Enchantress(Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 6)(MFMMMMMM)
Page 9
Tonight they drank plenty of wine, passing the jug around and toasting their new bride. On the table before her there rested the bells with their deadly ingredients held within. Her heart quaked.
The other wives sat among the husbands, teasing and laughing playfully. She saw Aelfa's autumnal hair gleaming in the candlelight and remembered that she had promised to help the woman with a fertility potion. With her magic she could truly be of assistance. Aelfa, she knew with one glance, had given all her trust, all her soul, to Sebastien d'Anzeray —the man she said had "rescued" her from her miserable first marriage. The woman laughed a great deal and loudly, but she hid her true feelings, afraid to show them to the man she adored.
Jesamyn's mind sought further through the merry scene. There was Princesa, who denied her jealousy of the other woman, but who still suffered a kernel of discontent. She was the first wife, and she had lived there through all five other marriages. She had borne the first child, and she had genuine affection for the other wives. But she loved Raul d'Anzeray, lived for his every glance and smile and touch. She let herself be shared, but she wearied of it and yearned to be the only woman in his heart and his bed.
Jesamyn sighed. How blind these men were.
Next there was Isobel who also had her secrets. She too pretended not to mind this arrangement, but her sexual awakening had been at Alonso's hands and that was where her love belonged.
Shy little Jeanne became bold only in the presence of young Ram, as if she wanted to impress him. Around the others she melted into muteness again, but when he stood near to her and held her hand, she came out like the sun on the first summer morning.
As for Cedney and Dominigo — they were as close as any married couple she'd ever seen and could hardly take their eyes off each other.
These people needed her, she realized.
Perhaps her mission here was not one of death after all.
* * * *
Nino took command that evening after the wedding feast. He had the new wife first and then, one by one, allowed his brothers to take their turn mounting her while he directed the proceedings. She was incredibly supple and accommodating, a perfect playmate for all seven men. He knew he had made a good choice, although he still wasn't sure why he'd done it.
Somehow she had crept under his skin. She had bewitched him completely, his lovely enchantress.
"I think I love you," he whispered in her ear, as he took her again at the end of the night, mounting her from behind, his hands cupping her breasts, pulling her into his lap.
"You are an impulsive fool," she whispered back.
"Yes," he said simply, laughing. "And a very lucky one."
Later he placed that old silver cuff on her wrist. It had been mended, the broken clasp welded back in place.
"I never thought I'd see this again after I gave it to you," he said. "My brothers and I sailed for Normandy that evening and never returned to Morocco. I did wonder what became of that poor little girl. So now I know, eh?"
She had been watching his fingers close the clasp around her wrist. Now she raised her eyes to study his face. "You sailed...?" Her voice dropped away like the last few brittle leaves from a tree in late October.
"Yes, we were called home to work for William of Normandy."
"That same day?"
"Yes. Why?"
She swallowed hard. "Two years after, the villages of Khamarin and Masareen were ransacked, burned to the ground. All the people killed. Did you and your brothers not do this?"
"I have never heard of such a place." He frowned. "We were in France then."
"You...you are sure?"
"Of course." He tugged her into his lap. "Why do you look like that?"
Herallt had assured her it was them— the d'Anzeray— who were responsible. Since she found that cuff among the charred ruins, long before she even knew what the crest meant, she'd had no cause to doubt the monk's story.
"I lived there," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. "In Masareen."
He raised his eyebrows. "That was the place where your family died?"
Slowly she nodded, blinking back the tears that came to her eyes.
"And you thought that we did this, Jesamyn?"
Again she nodded, unable to speak.
Nino closed his arms around her. "No wonder you hated me then."
Her heart ached. Gradually she let her head rest on his shoulder.
She wondered whether to tell him about her sister, but she was not ready to do that yet. Eventually she would, once she was certain he loved her.
Oh, he said he did now, but how could he know that so soon?
She was not used to being loved and knew nothing about it, but her feelings for him had grown without the slightest tending, like a garden of neglected saplings, little sprigs that she'd deliberately trodden upon to discourage them. Not wanting the trouble and responsibility of nurturing them. It was a garden still too young to be called love, but it was new and strong and stubborn. And all he need do was close a mended clasp around her wrist to make another seed sprout up through that hard ground.
* * * *
For the first time in her life Jesamyn laid out the cards for herself.
Her significator was The Fool. Perhaps it had been her all along. But all her cards were good. Her future looked sunny, even if it would be spent her in this rainy, foggy land. Perhaps she would get used to it.
Just as she would get accustomed to love.
One day Nino asked her what happened to the bells she used to wear around her wrists and ankles.
"Those?" she smiled. "I don't need those anymore."
She had sent them to Herallt along with a message that would not make him happy.
"The Enchantress is dead and gone. This is all that remains. She wanted you to have them."
* * * *
There would come a time, of course, when Sister Marie-Angeline's prediction proved true and Jesamyn got to watch her own beloved, curly-haired boy run through a meadow, chasing butterflies and laughing until he fell down with hiccups. Now she knew the image she'd seen before was not of the past, but of her future.
She brought another d'Anzeray male into the world. As if there were not already more than enough.
But before that happened, there was one final chapter in the story of Guillaume's seven bastard sons and their wives. Perhaps you would like to read it?
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Georgia Fox has lived in many different places, including a canal boat, but sadly never in a windmill or a lighthouse. Maybe that's next! She loves good company, spicy food, thought-provoking erotica and excellent brandy. She also enjoys pushing the boundaries.
In her life she’s done a little bit of everything and somehow lived to tell the tales. Except those she's legally bound not to spill - for now.
She doesn’t believe in fairies, ghosts, flying saucers or conspiracy theories.
But she still believes in love.
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