Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7)

by Jayne Fresina

  She began using two fingertips, massaging her core while she stared at him with those strange lavender eyes. Her eyelids drooped and he could see her breasts jostling in the moonlight, her entire body trembling as the sensations stole through her nerves.

  Sal quickened his own hand, up and down the rigid, pulsing staff that strained upward in a fruitless quest to find her. A bead of clear liquid already came out of his cock head, and the surging of his seed was too strong to hold back much longer. It was bestial tonight, raw and savage.

  Everything Lady de Leon thought of him.

  But there she was working her own pussy frantically, hips lifted an inch off the ground, heels pressing in the dirt, slowly spreading wider. He saw her face, her eyes closed now, lips held tight to keep her cries silenced. Her cheeks were colored by a very charming flush. He would wager they were hot. If he put the tip of his wet tongue to her face, he would feel the heat of her pleasure. And her shame.

  Yes, surely part of that blush was caused by shame because of what she was doing for him. She, a noblewoman of fine pedigree blood— woman renown for her diligent prayers and God-fearing life, spreading herself in the dirt for the eyes of an "uncivilized, loutish brute", as she called him only yesterday. Spreading herself, pumping her hips at the night air. Her pale thighs trembling. Nipples jutting at the moon— just waiting for his mouth to suckle them.

  And all this she gave him for four extra feet of land.

  A half hour ago he could not have anticipated the pleasure he would get from seeing her this way. He would have said that watching a woman finger her pussy was nothing new or interesting.

  But watching this woman do it was indeed fair payment. More than fair, in fact. She was being extremely generous, and he suspected the reason for that was partly due to her own sexual frustration.

  What would she do if he gave her an entire field?

  Would she let him plow her for it, he mused?

  Her fingertips were wet now too. She must have a lot of pent up need.

  Sal wanted to tear those bars aside and grind his face into that dripping cunt. He'd make her scream so damn loud.

  Ah, there! There she went, over her peak, shaking wildly, but still managing to hold back her cries and moans. Her fingers must be sticky. Yes, he saw her honey shining in the moonlight as she spread it over her labia.

  Opening her eyes again, looking dazed, she saw him hunched over, fisting his cock like there was no tomorrow.

  Lady Helene de Leon slipped two fingers over her sex again and then opened her pussy. Opened it as if to welcome him in.

  He shifted on his knees to aim for her sweet, hot haven. Oh he would fill that tight little pink mouth with his meat.

  Sal began to thrust, his gaze pinned to her entrance as she held it open. Christ, he could feel it contracting on his cock, pulling him in.

  He'd plow her alright. And plant his seed deep inside. Deep inside.

  With that happy thought plundering his imagination, he shot his seed in a high arc through the bars of the gate.

  Chapter Six

  If she gave herself time to think about what she'd done, Helene might have felt embarrassed. So she threw herself into work the next day, trying to keep her mind occupied. Perhaps if she pretended it hadn't happened...

  But the thoughts crept into her mind like thieving little imps that would not let her ignore them. Just like him.

  They stole their way into her conscience and teased her.

  Thoughts of Salvador's eyes. His lips. His broad, thick shoulders. His huge hands. His cock.

  Oh, his cock.

  Helene had never seen the like of it. Was not certain she wanted to see it again.

  Who was she trying to fool? Of course she wanted to see it again. It wasn't the sort of thing one could take in fully from one glimpse.

  She had prayed for a full hour last night after returning home. It hadn't removed the image of his splendid manhood from her thoughts.

  "My lady?"

  Helene suddenly realized the dairymaid milking the cow next to hers was looking at her oddly, and only then did she know she was blushing. And chuckling to herself.

  "Just...just my thoughts," she told the maid.

  They both got on with the milking.

  Was it true, she wondered, that the d'Anzeray were descended from a daughter of Satan? That's what she'd heard throughout her life and had always rolled her eyes at it. They might be wicked, lawless mercenaries, but she sincerely doubted there was anything about them that hadn't come from man and woman. Helene had seen enough of life to know that evil could live in the most normal, plain and smiling of faces. It didn't need to be put there by any supernatural force.

  As for Salvador, he might not have horns and cloven feet, she thought wryly, but he did share certain other attributes with a farmyard beast.

  Again the nearest maid's head turned to look at her, and she hastily quenched her giggles, making her face solemn. For pity's sake, what had come over her? Helen de Leon was no giggler. She ought to go down on her knees and beg for God's forgiveness for her sinful lapse.

  Suddenly Harold came running into the diary, looking for her.

  "My lady, my lady! Come quick," he cried.

  Fearing something dreadful had happened out in the fields— blight had been found in the growing crops, or an animal was sick with something that would spread among the herd, she instantly followed him out of the dairy.

  The panic increased as her imagination grew more dire. Was one of the laborers ill, hurt? The men were out haymaking in one of the fields that day. Had someone swung a scythe out of rhythm, cutting himself or one of the others? A tumult of worries flooded down, as she raced out of the dairy, following Harold.

  This was all they needed, she thought grimly. In another two months, every hand would be required to bring in the harvest. They could not afford even one man sick for illness could spread quickly in their small manor and—

  Five strange young men stood in her yard with rakes in their hands and behind them were two oxen and a plough.

  "They've been sent over to help you, my lady," Harold exclaimed as she stood staring at the unexpected sight. "The men to help with haymaking and harvesting, the oxen to plough the fallow fields. After the harvest they can plough the other fields too."

  Still she stood in silence. Part of her was appalled by this for she knew who had sent these gifts to her, and she knew why. But another part of her, a small, secret sliver of her insides, burned with pleasure. He must want a great deal more from her, since he was this generous. Her pulse skipped foolishly at the thought of what he might want from her next.

  "He said he noted you had no oxen for your plough, only men to pull it, my lady. But the work will go faster with oxen."

  Her last two plough beasts had to be slaughtered when bad disease swept the region last winter and to purchase new oxen was costly, certainly above her means. The manor survived now by the skin of her teeth and so she'd had to rely on men to pull the plough that spring.

  "And he said your wheeled plow is next to useless in this clay soil. But this is a moulboard plough, better suited for the hard earth."

  She was amused to hear how he repeated all this, his face earnest as he gestured with his hands at the new wooden plough. "Thank you for the lesson in farming, Harold."

  "Lord d'Anzeray explained it to me," he said, grinning, forgetting this was serious business.

  "So I see." She walked cautiously around the plough and the hefty oxen. Sturdy, well-fed beasts. They would indeed be an enormous help to her farmers. Glancing back at Harold she added sternly, "He is not a lord, there is no need to call him one."

  "What is he then, my lady?"

  A bloody big bastard, she mused. "You may refer to him as d'Anzeray. That is his name." Whatever else he might be she did not care to think about.

  "Very good, my lady."

  She had soon put the new haymakers to work, sending them up into the fields to help the other men. They look
ed able, healthy, obliging. He had delivered good workers to her— that much was obvious by the speed with which they rushed to obey her—but for some reason they would not look her in the face and kept their eyes downcast. Well, perhaps, when they were accustomed to her friendliness they would learn to look at her and laugh with her, like her own farm laborers. Salvador was, no doubt, a stern task master and not terribly kind to his men.

  At least that was how she imagined him as a master.

  When she walked back to the dairy, Harold ran after her. "My lady, he sent you another message with his gifts."

  She stopped. "Did he, indeed?"

  Harold stood straight, chin up, hands at his sides, reciting his message as if it was meant for a king. "He said that he has seen your beehives being well-tended, my lady, and he supposes they produce very sweet honey. He would like a taste, if you can spare any."

  "My beehives?"

  "Yes, my lady."

  Swallowing a chuckle, she took a coin from the small leather pouch she wore on her belt and pressed it into his palm. "Thank you, Harold. Tell him...tell him I shall bring him some tonight. To his gate. As I did before."

  The boy nodded, smiling, and ran off to take his message back the half mile to d'Anzeray's fortress.

  So he wanted a taste. He was working his way through the senses, it seemed.

  Soon would come 'touch'. If she allowed this game to continue that far.

  She really ought to end it now. She really ought.

  But she knew she wouldn't. She couldn't. Didn't want to.

  Helene de Leon, you just made a pact with the Devi, for a little bit of land.

  And apparently a great deal of cock. She trembled inside, but not out of fear. Out of excitement, anticipation, and sheer unadulterated lust.

  * * * *

  "She said she will bring the honey tonight, sire. To your gate, as she did before."

  Tonight? Damn. He'd expected her to make him wait at least another day. The woman must be eager. "She liked the plough, eh?"

  "Yes, sire. She liked it very much for there were tears in her eyes and I have never seen that before on my lady. She is always so strong. Even when Lord Calledaux died she did not weep."

  He scraped fingers over his rough cheek, feeling a dimple where the urge to smile threatened. She liked his gift. That simple fact pleased him almost too much.

  Those workers he'd lent to her had better not look at her with lust in their eyes. He'd given them all a severe warning before he sent them on their way. They were not to smile at her, talk to her, or look at anything below her chin, or he promised them he'd find out. One could never be too careful and now he'd discovered her surprisingly playful side, he didn't want it revealed to anyone else.

  Again he pondered this possessiveness he had never before experienced. It almost swept the breath out of him; it was too much. Perhaps because he had never felt it before and now he felt it all at once.

  It was as if, when he drew a breath of her fragrance as she stood before him under the sun and bared her hair for his sight— his sight only— he had scented his mate.

  He finally remembered the boy still waiting, so he nodded, tossed him a coin and sent him on his way. "I will look forward to the honey," he said.

  The boy caught the coin, grinned, bowed, and scuttled off.

  Although Sal certainly had things to do with his time, he suddenly found himself walking in circles around the yard, achieving nothing. Couldn't seem to concentrate on important tasks.

  But he soon had something else to worry about. A shout from his guard at the gate told him he had visitors, and not of the sort he'd been thinking about.

  Chapter Seven

  He reluctantly showed his brothers around the half-finished fortress, pointing out the progress lately made and all the newest ideas he was incorporating into the structure. Fastidious when it came to details, he liked to have everything done by the best, most capable craftsmen and to oversee the work with his own eagle eye, which was why, as he explained to Dom and Raul, it was taking considerable time to finish the place. And why he must spend so much of his time there, despite the fact that, in their opinion, the fortress lacked comfort. Of course, "comfort" to them —now that they were getting lazy and complaisant—meant women and soft beds, stuffed with feathers and down instead of a hard pallet on a drafty floor.

  "We've been concerned about you," said Dom solemnly, pressing one heavy hand to Sal's shoulder. "And so have our wives. They say it can't be good for you to spend so much time here alone. It will make you even more withdrawn and grim than you are already. Come back with us to visit a while. The wives complain that you have not made love to any of them lately. You never join in our games anymore. It's been six months or more."

  "I am often tired after a long day in the fields, brother. Remember, I have much to do managing my own castellany, and it will soon be time to harvest," he reminded them briskly. "I can't sit about idle as you do these days."

  "Idle?" Dom puffed out his chest. "I've routed two nests of Saxon rebels for the king lately. " He showed off a new scar on his forearm. "Got this to show for it."

  Exactly, thought Sal. His brother would not have received a glancing blow from any Saxon's sword, if he had his mind on what was important— the job at hand. But Dom had fallen head over spurs for their wife Cedney and she filled his thoughts when they should have been fixed on other matters. Everyone seemed to know this except Dominigo himself.

  Sal looked down at his own arm, remembering the cut he recently sustained. Well, accidents occasionally happen, he reassured himself hastily. Even to the best warriors. It wasn't always caused by the distraction of a woman.

  A young page brought in some wine on a tray, and Sal poured it for his brothers, calculating in his mind how long it would take them to drink it and how soon he could send them on their way again.

  Raul was standing at the wide door, looking out. "This place isn't even finished yet. There's no roof on most of it, Sal."

  "Aye, but there will be by winter." Currently he was waiting for a man from Cambridge who was said to be the best roof man in the east of England. "A job worth doing is worth doing well," he added.

  Dom took the flagon of wine he was offered. "What about that troublesome, grey-haired, old bat, the widow of Robert Calledaux? Still getting under your skin?"

  If his brothers noticed that he almost spilled the wine he poured for his own goblet, they didn't mention it. "She's been quiet lately. I never see her."

  "You should complain to the king," muttered Dom. "What's she doing running a manor alone? It's not right."

  Sal took a gulp of wine.

  "Why don't you make an offer to the king for that land and get her off it?" Raul suggested, still looking out through the door and sipping his wine.

  "Oh, I will. I mean...I have." He coughed.

  "You have?"

  "Just waiting to hear the king's judgment."

  Dom curled his lip and shook his head. "A woman left alone, in charge. 'Tis not right. 'Tis not safe. That's how I found Cedney, and I soon saw the danger she was in. Saved her from it. But that old widow, your neighbor, ought to be in a nunnery."

  Sal couldn't resist asking, "Is that where you want our wives to end up if they are widowed?"

  "Well, they won't be, will they?" exclaimed Raul. "There are seven of us to take care of them. All seven of us would have to die before they are widowed. And even if that happened, they would always have each other. And our sons."

  Dom nodded. "Our wives are safe. Taken care of." He pointed with his goblet roughly in the direction of Calledaux's manor. "That childless widow is no use to anyone now. What is she? Fifty?"

  "I know not. Nor do I care." He finished his wine and set the empty goblet on the tray. "Well, brothers, it was good of you to visit—"

  "Turning us out already? But we can stay a day or so. Thought you'd like the company."

  Oh, no, no, no. "What about our wives, won't they miss you?"

 
"But you are our brother." Again Dom laid that hand to his shoulder, patting briskly. "You need us first. Brothers before lovers." He winked.

  Oh, for the love of a good fuck. How long did they mean to stay? He could not risk them catching sight of Helene. They would instantly know something was afoot, because of the lie he'd told. No, not told, exactly, but... let them believe.

  It took all his strength to keep a stern face as he poured more wine into his brother's outstretched cup.

  * * * *

  Helene stared at the letter in her hand. Gilbert de Vernon was on his way to claim her and this land. King William wrote that de Vernon was a man rumored to be even more devout than herself, a man above many others. Apparently she and Gilbert had met him before and when she scoured her memory for a previous encounter she finally recalled a spotty-faced boy who clung to his mother and flew into a temper tantrum because Helene beat him in a horse race. It all came back to her in a rush of horror.

  Thank God she'd already made the decision to enjoy herself before he came. Or perhaps the devil might be the more appropriate entity to thank, she mused darkly.

  A man "even more devout". Those words struck fear and shame in her heart, for she had let herself down with her recent behavior. What would de Vernon think of that if he knew?

  Helene glanced around the cookhouse to be sure she was unobserved, although no one had the right to ask her what was in the letter anyway, and then she tossed it into the fire. She would forget it had ever arrived. Mayhap something would befall the man on his journey there. Nothing too terrible, but just enough to make him turn back and change his mind. She would pray for that and hope the Almighty heard her pleas— if he could overlook her plans for a lusty diversion with Salvador d'Anzeray.