Enchantress(Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 6)(MFMMMMMM)

by Georgia Fox

  Jesamyn, however, would surely have read it in the cards of they had met ten years ago in that hot marketplace he described.

  Some protest was necessary, or he might become suspicious.

  "You are not my master, d'Anzeray. I work for myself. I perform where and when I choose. On my terms."

  "I just saved your life, wench. You owe me."

  "I owe you nothing! Let me off this horse at once."

  He refused and his horse galloped faster still. She had to cling tighter or else risk falling.

  "I like fucking you," he shouted over his shoulder. "I mean to keep doing it until I tire."

  "You cannot afford it, Cub."

  "Yes, I can."

  "You do not know my price."

  "Whatever it is, we'll pay it."

  She laid her cheek to his back. They had fled the tavern stables in such haste that he left his tunic behind, grabbing only his sword belt before mounting his horse. The feel of that warm flesh against her face was oddly soothing. Pleasing. Although she was naked but for her bells and leather purse, she felt no embarrassment. There was no room for such as that in her life.

  "And what of your many wives?" she shouted back at him. "They will not take kindly to the presence of a whore, I think."

  He turned his head, showing his profile in the moonlight. "But you are not a whore. You said you are a dancer." He grinned. "Did you not? I seem to recall you were most adamant."

  Furious she snapped her lips shut.

  "In any case," he added. "A good wife does as she is bid and leaves her husband to his pleasures."

  Oh, he was so cocky, so arrogant. "I pity those poor women of yours."

  "Do not. They are treated well, kept happy." With her arms wrapped around his waist she felt him sit up taller, prouder. "Our wives have no cause to complain."

  "Ha! If I was one of them I would knee you in the balls for bringing home a wh— a dancer."

  "Then I would spank you and let every man in the castle do the same, until you learn to bow your head to me, like a proper and grateful wife. And kiss my feet."

  "I would never kiss your feet!"

  "Then you would have a very sore arse."

  She shook her head, sensing that he enjoyed pricking her temper this way. She could hear the laughter in his voice. Of course he was a young, impetuous boy who thought the entire world should be at his feet and kissing them.

  He had meant to protect her from those men back there, even though it would have been three against one. Or so he believed.

  She sighed. Yes, he was reckless and foolhardy; she might have known he would be. The cards called him so. An arrogant young man who expected the world— and especially women— to go his way.

  But he was brave too, was he not? Even...gallant? No, that did not fit the image of a d'Anzeray and so she refused to let the idea stay with her. A murderer was not gallant.

  Yet you too plan to kill, Jesamyn.

  In my case it is for vengeance, she argued with her unusually ruffled conscience. I do this for my mother and sister.

  That querulous, unwelcome voice silenced, she set her mouth in a grim line and stared at the passing moonlit branches as his horse carried her from one danger to another.

  Under her cheek, his muscles moved. He was well made, she admitted begrudgingly to herself. His body was strong, well-honed by battle no doubt. His cock was magnificent. Pity it was wasted on a d'Anzeray.

  Although Jesamyn used sex to lure men in, she truly had never been very interested by it. For her it was merely a means to an end and she was not curious. Not the way her twin sister had been. Jasynda was the one who used to watch their mother through a hole in the curtain. Jasynda liked her hiding places and her secrets.

  Once Jesamyn had said that she never wanted to lie with a man in his bed. That the idea of a man kissing her with his big wet fleshy lips made her feel sick. Jasynda had laughed and replied, "Kissing is not like that. One day you will know."

  And Jesamyn, who never liked her sister to know more than her, had demanded, "What man have you ever kissed?"

  Jasynda replied with a smile, "A boy once. Before we left Marrakech. He was very sweet and shared food with me."

  The memory of that brief conversation had been lost until now.

  As she rode behind Nino on his horse, the image returned, glittering and brilliant for a few moments. Her sister's smile was so pretty and innocent, so full of joy. She was the good twin, the good daughter. Jesamyn, on the other hand, was always in trouble because she did, while Jasynda merely watched and observed.

  That kiss must have been the first time— possibly the only time— her sister acted on an impulse. He must have been a very sweet boy, she mused, to make her good twin misbehave. Very handsome too, no doubt.

  You get to enjoy him, Jesamyn, as I could not. As a woman.

  She opened her eyes again and took a deep breath of his manly scent. Jasynda was right; perhaps she might enjoy him a while before she ended his life and those of his brothers too. Before her task was complete. Jasynda, on her angel's cloud, was probably watching, living vicariously through her naughty twin. Just the way it used to be.

  Killing him will not bring us back, Jesamyn.

  Remember the cards and what we told you today.

  But she was sure the Tarot cards were merely being mischievous when they changed his fate for that last reading. Occasionally it happened that the spirits were playful and mischievous. Or else she had made a mistake when dealing them out, fumbled a card or two. Nino d'Anzeray had somehow distracted her, perhaps.

  Ask him about the bracelet.

  "What was that?" Nino asked. "Did you say something?"

  "No. Thank you," she snapped, determinedly silencing her twin sister's voice again.

  * * * *

  The woman was quiet, her arms tight around his waist. It was a good feeling to have her body warmth against his, even when she argued and spoke with such relish of one day kneeing him in the seed-bags. Her presence was comforting to his insides in a way he had not known since his mother gave him her last embrace.

  "You were lucky I was there to save you from those men, Jesamyn," he said. "You may show your gratitude to me later, when we get home to my family's fortress."

  At that she chuckled dourly. "I could save myself, Cub. I am not a woman like those weak ones you know. Like those foolish wives who let you treat them like slaves."

  Again his thoughts returned to the apple seed upon which she thought that man was choking. She spoke of it with such self-assurance. And what of the other two— felled by some unseen attacker? It was all very disconcerting and because he had got away from there without bloodshed, Nino almost felt as if he'd cheated. It was not like a d'Anzeray to sneak away without a fight. But, of course, he had this woman to protect and she had been his first priority, even though he might have preferred to stay and slice up some villainous guts. Always it was different when there was a woman involved.

  His brothers had warned him it was so— had teased him that one day he would know what it was like to have all one's thoughts revolve around the need to save a woman in peril. Even if she did not believe she needed help.

  "Is it far to the fortress?" she asked.

  "A few hours. We should be there as dawn breaks."

  She was quiet again for a while, but tightened her grip around him, and he thought she might have fallen asleep. Although he'd been tricked that way before, he mused, thinking of the speed with which she got to her feet when it was time to flee.

  "Where is your family, Jesamyn?" he asked, breaking the long silence at last.

  "I have none still living."

  He was saddened by that. A woman should not be all alone in the world.

  She added coldly, "They were killed. Slaughtered like cattle. Their village razed to the ground."

  Nino shook his head. "I'm sorry. That is very bad." Seeking something to cheer her a little and having no experience with that tender skill, he blurted, "But these th
ings happen in wartime." It was something he'd heard his father say many times. And there was always a war going on somewhere. During Nino's one and twenty years, there had never been real peace in any land where they lived. If it was not one country against another, it was fighting within the country, tribe against tribe. Sometimes it was even fighting within a family.

  War and death, therefore, was a common occurrence in Nino's own life. The d'Anzeray were always in the thick of it, of course, for they earned their fortune as mercenary warriors, cleaning up other folk's messes and ridding lazy noblemen of their enemies.

  Guillaume d'Anzeray had told his sons that he hoped here in this land they could settle at last, put down roots, build an empire. It was the reason why he sent them all out to find brides, so they could begin establishing the next generation and stake their claim on the land— as much of it as they could lay hands upon. Tired of being sneered at by superior nobles who saw in him only an upstart, a blacksmith's son who raised himself up by the sword, Guillaume was determined to use his seven bastard sons to make a dynasty that would one day be as powerful— or more so— than any family in England.

  Nino, aware of his father's ambitions, also hoped that one day there would be an end to war. He wouldn't mind a bit of peace, although he suspected some of his brothers wouldn't know what to do with themselves if there was no one to fight.

  The woman riding behind him had gone quiet once more. Ominously so, he thought.

  "Are you asleep, Jesamyn?"

  "No," she snapped. "I am not. How could I be when I have been kidnapped in this manner?"

  He didn't know why she was suddenly angry. Oh well, wenches had a tendency to sulk occasionally for no apparent reason.

  Chapter Six

  Ram, Sebastien and Alonso were in the courtyard, gathered around a glowing brazier, when he rode through the gates just as thin slivers of dawn light crept across the sky. At once he sensed something amiss. His brothers' eyes were weary, their heads bowed. Even the guards at the gate seemed anxious.

  Nino dismounted and helped Jesamyn down. "What's happened?" he demanded.

  "It's the old man. He took a turn for the worse yesterday." Alonso laid a hand on his shoulder. "It is good you are returned for he's been asking for you. He was concerned and thought you in danger."

  He knew it must be serious this time for his brothers barely glanced at the naked beauty by his side. Introductions would have to be saved for later.

  * * * *

  She was taken inside and a cloak found to provide temporary covering until some clothing could be sorted. The five d'Anzeray wives, hearing about a new arrival, came to welcome her.

  "We will take care of Jesamyn," said a petite, pretty, golden-haired woman who held a babe to her breast. "Antonino, you must go to your father. He will be glad to see you."

  So Nino left her in their care. His face, she saw, was lined with anxiety, his eyes clouded with sadness. But she could not allow herself to feel pity for the young cub, not after he had so callously dismissed the murder of her own family as just something that happened "in wartime".

  She looked warily at the other women. They were all of varied heights and coloring, but all eager to welcome her there, all of them seemingly content in their strange roles. To her surprise they were more than civil to her. At least, they were on the surface. Jesamyn remained cautious, knowing women could often wield longer daggers than men. The male animal was always far easier to read.

  The women asked her about her homeland, family, experiences. But they did so in a gentle manner, not pushing her for answers. Whenever they found her reticent to explain, they pried no further. They gave her a plate of good food, a goblet of spiced wine, and told her all about themselves and how they came to be there.

  The first wife, Princesa— the small woman with gold hair— even let her hold the baby.

  Her first instinct was to politely refuse, for she had never held one before. But the child cooed contentedly in her arms and blinked up at her with large eyes as blue as its mother's.

  "See, he smiled at you," Princesa exclaimed. "He likes you already."

  But the child would not like her so much if it knew of her plans for his wretched family, she thought. Suddenly the babe made a grab for the bells around Jesamyn's wrist. "No," she gasped, quickly pulling her hand away. Of course, the bells had captured the baby's attention. She should have thought...

  Gently Princesa took the baby back again, bouncing him on her hip to keep tears at bay.

  There was another child too— a girl born to the third wife, Isobel. But Jesamyn was glad not to be asked to hold this one for it was fractious and cried throughout.

  "I am sorry," exclaimed, Isobel, looking flustered. "She is teething, poor mite."

  The women fussed over these babes as if they were all mothers, but Jesamyn soon learned that second wife, Aelfa, was frustrated by her failure to become pregnant. The other women merrily assured her that she would soon know the joys of motherhood and she never dropped her brave mask, holding the other babes and singing to them, but Jesamyn read sadness lurking inside the woman's heart.

  Although Jesamyn had never thought of herself as motherly and never wanted a babe, she knew that to some women it was important. To Aelfa, clearly, it would be, especially since the fourth and fifth wives, Jeanne and Cedney, were already with child and that made her the odd one out.

  "There are things you can do to help it along," she found herself telling the stunning, curvaceous red-head that morning. "I know of some herbal potions..."

  Oh, why did she involve herself? Jesamyn blamed it on her pleasantly filled stomach and the spiced wine. What did she care if this foolish woman ever had a child or not? These women were d'Anzeray now and had been branded to prove it. She should not feel any sympathy for them. She certainly should not begin to like them.

  But Aelfa's eyes were clear and bright with hope as she smiled. "But I have already tried all my own methods."

  "Perhaps...it is simply not meant to be. One must resolve oneself to fate." She would not help the woman. There, it was decided. Jesamyn clasped her hands in her lap and reminded herself, yet again, why she was there and what she meant to do.

  Aelfa crumpled a little beside her on the bench, but it was very subtle. No one else seemed to take note. They were all too busy with the babies. "I led a miserable life once," Aelfa began quietly. "I was sold into my first marriage when very young. My husband beat me every day and raped me without mercy. I was treated this way because he knew my mother had been a whore and he told me that my fate was to be the same." She kept her eyes on her knees. "So you see, I have never been fond of fate or the idea of a destiny." Now she looked up and smiled again. Tears that briefly glistened amid her bronze lashes were quickly dried, thrust back. "Sebastien d'Anzeray changed all that. He rescued me. So, you see, I learned that there is no such thing as destiny that cannot be altered, a path that cannot be turned." She leaned closer and said earnestly, "That is why I cannot give up now. I cannot give up on the idea of a child of my own."

  It was interesting, Jesamyn thought scornfully, that the d'Anzeray men believed everything in this arrangement could be shared equally between them — women and babies— without consequence. As Nino had said to her, these brothers believed that "sharing keeps jealousy and possessiveness at bay".

  But the women still thought of the children they bore as their own. They could all love a litter of brats and work together to raise them, but here was Aelfa, afraid to cry because she had not physically given birth. It was her right as a woman and yet it had been denied to her. She wanted a child of her own, not to be perennial nursemaid to the babes born by other wives.

  So all was not equal, regardless of the fantasy with which this little scheme had been wrought in the questionable minds of men.

  The brothers d'Anzeray had not taken into account the strong bond between mother and child, or the very nature of woman as more than a sexual breeding vessel. It was typical, of course, that t
hey would not consider the way a woman's mind worked. In all probability they did not think these women had minds.

  Oh, their cozy little world had worked well up until now, but it could not last.

  Sharing is good. Ha! Only for the men in this arrangement.

  Aelfa refused to believe in fate, because she could not bear to accept that she might be barren. None of the other wives could fully comprehend her sadness, and Jesamyn sensed Aelfa was grateful that they did not. To the childless wife the concerned remarks of the fertile would smart and make her feel inferior, someone to be pitied.

  Jesamyn reached into her leather purse and took out her Tarot cards. "There is a way to read your fortune, Aelfa. I can tell you if there will ever be a child in your future and then your mind will be at peace. One way or the other."

  The other woman hesitated, glancing at the cards and then looking away again. "That is kind of you, but as I said, I don't believe in destiny and fortunes. Anything can change. Anything."

  With a shrug and an extravagant sigh, Jesamyn moved to put her cards away again, but, just as she'd known it would, curiosity overcame the other wives and they insisted, with great excitement, that she tell their fortunes.

  * * * *

  His father lay in bed, stretched out, eyes closed. At first Nino thought he'd returned too late, but hearing the boards creak, Guillaume opened his eyes and stared through the grey morning light.

  "Finally you came. They kept telling me you'd gone out drinking and whoring again. With five wives at home you still feel the need to use a whore, boy?"

  Nino smiled, relieved to hear his father's voice so strong and to see that his temper was much the same as usual. "You had a wife, father, and you still used our mother. At least seven times."