The Good Sinner's Naughty Nun

by Fox, Georgia

  "She says, my lord, that men are filthy beasts and can't be trusted."

  He almost spat out his wine. "You can assure the old harpy that no one—no one—is desperate enough to slake their lust with one of her companions." He grinned. "Although I can't vouch for the goat. He might take one look at her and think he's found a soul mate."

  Dominic hesitated.

  Thierry swigged his wine. "Well, what else?"

  "She wants blankets, my lord."

  "It's not going to be cold tonight."

  "She said if any one of them get ill, you'll be to blame, my lord. She'll be sure and tell the king how they were treated."

  Thierry considered, one finger to his lips in mock solemnity. Finally he grabbed a small fleece from the back of his folding chair. "Give her that."

  Now no one could say he didn't try to accommodate their needs, could they?

  * * * *

  Vivienne looked at the fleece and then the soldier offering it. Despite the fearsome appearance wrought by a long, vicious scar across his cheek, he regarded her timidly, holding this gift toward her at arms length, as if she might bite. Now how did he know that?

  "I am teary-eyed at this generosity and kindness." The fleece was just about big enough to wrap around her shoulders. Just. "Are you certain he could spare it? I wouldn't want him to get cold this evening. In his own, personal tent."

  The soldier squinted down at her, shifting uneasily on his feet.

  "Do you know, I just had an idea," she exclaimed brightly. "I should thank him personally."

  Alarm quickly took possession of the soldier's face, grime and sweat gathering in the deep folds between his brows. "Oh, I wouldn't..."

  Grabbing the fleece she marched around him. She had a job to do and if she didn't act soon it would be too late.

  Sister Vivienne had to be in that sinner Thierry Bonnenfant's breeches before morning.

  Chapter Two

  He heard the squawking noise and thought at first that the hens had got out of the crate, or else a wild hog was running rampant through the camp. Then he heard a woman's voice.

  "Put me down at once, you filthy pig. How dare you manhandle a Bride of Christ?"

  Munching on a leg of roast pheasant, Thierry strolled leisurely to the flap of his tent and raised it with one hand. Dominic was midway between the campfire and his tent, struggling with a wriggling bundle over his shoulder.

  That, he thought, taking another bite of his supper, must be the one who did all the talking.

  She kicked and cursed, using a surprising variety of oaths for an innocent, pure-minded "Bride of Christ". Even stranger, as she squirmed, showing a slender pair of ankles and a goodly amount of bare leg, Thierry felt a stirring of interest. For a nun of all things.

  Just a little more wriggling and her gown would ride up above her knees. And then higher.

  He tentatively checked his forehead with his free hand, afraid he might have sun stroke after riding all day. No. Probably just the usual impulsive need for a female. He hadn't fucked one in almost a week and his prick was on the alert for possibilities.

  Determined to get free of her captor, she almost succeeded. The soldier nearly dropped her as she kneed him hard in the belly and her foot swung into the poor man's groin. Thierry winced. Poor Dominic. That had to hurt. He took another hungry bite of the pheasant, eyes pinned to the woman's arse as she was spun around again and hauled back over her captor's broad shoulder. In the struggle her wimple was loosened, showing a sliver of dark brown hair. No grey visible at all. Another flash of leg started his juices flowing in earnest and he couldn't look away. The damn woman was lucky she was a nun or she'd be on her back by now in the dirt, those kicking legs spread nice and wide for a rutting she wouldn't soon forget.

  Dominic started back toward the animal tent, carrying her high, his helmet knocked to the ground, his gloved hands tight around an apparently trim waist. The rough material of her garment, now gathered inward and given more shape by the soldiers grip, pulled across her top half. A pair of full, round, pert titties jostled above the man's head as he lifted her higher still, trying to save himself from further wounding by her vicious feet.

  Thierry flung the pheasant bone to the ground and wiped his lips on his sleeve. Damn. Those were very nice tits and he happened to be quite an expert on the subject having fondled and kissed more than a few in his day. He was hot now. What he needed was a rapid cock-handling to ease his nerves and prepare for a restful sleep, ready for a hard day ahead of them all tomorrow.

  Just as he turned away from the struggle by the campfire, the woman fought her way free and headed determinedly for Thierry's tent. The soldier would have pulled her back again, but Thierry held up his hand, an appeasing gesture to the other man. Her steps picked up speed as she approached, shoulders held firm and proud chin up. The heavy wool habit swirled around her ankles, luring his gaze downward, remembering the pretty legs he'd seen and making him think again about what he'd like to do to them—between them specifically.

  To a nun. He sighed heavily. Well, he always knew he was a sinner and probably beyond redemption. Now he knew he was certainly damned to eternity in Hell's fiery pit for thinking lustily about a nun.

  Just his luck to be this aroused and have no available woman nearby. There was always male company as an alternative and he was not averse to finding pleasure where he could. But tomorrow they crossed water and anything could happen; they might not make it to the other side. Tonight, therefore, could be his last night on earth and what he really desired was a final supper of pussy. Hot, tight, wet pussy, preferably coming all over his face.

  Sadly, all he had was an irate nun, coming over to pick a fight. The only thing his face was about to get all over it was a slap.

  He braced for it, arms folded, feet apart. He'd let her take her best swing. Then she could spend the rest of the trip shackled and gagged as punishment.

  It was for her own good, he would explain somberly to his king, I had no other choice.

  She might be a wretched, holier-than-thou nun, but she was still a wench underneath that habit, still inferior to him, still the lesser gender. She was asking for trouble—a danger to his men and to herself. King William would understand why he had to restrain her for the remainder of the journey and she was about to give him the excuse to do it.

  * * * *

  Bonnenfant—Fairchild, she mused, translating his name from the French. How appropriate. He was a very good looking man, his colors light, his features almost angelic. Since they'd arrived at the camp he'd stomped about in naught but breeches and muddied boots, showing off a splendid physique, muscular but lean. From his humble garb there was little to distinguish him from the other soldiers. Nothing but his sheer male beauty.

  Fortunately she was immune to men—ugly, plain or not so much of either. Vivienne de Touraine was not there to waste time admiring a well-sculpted man. She was there to seduce him, distract him, get the key to that casket of relics and steal the treasure being smuggled inside it.

  Bishop Ravillard had chosen her specially for this task. But surely, she thought, had he seen this knight with his own two eyes, her master would have had second thoughts about sending only one female into the fray. Even if the female he sent was Vivienne, his most capable, most experienced, most cold-hearted seductress.

  Annoyed with herself, she pushed these wandering doubts aside. She'd handle the notorious Bonnenfant on her own, without reinforcements. She must succeed. Her master wanted that filigree gold and rock crystal vase hidden in the false bottom of the casket, beneath the 'holy' relics. It was a vase King William sent secretly to the Benedictine monks in the Abbaye-aux-Hommes at Caen, hoping to pay his way in through the gates of Heaven when his time came. Bishop Ravillard was determined to get his hands upon it before the casket reached Caen and he'd promised Vivienne, just as soon as she arrived in Rouen and placed the precious vase into his hands, he would set her free of her bonds. This was her final mission in his service
and then she had repaid her debt to the powerful Bishop.

  It never ceased to amaze her the lengths men would go to claim riches, when all she wanted was her freedom. And perhaps, when she dared imagine it, a family of her own and a little, thatched-roof shack somewhere by a merry stream. A simple life away from this web of grasping ambition, away from the man who had enslaved her when she was only thirteen, forced her into his service to escape being burned as a witch along with her mother, and later dragged her likewise into his bed. The Bishop always reminded her that she owed him her life. For seven years she'd trembled in his presence, bowed to his every command, made herself numb just to bear the things he made her do for him. Because he'd promised her that if she was good and did all that he asked, he would one day set her free. He'd also assured her that by doing his bidding, she did the Holy Father's bidding, too. Thus all her past sins would be forgiven when she took her last breath.

  Now older and considerably wiser about many things, Vivienne knew God did not watch, as the Bishop claimed. God had long since ceased to care what she did or what happened to her. She was on her own. There might be no path to heaven for her, but at least she could still hope for that peace the Bishop had promised while she walked on earth.

  One last mission stood between her and that freedom.

  One last seduction.

  One last man.

  It may be said that Thierry Bonnenfant had never failed in a mission, but neither had Vivienne de Touraine, and she wasn't about to lose now that freedom was finally within her grasp.

  Approaching his tent, she noted a wary glimmer under his half-lowered eyelids, saw the tightening of his jaw and the tendons in his folded arms. He shifted slightly on his heels, a man prepared for a fight. She almost smiled. This man, so rumor went, would scarce blink an eye at bedding a nun. He was bereft of morals according to Bishop Ravillard—who should know, being a stranger to them himself. All she need do was throw a little temptation his way.

  "Well?" she exclaimed, finally reaching his tent and tucking her hands into her sleeves, as she'd seen Sister Marie do when she needed an air of authority. "What have you to say for yourself, young man?"

  Naught, apparently. He stared down at her, his face a rigid mask. If not for the low, rumbling burp that bounced out of him just then, she might have thought he was asleep on his own two feet. She was more than a little annoyed that she'd had to go to these lengths to get within reach of the man. When she began questioning the nuns' living quarters, causing a ruckus, she'd expected him to come and sort her out himself. That way he would be on the back foot and she would be the one in control, the one who set the rules early on in this seduction. But he'd kept his distance, making this bold move finally necessary, however unsafe.

  "This will not do," she added. "We have no pallets to sleep upon, no blankets. You were supposed to provide this for us."

  Still naught.

  "You show no respect to my companions. Are we to be treated like cattle?"

  His gaze traveled down over her body with a lingering consideration. "No," he replied finally, unfolding his arms. "Not like cattle. You're not going to be milked or eaten." A slow grin crept across his lips. "Unless you push my temper. Then I could do both." She felt his heated gaze trail over her breasts and in response her nipples pushed against the under-shift. "Gladly. All night long."

  Ah good. He was interested.

  "I shall pray for you, Bonnenfant, that the Lord does not strike you down." She raised a prim forefinger and poked his bare chest. That got his eyes open fully. "The final day of judgment nears for us all."

  "The final judgment? Good. I wait with bated breath."

  "Do you indeed?"

  "Because I'm heartily sick of being judged by others who think themselves superior. Like you. Sister."

  Spinning around she had not made a full step, before he stopped her, one heavy hand on her shoulder, forcing her back again to face him.

  "Who put you in charge?"

  "What?" She frowned, not understanding.

  "How is it that you speak for the others?" A second grin moved his lips apart wider, showing strong white, surprisingly well-cared for teeth. Vanity, of course, she thought. No doubt he had plenty of that, looking the way he did. "Or are you just the loudest wench with the biggest mouth?"

  "Sister Marie is in charge," she snapped. "But I was sent out here to you because she does not negotiate with man or beast, or Bonnenfant!"

  "Negotiate? I thought you came out here to chew my ears off."

  "I would have negotiated for the other things we need, if I found you a man of reason and honor. Since you are clearly nothing but a lackwit with a filthy mind, I shall not bother." When he said nothing to that, but stared down at her, a bewildered half smile lingering on his wickedly handsome face, she added crisply. "Perhaps I'll just take the things we want and not wait for you to give them."

  "I would not advise it."

  "I have two good hands." She waved them in his face and he flinched, swaying backward on his heels. She missed his nose by less than an inch. "And I'm stronger than I look. Stand aside, man. I need lanterns and blankets. I'll get them for myself and not trouble you or your men. Even though you are simple beasts of burden, I'm sure I can manage without your assistance. I said stand aside and let me pass."

  His heavy hand slapped down on her shoulder again, halting her forward motion. "You want to finish this journey alive and in one piece, you'll curb that tongue of yours, Sister Vivienne, and stay within the boundaries I set for you. In this case, that tent."

  "Boundaries?" She sneered, trying to shrug his hand away. "You and your men need boundaries, not I. Twice now I have been manhandled."

  "Which is precisely why you should stay," he stepped closer, towering over her, "where you're put. In that tent."

  He smelled of sweat and horse. And man. And sex. How was it possible that she could smell that musk on him already? Did he have a woman in his tent? She'd seen no other women in the camp, but now she suspected someone had beaten her into his bed. She stepped aside quite casually. "You expect us to cohabitate with goats and hens?"

  "That's right. Are nuns not supposed to scorn all luxuries? Are you not superior to those of us who require comforts?"

  Ignoring him, she stepped to the tent flap and lifted it before he could stop her. She was relieved there was no one else there, just a pallet raised several inches from the ground and covered in thick furs, a foldable chair, and his supper on a tray.

  He stood behind her, one bare arm raised, his hand on the flap above her head. The proximity filled her with a nervousness she'd never before felt. His arms were muscular yet lean, like the rest of him. These were the arms of a warrior who had killed in battle and loved in bed. Done both to high veneration. His body—his every casual pose—exuded potent carnal promise. Now that she was this close it temporarily overpowered her. "Looking for something, woman?"

  She walked away from him and into his tent. "This is quite spacious. Too much for one man. You could fit three or four of your men in here."

  He did not follow, but stood in the open flap, watching her. She knew he'd just looked at her arse and admired it. His dark eyes couldn't hide it. Perhaps he didn't even try. Thierry Bonnenfant had the aura of a man confident in his skin, a man who would take pleasure where he wanted and never think about it again afterward. Cocky, proud, reckless. Yes, all those things she read in him at once, and they were expected from what she'd heard of this warrior. But there was something more, something as yet untouched inside the man. There was also her own body's extraordinary reaction to his nearness.

  What was so different about him? She couldn't understand it. Dare not ponder it for long. Job to do.

  A shiver of anticipation raced along her spine, first cold, then hot. She'd never looked forward to her job before, but she began to think she might enjoy this one. Pity it would only be for one night. Tomorrow they would be at sea and once they reached land in Normandy, she'd be off with her stol
en prize. Bonnenfant would have no idea what happened.

  Lifting his half-filled wine goblet from the tray, she sniffed and then downed the contents in one swallow. "I've had better," she muttered. "This wine has turned slightly sour." She tried a piece of bread next, nibbling on it as she took another quick, uninvited survey of his quarters.

  Still he waited in the entrance, watching her warily. His breath came in short, sharp bursts and she was very attuned to the sound, listening for any alteration that would be her signal to proceed with the next step. His scowl, she realized, was more bemused and curious than it was angry. She'd expected to find this man all brawn and no brains, but he was smarter than he looked. More wily, she suspected, than a fox. And he currently eyed her as if she was the plumpest bird inside the flimsy chicken house he stalked.

  Keep your mind on the job at hand, Vivi!

  Now where did he keep the key to the chest of relics? She saw no box of possessions, nothing of personal connection to him. Just these few items of furniture—all easily packed and transported. The man evidently traveled easily and kept ties to nothing. The key to that padlock must be nearby. He would guard it carefully. On his person perhaps? That left only his breeches and boots as possible hiding places.

  "What do you want from me now, woman?" Aha! The fox spoke. Or snarled, rather. "Haven't we made enough concessions—given you food, shelter, even fleece blankets to warm your dainty bones?"

  She laughed. "One fleece for eight women? A little thing that wouldn't swaddle a newborn babe? How generous you are."

  His eyes flamed, scorching her body from head to toe. "Ingrate."