Thierry lifted his goblet in a salute and Wulf returned the gesture, silently pitying the poor man for his bride. Turning his head, he looked again at the woman by his own side. Not much for prayers, he suddenly thought of offering up some kind of tribute to whichever deity had brought Emma to him. As she had said to Sybilia, it could have been far worse for both of them.
It might also, of course, have been much better for Emma. The king could have found her a far superior match. Someone like handsome, genial Thierry Bonnenfant, for instance.
“When can we fuck?” he snapped, surprising his new bride so that she almost dropped her goblet of wine.
She glanced nervously around, but no one was listening to them. The only creature paying them any attention just then was a dog sitting on its haunches, eagerly admiring the meat on Wulf’s platter.
“Raedwulf,” his wife replied sternly, “you must learn a little discretion.”
He wiped his fingers on his tunic. “What comes next then? Wife.”
She sipped her wine and he saw her hand was shaking again. One minute she was bold, the next she was all nerves. Or was she trying not to laugh? Did he make her nervous, or did he amuse her? She tricked him with those eyes that changed color so rapidly.
“We must wait until it is time for bed,” she finally managed.
He squinted up at the bright sun. “That’s hours yet.”
“Yes.”
Wulf slid his hand under the table and placed it on her thigh. He watched her take a larger gulp of wine, her lashes briefly fanning downward. “I can’t wait that long,” he whispered. “Show me something. Give me something to last me till then.” It was her fault, he reasoned; she’d shown him too much last night, got him excited, teased him.
“I cannot give you anything at this moment, Raedwulf.”
“Yes you can. Tell me what we’ll do tonight.” When she hesitated, he reminded her, “Your duty is to please me, you said. So tell me.”
She sighed, setting her goblet down. “We’ll go to bed.”
“I know that part. What happens there?”
A frown ruffled her brow. Her lips formed a quick pout. “You are not that innocent, Raedwulf.”
“Shall I lick your cunny again? Will it be your duty to suck my—”
She glared at him so fiercely he was silenced. Never had a woman’s eyes been so hot and dangerous in his memory. “You speak too loudly. People will hear. Do you Saxons know nothing of manners?”
He leaned closer to whisper in her ear, while his hand slid high up her thigh and tightened. “I’ll put my cock inside you. In your tight pussy.” He watched her small, white teeth bite her lower lip.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“All the way in?”
Her pupils widened. She nodded.
With his fingertips he drew small circles against her thigh. “Mayhap I’ll put my cock in your arse too,” he murmured, pushing his luck.
Her shoulders stiffened. “Good Lord no.”
He curbed a chuckle, making his face stern, indignant, “Why not?”
“You’re much too large. It would surely kill me.”
Wulf moved his hand to feel between her legs under the table. Her gown was in the way, but again, because of the heat, she wore no under-shift. The mere thought of entering that pussy was enough to harden his shaft. After what she’d shown him last night, he knew now that he’d like it. Very much. He might never want to stop doing it. The only issue was whether or not he could make her content, especially since she acted so coy about her own needs. He was a simple carpenter, not a mind reader.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” he whispered hoarsely, sliding a finger up and down where he knew her womanly slit waited for him, getting wet. “What do you want, Emma?”
He stared into her eyes and she shifted on the bench, parting her legs to give his wandering hand greater access. It was lucky the table was covered with a tapestry cloth, he mused, or else everyone in the yard would see what he did. He wouldn’t care, but she undoubtedly would, being a lady.
“What shall I do first tonight?” he pushed.
She cleared her throat, and he felt the urge to put his lips to her neck. He quelled it for now. “You may,” she spoke very quietly, barely moving her lips, “kiss my breasts.”
He would see her without her shift tonight, he realized. Her soft skin would be his to touch.
“You may take the nipple in your mouth and suck. Gently.”
Suddenly, he spied Thierry Bonnenfant watching them intently from the far end of the table. Wulf nodded solemnly, as if he discussed the weather with his wife. “Go on.”
“I’ll hold you.”
“Hold my what?”
“Your manhood.”
He fidgeted as his cock filled and stretched.
“I’ll stroke it. If you would like me to, I will do as I did last night.” Once again she made it about what he wanted. It did not escape his notice, but he made no comment, too caught up in the picture she made with her words.
Wulf saw Thierry watching Emma’s lips as if he could read them from a distance. “What next,” he ground out, nodding again, picturing her ladylike mouth closing over his cock head.
“Then, when you are ready—hard and long—I’ll lay back and spread my legs so you can enter me.”
Wulf’s fingers caressed her pussy again through her gown. He could feel it pulsing.
“You must go slowly,” she added, her breath catching as he pressed down on her with two fingers, right at the top of that naughty crevice. “As long as I am wet, it shouldn’t hurt, but as I told you…you are large, so…”
He couldn’t hear for a moment because blood was rushing through his ears as he pictured the scene in bed. Oh she’d be wet alright. He’d make certain of it, now that he knew how to make her aroused. Make her purr.
At the end of the table, Thierry drank his wine and looked morose.
Wulf chuckled. Couldn’t help it.
* * * *
Emma tried to close her legs and halt the orgasm, but he wouldn’t let her. His large, strong hand prevented her easily. His thick, craftsman’s fingers worked her quaking pussy through her gown until she almost lifted off the bench. She grabbed her goblet of wine and her teeth closed over the rim. Henry would never have done this to her in public. But then Henry was a Norman, educated and well-bred, not a crude beast who’d been a prisoner for fifteen years and claimed to be a virgin, even as he so expertly played with her.
“And what’s next?” he demanded, surely knowing full well she couldn’t speak just then with his fingertips pushing down on her core, making the pressure mount until she could no longer hold it.
She smothered her cries in the wine.
On her other side, Deorwynn was chattering away to Guy Devaux, oblivious to what went on under the table. Nearby there was music and singing. Yet she and Wulf were completely alone in that crowd. Emma felt the hot waves wash over her. It was an extraordinarily long climax, even making her belly ache.
Wulf whispered in her ear again. “After I’ve come hard in your cunt and filled you
to overflowing, what then?”
He was so brutal with his words. She had the feeling he only whispered because he knew it aroused her more, not because he feared being overheard. Still, she doubted his claim of being virgin. It seemed incredible, ridiculous even. He must be playing a game with her.
She tried to regain her breath. What came after that? Nothing, if memory served. Usually Henry fell asleep soon after spending. After they’d both washed themselves off, of course. Henry was a very particular person and cleanliness was of the utmost importance.
“I…we’ll see…what happens…,” she murmured, her lips oddly numb.
“Emma, more wine?” Deorwynn had turned abruptly to look at her, the wine jug lifted in one hand. “You’re very flushed. Are you not feeling well?”
She fanned herself with her own sleeve. “'Tis just this heat.”
Wulf spoke up, “You should go inside where ‘tis cool.”
Deorwynn’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her brother. “I hope you don’t think to send your wife off so you can retreat to your woodshed.”
Emma finally closed her legs as his hand moved off her. “I wasn’t thinking that at all,” he said.
“Good because you should pay attention to your wife today, brother.”
“Oh I mean to.”
Emma was surprised that his younger sister—eight years younger—should feel it her place to admonish him in that manner. Wulf did not shout at his sister to be quiet, which is what would have happened to Emma if she ever dared speak to one of her elder brothers thus. Of course, Deorwynn was the lady of the manor; perhaps that was why her brother did not remark upon her bossiness.
She stole a thoughtful glance at her husband as he finished his meal. These Saxons were strange folk. Had Guy Devaux not taken over, Raedwulf would be the lord of this manor now, but he was displaced by the Norman who married his sister. How must he feel about that? Perhaps he was content with his wood working and had no higher ambition. Perhaps, like her, he made the most of the hand he was dealt.
Emma picked up the jug that Deorwynn had set down and poured wine into her husband’s empty goblet. He looked surprised, pleased in his own quiet way. She smiled, glad she was there to pour his wine.
Chapter Five
Later, when Raedwulf went off to speak with the blacksmith, Sybilia Bonnenfant approached Emma again.
“I am relieved to have another of my kind here,” the woman exclaimed, standing too close and breathing in her ear.
“Of your kind?”
“A lady like myself, Norman and born of noble blood,” Sybilia replied. “These people,” she wafted a hand about as if to bat away flies, “are all so common. And Guy Devaux’s wife—the little Saxon strumpet—has no manners, no propriety.” She sniffed. “You know, of course, that Devaux was meant to marry me less than a year ago, but that little whore stole him away even as she pretended to be my friend. Crept into his bed the moment my back was turned and bewitched him. Thus I was pushed off onto his friend to make room for her. You can’t trust these Saxons. Most of them still think there is a war to be fought and they refuse to believe they lost it long ago.” She paused for a quick breath. “I am amazed the king sent you here to wed that dreadful Raedwulf. A Saxon and a former prisoner! He can barely form a sentence. Spends every waking moment shut away, making things with wood apparently. Perhaps that’s for the best.” She laughed harshly.
Emma kept her gaze on the revelers—so many well-wishers who did not know her at all. She realized many of them were there only for the ale, but life was hard for most folk and she did not begrudge them this little pleasure. If she could be the cause of it, all the better.
“I like the Lady Deorwynn,” she said softly. “She has been very kind to me so far. Everyone has been most welcoming. Including Raedwulf.”
“So far,” Sybilia snapped. “You’ll soon find the novelty wears off.” She glared across the yard at her husband, Thierry Bonnenfant, who was laughing with two buxom young women. “You’ll be grateful for my friendship then.”
“Indeed I am grateful for it now, Lady Sybilia,” said Emma. “But you should know that I never judge others by their breed or race. As long as they do me no harm, I shall do none to them. It is not my intention to cause any rift here, nor will I talk badly about the people who have taken me into their home.”
There was a pause. “I see. Well then I shall say no more. I wish you luck for the future here.” This last sentence was muttered in a contemptuous fashion, suggesting there was little hope of it, and then Sybilia slithered away around the edge of the crowd.
Emma felt the sun’s warmth again and inhaled some fresh air, unspoiled by the Lady Sybilia’s overly-sweet perfume. She’d heard the rumors of how Deorwynn the Saxon came to marry Guy Deveaux, of course, but she was never one to pay much heed to gossip. And anyone who was markedly rude to her own husband, was not someone Emma cared to become intimate with. She wondered why Sybilia should presume they had anything in common just because they hailed from the same land. It was even more puzzling why she would think it permissible to slight a woman’s husband one moment and then try to befriend her in the next. She watched Sybilia gliding around the yard, speaking to no one, very much apart from the merry-makers, encouraging no one to approach her and ignoring anyone who made an attempt. If Sybilia had a shortage of friends here, it was clearly her own fault.
Sometimes one had to make an effort to belong.
She looked for her husband and saw him deep in discussion with Thierry Bonnenfant. What could they have to talk about so intently? Wulf appeared fascinated whatever it was.
* * * *
“Norman women need showing their place immediately,” Thierry assured him. “They get above themselves otherwise. Trust me, Wulf, I know. Don’t let her have her own way too often. Begin this marriage as you mean to go on. Never give her treats or flattery unless she does something to please you. Punish her at once when she disobeys.”
Wulf was amused. “Train her like a dog, you mean?”
“‘Tis much the same. All wild things must be tamed before they can be any use to a man.”
But Wulf didn’t want his wife tamed. He liked that spark of wildness in her eyes and he wanted to preserve it.
“The women of Languedoc are feisty, temperamental creatures. Worse even than your Saxon wenches,” Thierry added. “Never turn your back on her. Watch her closely.”
“I shall.”
“Make her bend to your rules, or she’ll be making her own.”
Wulf wondered if he should ask Thierry whether he followed his own advice when it came to sour-faced Sybilia. Then he saw her approaching through the crowd and swiftly decided to end his conversation with Thierry, slouching away to his workshop.
* * * *
Emma found Deorwynn, sitting with her feet up, fanning herself with one corner of the tapestry table cloth. She advised her new sister-in-law to go inside where it was cooler and Deorwynn finally agreed to leave the feast, taking the arm she was offered and lumbering upright with difficulty.
“I hope this babe comes soon,” she groaned as Emma helped her across the yard and up the castle steps.
“It will come when ready. Don’t be in haste. You should really lie down and be comfortable.”
“Yes, I know, but it’s hard to give in. I do not like to be weak. I like my husband to see I am strong.”
Emma sighed. “There is no dishonor in putting yourself and your child first. Many a strong man could not do what you’re doing.” And many a strong woman too, herself included, she thought sadly.
“I’m glad you’re here, Emma. There is something comforting about your presence. You seem so sensible, solid and steady.”
Sensible, solid and steady? She might as well have added—and dull. Emma knew there was little about her that might seem interesting to a young woman like Deorwynn. She was almost a decade older, a childless widow with a plain face and no special talents. Her sister-in-law had already ascertained that sh
e could not sing and didn’t like to dance—these being two things Deorwynn enjoyed very much. Neither did Emma like to hunt and she rode only when forced. The two women, therefore, had little in common beyond their gender and their connections now through marriage.
Yet Emma felt a bond already with Deorwynn.
Their steps clicked across the stone floor. Once inside the thick castle walls, cooler air surrounded the two women. The light within was softer, the outside noise muffled to a drone. After sitting a while, Deorwynn’s eyes began to close and Emma persuaded her to go to bed and catch up on her sleep.
Before she left, the woman said to Emma, “I know you will take care of my brother if anything happens to me. It is a great relief to me that you are here now, with us.”
Emma looked at the other woman’s wide eyes and saw the fear she’d been trying to hide. There were dark hollows beneath each brown orb and beads of sweat gleamed along her hairline. Deorwynn was young, only one and twenty. Suddenly she looked even younger, her body over-whelmed by the size of her belly. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you,” Emma told her calmly, moving sticky strands of hair back from the anxious woman’s face.