by Fox, Georgia
Wulf shuddered, as the man gently squeezed his balls. Thierry continued upward until he’d taken the scarlet crest in his mouth.
At that moment Emma saw what was happening. She knelt at her husband’s side and watched, wide-eyed as the other man suckled on him, drawing on his rock-hard prick as if it was his only sustenance.
“Do the same for him,” Wulf managed between fierce grunts. “And give me your sweet cunny.”
Thus the three of them laid in a circle, sucking, licking and nibbling without mercy, reaching a new summit, time and time again, muffling their cries deep in the body of the one they pleasured.
And much later they tried the honey spoon again, this time in Thierry’s willing arse, while he mounted Emma. Wulf ran his hands over the fine curve of the Norman’s buttocks, feeling the flexing muscles beneath as they worked hard. Emma’s knees were drawn up, her gaze on her husband’s face as he leaned over them both and moved the plug back and forth. The man between them gave a feral grunt, spreading his thighs wider. With one hand, Wulf reached for the small clay pot beside the bed and flipped off the lid.
* * * *
She saw what he was doing, but didn’t understand at first. He’d taken something from the pot and lathered it over his cock from root to head. Only when she saw him remove the plug and apply the same substance to Thierry’s anus, did she realize what was happening. Emma held her breath and watched her husband stand over the other man. His face was calm, almost smiling. Thierry, who apparently also knew what was coming, was far less calm. He began fucking her faster, breathing harshly against the side of her neck, sticking his buttocks higher, as if he meant to tempt and tease her husband.
It worked. Wulf replaced the wax toy with his own member, forcing his way in, while Thierry exhaled strange hissing sounds, his own dick still moving in and out of her pussy. There was one moment when he broke stride, as that massive cock was at last settled between his straining buttocks and Wulf exclaimed gruffly, “Now who is the conqueror, Norman?”
His point made, he took Thierry Bonnenfant for a short, hard, blistering hot ride, forcing him deeper into Emma’s over-indulged pussy with every thrust.
He was a master craftsman and however he wielded his tool that night, his bedfellows made no complaint. They were beguiled.
The three of them would never again share another adventure, although they never forgot that wild, unbound few hours of pleasure.
Soon they all had other concerns to worry about.
Emma had always known it was coming. Like so many things in her life of late, there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Chapter Ten
She was drawing well water and arguing with her husband about whether or not it was her place to do so, when a new arrival clattered through the gatehouse and brought her world to ruin. Both she and Wulf had a hand on the bucket strap, but she almost lost her grip when those horses stormed into the yard, bringing a litter and several smaller carts.
The noise brought almost every resident out to see what had happened.
As the litter creaked to a jarring halt, the curtains around it were swept aside and a pretty face peered out, blinking through the churned dust.
Emma’s heart tightened, the beat arrested briefly. She took a deep breath, drawing in the smell of the place, the scent of the man who stood beside her. The man who had, just a few moments ago, been arguing with her. It was as if she wanted to capture the essence of that place and that moment, because she already knew it would soon be snatched away from her.
Guy Devaux trotted down the steps of the castle to greet the new arrival.
The woman stepped down, helped by one of her dismounted guards. Her gestures were irritable, her voice sharp. “Are you Devaux? Finally I am here after the wild goose chase I was sent on.”
Emma’s fingers relinquished the bucket strap, letting Wulf take the weight.
“I am Amias of York,” the woman’s voice rang out like a peal of bells. “I was sent here by King William to wed Raedwulf the Saxon of Wexford.”
Water from the bucket sloshed on Emma’s gown. She wanted to laugh hysterically. She’d known her cousin would arrive eventually, of course. But for a while she’d let herself believe this happiness was hers; she’d dared to think herself worthy of it.
* * * *
A mistake had occurred somehow. Messengers had taken the wrong orders to the wrong women.
“I did not know what to think when I received the king’s note urging me into a convent,” her cousin exclaimed. “It was not my place to disobey, of course, but when I arrived there, the nuns expected someone else.” She turned, scanning the small group of folk gathered around her and looking beyond, until her eyes found Emma. “You— it seems.” Other people had drawn away from Emma, leaving her abandoned, noticeable.
She bowed her head. “It would seem so.”
Feeling Wulf’s gaze upon her, she avoided it, looking instead at the other woman and keeping her face clear of any expression. She hadn’t seen her cousin in years, but she was recognizable still from the spoiled, soft-lipped, short-nosed girl she was back then. Amias of York was well-rounded in figure and younger than Emma. She would make Wulf a proper bride. A fertile bride.
“You told me you came from York,” Wulf muttered, stepping closer.
“I said no such thing,” she replied, still not looking at him.
Guy Devaux ordered his great hall cleared of onlookers until only family members—and the new arrival—remained. “We have a dilemma,” he said, looking at Wulf. “My brother-in-law has wed the wrong woman.”
Emma flinched and clasped her hands tighter. The wrong woman. Not—another woman, but a wrong woman. She cleared her throat, raised her chin and said carefully, “It can be amended, my Lord Devaux. I am barren. That is grounds to annul the marriage and the king would raise no objection.”
A few weeks ago it had been her plan to enter a convent, in any case. What had happened between then and now must all be forgotten, ignored, like the comical error it was.
“Well, that’s settled then,” said Amias, who clearly liked the look of Wulf and kept throwing him silly little smiles that made Emma’s stomach churn.
“Yes. It is for the best,” she managed with a taut smile of her own.
Wulf looked at her for a long moment and then turned away, storming off to his workshop. Guy Devaux’s shoulders relaxed and he invited the newcomer to sit and take refreshment after her journey.
But Deorwynn was scowling at her, then at Emma. “We should discuss this matter,” she said firmly.
“There is naught to discuss,” Devaux replied. “Emma has made the wisest decision for us. And for your brother.”
Anxious to get her coffers packed, Emma hurried away, hiding her expression, swallowing the tears that threatened to overwhelm her.
* * * *
“This is madness, my lady,” Joan complained, wringing her hands while Emma folded her clothes and packed them hastily. “You were content here. You told me so yourself. A convent is not the place for you, my lady. You’ve too much life in you yet.”
“Joan, you know this was what I planned originally. We already talked of it. Now do help me. Here—pass that embroidered throw by the window. I haven’t finished it yet and I’d like to take it with me.” She was thinking practically again now, preparing herself for yet another change.
As Joan angrily grabbed the embroidered throw, Wulf’s wooden design for the “honey spoon” fell to the floor and rolled at her feet.
“What is this, my lady?”
Flustered, she snatched it up before the bent maid could reach for it. “’Tis nothing.”
“Your husband’s handiwork?”
“Yes.”
“He’s got clever hands. I’ll give him that.”
Emma tossed the little wooden gadget onto the bed, trying not to remember the wondrous time they’d spent with its wax counterpart. An eye-opening experience, to be sure. Not that she could explain that to Joa
n. And yes, her husband had very clever hands. Very clever other parts too.
“I know I did not like that Saxon much when we first came, but he grows on me, my lady.”
“Like lichen?”
“Nonsense! He is…he is not so bad. And he is clearly fond of you, my lady.”
“Really? How can you tell?” She laughed to make light of it. “He is so quiet most of the time. I’m sure one wife would be as good as any other in his eyes. I thought you said we are all merely sheaths for their bloodied swords?”
There was a sudden cacophony in the passage outside and the door burst open. Guy Devaux looked in, his face pale as milk. “It’s my wife. I need help. Come quickly. Please.”
Emma went at once—not for him, but for his wife.
* * * *
It was a long, hard labor. Deorwynn’s small body, wracked with pain, struggled to expel the babe that seemed too big for her. Emma had seen similar suffering many times and she was able to take control calmly, sending the fussing men out and rolling up her sleeves.
“Fetch water. Warm it. And any extra linens you can find.”
Deorwynn’s frightened, inexperienced maid hurried to obey.
Behind them, Amias of York stood in the chamber doorway, complaining at the sight of so much bodily fluid and indignity. Joan finally drew her away, finding some more useful employment for the delicate lady. The midwife had been sent for, but she was old and had lately been sickly, confined to her bed. It seemed doubtful she would arrive in time to be of much help.
“Thank God you are here,” Deorwynn ground out, reaching for her arm.
Emma spoke softly, wiping a dampened cloth across the poor young girl’s brow. “Try not to worry. All will be well. Take a few deep breaths. That’s better.” She opened the shutters to let in more fresh air and washed Deorwynn’s face, neck and shoulders. “The child will come. Don’t push yet. Breathe.” She ordered mugwort in wine—something to help ease the pain—but even that was not enough when the babe was finally ready to emerge.
Deorwynn bit down on a knotted rag, her eyes closed tight, the tendons on her neck standing out with the strain. Emma did what she could to comfort, above all knowing the importance of remaining steady, not showing fear or alarm.
Through it all she felt a building wave of emotion swelling in her own stomach. Soon she must leave this place and these people. She would never see them again. But now, in this moment, she was needed there. She hoped the child would be born safely and in health; then one day, perhaps, Deorwynn would tell him about the strange woman who once came there and helped at his birth.
Wulf’s nephew, she thought, another wave crashing in.
* * * *
“Well are you just going to stand there like a wet Monday and say naught?” Joan demanded.
Wulf did not look up from his workbench. The angry little woman had thrust her way into his woodshed and refused to leave, like a scrappy dog nipping at his boot heels. “There is naught for me to say. Your mistress makes her own mind up. I can’t force her to stay.”
“For pity’s sake, are you as thick-headed as you look, Saxon? All she needs is for you to say you want her to stay. ‘Tis all she waits for.”
He wrinkled his nose, skeptical. How could he be sure she wanted to stay with him? She was yielding enough in the bed-chamber certainly, but still there was something hidden under her long, copper lashes and she’d immediately suggested they get an annulment. No equivocating. No doubt. I am barren, as you know. That is grounds to annul the marriage and the king would raise no objection. It was almost as if she’d been ready with that plan; as if she’d expected this. As if she’d known it was a mistake.
“You said yourself, woman, she thinks her place is to suffer quietly. There’s no talking sense into one who thinks thus.”
Damned deceitful Norman wench! He should have known she’d be trouble, the moment he saw the shifting colors in her eyes.
* * * *
It took the rest of the day and all night, many notches burned down on the candles, but at last the babe came, a squealing, squirming creature, eyes wrinkled shut, a mass of dark hair surprising Emma. She’d never seen a babe born with so much of it. No sooner had the creature slipped out, been proclaimed a boy and carefully wrapped in linen, than Deorwynn began to seize up again with more pains. A few moments later a second babe was born, this one a girl.
“You have twins, my Lord Devaux,” Emma was able to pronounce a short while later to the anxious father waiting in the passage. He dashed by her to see for himself, even before she had the opportunity to offer congratulations.
She was exhausted and covered in unpleasant liquids, but the satisfaction of a task well done overcame all that. Through the door she watched the proud parents kiss. Devaux examined his newborn offspring with pride and amazement, holding them both in his arms and laughing as if he’d never had a moment’s doubt or fear. Deorwynn looked tired, her eyes puffy, her hair spilled untidily over her shoulders, but she was joyous, excited, her head resting on her husband’s shoulder as she too marveled at the cause of all her recent suffering. The pains were all forgiven now and soon to be forgotten.
Emma swallowed a disastrous lump in her throat and walked back to her chamber. That tremendous state of joy would never be hers to feel and she couldn’t afford to dwell upon it. They wouldn’t want her mawkish face hanging about to spoil these precious moments. Alone in her chamber, she changed out of her filthy gown and left it for Joan to burn. There was no point taking it with her to the convent. She would need only a very few, simple garments now. The less she carried of her former life the better. Joan, she’d already decided, must stay here with these people. She could help Deorwynn with the children. None of the other women here seemed to have much experience and men were next to useless when it came to such things. They made the babes and then became completely nonplussed by their existence.
All that remained was to say goodbye to Wulf and ask if she might borrow a horse and groom to escort her to the convent. She couldn’t very well sneak away like a thief could she?
Crossing the deserted great hall, she encountered Amias of York and Sybilia Bonnenfant, who arrived belatedly to “assist” the birth. Today she brought her own child for the viewing, although a sour-faced nurse carried it for her, suffering the child’s pokes and screams while its mother drew Emma aside and whispered that she’d heard of the dreadful mistake. Already she had drawn Amias into her confidence.
“At least it can be put to right now,” she added with mock concern. “Now that the rightful woman has come. And you, Emma, won’t wish to be a burden on Raedwulf, since you cannot give him children. Guy told Thierry you are barren.” She looked over at her own plump, noisy child. “It is all we are needed for in this world, unfortunately. Glad I am that I was able to give my husband a son. He never wanted me for anything more than that.” Then she cast her eyes back over Emma and her lips turned up in a sly sneer. “And he has plenty of whores for his other, less important needs.” Her arrow successfully aimed and shot, Sybilia continued on her way, drawing Amias along by the arm and gesturing for the nurse to keep up.
This was her vengeance of course, for Emma not being drawn into the friendship she’d offered. She was quick to show her allegiance to the new arrival—a younger woman she could easily influence and weave into her web.
Emma watched them leave, their steps echoing on the stone steps, the child’s cries beating about inside her head until it ached as much as her heart.
Perhaps it would be best not to say goodbye to Wulf after all. In her current state she feared embarrassing herself with a foolish display of emotion and regret, when that would do no one any good. Her hands, she realized, were shaking. She must be tired after the long night sitting with Deorwynn. That could be the only reason for her tremors and the sadness piling upon her. She was simply overwrought.
It had been a pleasant fantasy living there for a few days. Now it was over, as she’d always known it would be, s
ooner or later. Nothing this good lasted forever. She should have told them the truth when she realized a mistake had occurred; instead she’d gone on with the deception—tried to keep dreaming.
But real life had crept in and jolted her well awake now.
Chapter Eleven
Thierry swung open the door of the workshop and stormed in. “What the Devil’s going on? Why is Emma leaving?”
Wulf put down his chisel. He began to think about getting a lock fitted on the shed door. “She wants to leave. I can’t make her stay.” He thought Thierry was probably only concerned about his own needs anyway. “It’s a mistake that she was sent here.”
The other man stared hard at him. “Are you certain it was a mistake? Perhaps fate brought her to you for a reason.”
He wiped his hands on a rag and laughed carelessly, although it caught in his throat and died there too soon. “If you want her, you go after her, Bonnenfant.”
Thierry shook his head, his eyes like flint. “Don’t you fight for anything, Raedwulf?” There was silence. Even the dogs outside in the yard had temporarily ceased their noise.
“Amias of York is her cousin, by the way,” Thierry added.
Another pause. Thierry walked to the door and opened it. “I came to tell you I’m going away. The King is sending me on a mission back to Normandy. I don’t know when I’ll return.”
Wulf raised an eyebrow. “You’re going home?”
“No. This is my home now, remember. We Normans are here to stay.” Then he chuckled dourly. “Don’t forget that Saxon.”