by Fox, Georgia
Vivienne didn't skip a heartbeat. "Boor." She leveled her gaze to his, holding it in a grip she'd used to mesmerize men before. "I thought knights were supposed to be courteous."
"Oh, I'm very courteous, madam. To those who earn it."
She turned away swiftly and took another saunter around his tent, hips swaying gently. "And how do they earn it, Bonnenfant? What price do you place upon your courtesy?"
Chapter Three
He had no idea what she was up to, but it couldn't be good for him. The other nuns must have chosen this one to try and wheedle more out of him. He saw now why she was the appointed spokesperson for the group. It was all too clear.
"You're the one who laughed earlier at my jest, are you not?" he said.
"I laughed at you—not your jest."
He glared at her, hands on his hips, as she circled inside his tent, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Why would you laugh at me?" he demanded.
"Because you are afraid of us."
He answered crossly, "I fear nothing."
"You're a sinner, Bonnenfant, of course you fear us."
"All men sin. Women, too."
She ignored that. Halting before him, hands behind her back, she chuckled. "Brave Thierry Bonnenfant, loyal knight, undefeated in battle, never failed in a mission...afraid of a few women." She looked up at him and waited, brows raised, lips slightly pursed.
The wench was trouble, without a doubt. She prodded his temper, taunted his pride. What was her motive? He studied her face, tried to read it.
Unfortunately his balls were tight the moment she stood near enough to smell her scent, and that befuddled his brain, swathing good sense in a fine, humid mist of lust. Now he knew he must really need a swiving. He'd never had such an immediate reaction to a wench before, but when she'd poked his bare chest with her finger, she might as well have grabbed his balls and stroked them. The result was the same. His cock hardened, swelled, came out to play. She was not only fair of face, but a daring young woman, with spirit and verve. Perhaps it was the novelty his body reacted to—the fantasy of something utterly forbidden. There weren't many things he forbade himself from sampling, but this creature was one of them. She'd given herself to God; therefore she was out of reach for him. She might be surprised to know, he mused, that this particular sinner did have some principles.
However, even out of bounds she gave his imagination quite a lot to play with. When he looked at her lips, he pictured them around his cockhead. A nun, of all things, had got him in this state.
Again she asked him, "How do I earn your courtesy then?"
What could he ask of a nun? A very unusual nun. He gestured with his hand. "What's under the wimple?"
"Hair of course."
"What color?"
"Brown."
Yes he'd seen a little of it already. He wanted to see more. Needed to see it. He ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, his gaze holding hers again. "Show me."
"For more fleeces?"
Aha, cunning! He nodded.
"How many more?" she demanded.
"Two."
She sighed. He thought she might argue, press for more, but instead she removed her white wimple. Her hair was indeed brown, captured in a fine gauze net. He waved his hand again and spoke louder, above the heartbeat drumming in his ears, "Take that net off, too. I want to see it down."
Silent, she obeyed his command, quickly unpinning the caul. Her hair fell in thick waves over her shoulders and down her back. It seemed as if a conjurer's trick must have been required to hide all that. He was fascinated. A man wouldn't need many furs on his bed in winter with this woman and her glorious hair to keep him warm.
While he stared, fingers twitching at his sides, she reminded him calmly about the fleeces for her traveling companions. After making her wait a few more breaths, he tilted his head, keeping his gaze on her hair, and yelled to Dominic through the tent flap, "Give them two more fleeces. Larger ones."
He heard the soldier trot away at once.
"And furs," she pushed.
He snatched the wimple from her hands. "And furs," he repeated, quieter.
"Shout, Bonnenfant, or he won't hear."
He cleared his throat and flung the command over his shoulder, loud enough for the entire camp to hear. "Satisfied now woman?"
She reached up, gathering her long hair over one shoulder, twisting it, toying with it. "Must the animals stay in our tent? Can they be put elsewhere?"
"No." His gaze followed the path of her fingers through all that hair. "They stay."
"We need a lantern."
He shook his head. "It seems you and your companions came very unprepared, Sister Vivienne."
The woman moved to pass and leave the tent, but he prevented it, stepping inside, letting the flap fall behind him. He was close enough to feel her breath on his chest. Her hair smelled of lavender, reminding him of the fields where he ran and played as a boy.
"Is that all you want?" he asked huskily. "Nothing else?"
She looked up at him, hair tumbling down her back, eyes wide, lips parted. Her skin was smooth and clear, her deep brown eyes richly stirred with a hint of gold. Too beautiful for a nun. God was selfish, keeping this woman to himself.
"What else can I have?" she asked softly. "What else will you give me, sinner?"
Oh, she shouldn't have said that.
His staff stretched in reply, eagerly arching in his breeches. He drew a breath, smothering the urge to grab her by the shoulders and push her down on her knees before him.
"Are you feverish?" she asked politely. "You seem out of breath. Perspiring." She raised a hand to his shoulder and laid her fingers over his muscle. He flexed on impulse.
"There's nothing amiss with me," he muttered. She was the one with something wrong, he thought. She was supposed to be a nun, not a brazen hussy. Touching him. Showing him her stunning, sweet-scented hair, just for a couple of fleeces. Lucky for her he was a strong man. He might think about tumbling her, he might fantasize about sliding his cock between those haughty, demanding lips and then later taking her virginal pussy to heaven on earth....but he'd never forced a woman in his life. And nuns were completely out of bounds—obviously. Why he teased himself with silly fancies about this one, was a mystery.
But the vivid fantasy flourished, a fantasy that she was not what she appeared to be—that she was a woman like any other. Available to him. It was a sweet, pleasing fiction and he devoured it whole.
"Yes," she murmured, glancing downward. "I see there is nothing amiss with that." Her fingers swept slowly down his chest to the top of his leather breeches, and there they gently stroked the line of little hairs that lead below. Thierry sucked in his stomach, although it was already taut, honed by long hours on the training field. Not generally a vain man, he immediately cursed himself for reacting that way to her touch.
He knew he should shout for Dominic to take her back. Instead he growled through gritted teeth, "Curious, Sister?"
"A little." But having surprised him with this confession, she added hastily, "It is wrong to be so, of course. You tempt me into sin." Her fingers drifted away from his stomach and she put them behind her back.
He didn't move. With her body slightly arched toward his her full breasts were mere inches from his chest. Thierry couldn't figure out whether she knew what she did or not.
He tempted her?
A large tear in the stitches at her shoulder had exposed the white of her under-shift. Had he done that with his hand on her shoulder earlier?
"Truly we need more space," she persisted. "One tent for eight women is too cramped." Her voice became soft, breathy. "If the animals must stay in that one, can you not share yours and free up another tent for us—one that smells sweeter."
This again? She didn't give up. He had to admire that.
She shook her hair back, but one dark frond remained caught on the rough wool of her garment. It meandered in a gentle curl down over the lush swell of her left breast, drawing his e
ye to the small point of a roused nipple.
Torment.
He shifted his feet, moving slyly closer, even as he told himself it was accidental. "I must have my own tent," he murmured.
She raised her hand to that stray lock of hair, brushing it away from the front of her gown. But in so doing, her fingers touched her nipple. He saw it harden with his own eyes. He hadn't seen breasts that full, nipples that eager and responsive, since he once suckled the milky tits of a giggling whet nurse. And then he knew, as his mouth went dry and the seed surged up his shaft, that he had to get her away from him before he completely forgot she was a nun. Before he conceded to every one of her demands.
"Dominic," he yelled.
Her eyes narrowed and she drew a sharp breath. "But I'm not done negotiating."
"Dominic!" Where the devil was that man?
"The king will rage at how poorly we've been treated."
"The king will marvel at how I kept my temper, despite this provocation. And he will know how fairly you've been treated."
"Fairly? You, Bonnenfant, don't know the meaning of the word."
"My men will be doing all the work tomorrow, while you and your companions sit on your backsides in the boat and do naught, so who do you think deserves the greater comfort tonight?"
She held her lips tight, sulking and prim.
He wanted so badly to put his hands in that soft hair. Oh no. "Dominic!"
The soldier rushed in, breathing hard as if he'd just run across the camp. "My lord?"
"Escort Sister Vivienne back to her tent. And give her a lantern." And make haste, so I can be alone to imagine giving her something else that would light up her life.
"Yes, my lord." Dominic held the flap for her and waited.
Her eyes gleamed as the dying amber sunset found her face and kissed it. "I had hoped we could find common ground, Bonnenfant."
He snorted. "I'm a sinner, as you pointed out, Sister Vivienne. A lackwit with a filthy mind. What common ground could we have?"
After a slight pause, she bowed her head, muttered a sullen, "Good evening. I shall pray for you," and passed through the yawning tent flap.
"Save your prayers, Sister," he shouted after her. "They're wasted on me."
"Oh I'm not praying for God to save you," she shouted back at him. "I'm praying the devil will take you and soon."
Thierry laughed. Glancing down, he suddenly realized he still had her wimple clenched tight in his hands. The brief thought of returning it to her was quickly squashed. He'd keep it. Then she couldn't cover that hair again, could she? He'd look his fill at it, find some sly way to touch it tomorrow. Might at least get some little pleasure on this journey, since he couldn't have what he really needed.
He turned to watch her walking away across the camp, that wild fall of long hair bouncing down her back, almost to her buttocks. Dominic followed her a few steps behind, and the other soldiers all stopped what they were doing to observe her pass, apparently also fascinated by her swaying curves and lush, fragrant locks.
That casket of relics was not the only holy treasure he must guard from plunder on this journey, he mused.
Chapter Four
Sister Marie was aghast when she saw all that loose hair. "What did the villain do to you, girl?"
"He stole my wimple," Vivienne replied. "It could have been worse, but that at least is all he took, before I was able to fight my way free of his devilish clutches."
The other nuns crossed themselves and looked at her in awe, wondering how she had survived the assault.
"Every word you've heard about him is true," she solemnly assured them. "The man is unscrupulous, a wicked letch. But at least I won for us a lantern." She set the item carefully on one of the barrels. "And more blankets for tonight."
There was mild celebration. Sister Marie remained unsatisfied. She did not like Bonnenfant the moment she saw him, when he did not have—as she put it—the manners to dress himself properly in her presence. It was likely her mind was made up about him long before they arrived in Hythe. His reputation was not the sort that went unknown, even in convents, and it was a great thorn in Sister Marie's side that although she was granted the honor of guardian to that casket of relics, she was not entrusted with the key. The king had put that into Bonnenfant's custody, keeping chest and key in separate hands. They had traveled apart until now, just to keep those relics and, most importantly, what King William was smuggling to Normandy beneath them, safe from curious, prying hands. Now, for the trip across sea, the king confidently placed his treasure in this arrangement, expecting no love lost between the holy sisters and the sinner Bonnenfant. No chance of a truce to bring key and lock together before they arrived in Caen.
But the king had reckoned without Vivienne—the imposter living among Sister Marie's devout and virtuous companions.
It was growing dark out now, the sky patterned with streaks of lilac and copper. The women found dry spots on the floor of the tent and made beds as best they could with the fleeces and furs begrudgingly provided. The casket and its precious cargo was guarded by Sister Marie, who made her bed beside it. From her own spot a short distance away, Vivienne eyed the locked chest and pondered, once again, the possibilities. Sister Marie was a formidable size, but once she slept it should not be too difficult to creep over there, get what she needed from the hiding place inside the chest, then replace the lid as if it had never been opened.
But she could not do that without a key to the padlock. It could not be picked; she'd already tried that.
Bonnenfant did not keep the key in his leather breeches. She was sure of that now. There was barely room for his tackle in there, let alone anything else. Where then?
As the other women fell asleep, she remained wide awake, listening to the soldiers moving about around the campfire. Eventually they too fell quiet. The fire, which had crackled all evening, began to die down, although it would not be put out completely until they left camp in the morning. Soon she heard snores from outside as well as within. Vivienne decided to take her chance.
Whispering that she needed to relieve herself outside, she crawled to the tent flap and peeped out. A handful of soldiers remained awake by the fire, chatting quietly, still drinking. Fortunately they had their backs to the tent and did not see her as she slipped out, scrambled to her feet, and ran through the shadows to where the men had tied their horses under a canvas canopy. These animals would transport them down to the boat tomorrow, but they were not coming over the sea and would be left here with the grooms who stayed behind. Borrowed mounts would be provided in Normandy and Bonnenfant's men would not be reunited with their own animals until they returned in a few weeks. She'd heard the soldiers talking earlier—making a fuss of the beasts they left behind. Thierry Bonnenfant was apparently very fond of his horse. She'd watched him wash and brush the beast that afternoon, performing the duties of a humble groom with a vast deal of dedication and care.
Men and their horses. Frequently they loved their horses more than their women.
It was a big animal, a warhorse with wild dark eyes and hooves that could stamp on her head and crush her skull like a grape. Standing close to the beast, the sheer size and power was even more evident than it was when viewed from a distance. Just like its master, she thought.
Her hands worked quickly in the moonlight, searching among the riding equipment, saddles and armor laid out nearby. There was a leather bag beside the saddle. Would he be so foolish as to leave the key there, out in the open? Probably not, but on the other hand he was a thick-headed soldier and not the sharpest tool on the workman's bench. It was worth a try. Vivienne knelt on the ground and reached for the sack.
She'd only just opened it when she felt cool steel against her neck. And froze.
* * * *
"Look what I found." The soldier dragged her over to the campfire, sword still in his free hand. "Someone couldn't sleep it seems."
There were four other men around the fire and she saw at once th
ey were full of drink, their faces flushed, eyes foggy. "Bring her over here. I'll sing her a lullaby," one of the men sputtered, patting his knee and chuckling.
"No," slurred another. "I'll take her." He reached for the hem of her skirt and tugged hard. The guard holding her arm released it so suddenly that she stumbled, tripped over his foot and landed face down across the soldier's lap.
"Let me go at once, filthy curs," she hissed, fighting the hands that fondled her roughly.
Gruff laughter smothered her curses. "She's got a mouth on her for a nun."
"A dirty mouth."
"Aye."
Hands grabbed at her hair, forcing her head back. Others fondled her breasts, while someone spanked her bottom hard. When she opened her mouth to curse again, she saw a half-erect cock looming toward her mouth. What else might be expected from a group of rough-necked, uncivilized mercenary soldiers? She quickly decided to stop fighting and opened her mouth wider.
The soldier holding his dick in his hand could not believe his good fortune.
Until she sank her teeth into his scrotum and his drunken groan of excitement became a shriek of pain that woke the entire camp.
* * * *
"Sister Vivienne, what were you looking for in my saddlebags?"
She stood in his tent again, feigning innocence. "I was restless and decided to enjoy a walk around the camp. I stopped to visit the horses. Then I was attacked by five of your brutes."
Thierry had also not been able to sleep. Nor had he been able to release his seed yet, although his state of arousal showed no sign of ebbing. For some reason the fact that this woman was a nun kept intruding on his lusty vision of fucking her and spoiling the otherwise perfect fantasy, curbing it at the peak, holding it there in purgatory. Sprawled on his pallet, cursing in frustration, he'd been about to get up and go for a stroll himself, when Dominic brought the woman to him, reporting breathlessly that she'd been found rifling through the saddlebags like a thief and that some of the other men had tried to misuse her.