Leofwin himself was driven over the brink by her ecstasy. Moaning her name, he jerked powerfully within her, crashing over the edge of rapture. They both collapsed, still damply entwined in the straw.
And in that moment Elena, physically replete, felt a dark shadow pass over her. Her mind was suddenly filled with the memory of a scarred, handsome face, softened by love, and a huskily accented voice that seemed to haunt her every moment.
The torch gave a final glimmer and died. Elena knew, in that moment, that Aimery le Sabrenn had made her his slave for ever.
Chapter Eleven
With an exclamation of impatience, Isobel rolled away from the spyhole and crouched, panting with desire, on the rush matting of her little secret room. What she had seen - the big chained Saxon so thoroughly pleasuring Aimery’s virginal little convent bitch - had aroused her unbelievably; she was so wet, so quivering with juices that she had to have somebody, and quickly.
She heard a low, muffled cough outside the door. Her brow darkened. A spy - someone spying on her! Swiftly, she moved across the room to fling open the door, and Pierre almost fell into the room.
Isobel chuckled softly. Of course. Pierre, who followed her everywhere like a faithful big dog. She had neglected him a little lately - remiss of her, especially as he was so young and handsome …
She relocked the door carefully; Pierre gazed at her eagerly, with hope flaring in his faithful brown eyes.
Isobel moved deliberately across to the low bed and lay back on it luxuriantly. Then, very slowly, she lifted her silk skirts to her waist, and spread her stockinged thighs. She watched Pierre all the time, saw him jump with excitement, imagined the lovely, swelling bulge at his groin. Shuddering with anticipated pleasure, she reached down to touch her moist nether lips. Her pleasure bud was already hot and throbbing. She slid one finger around it, lovingly, raising her knees higher and letting them fall apart so Pierre could see all her crinkled, hairy lushness; the serf’s eyes were wide with longing.
‘You see how I need you, Pierre?’ Isobel whispered softly. ‘You see how I need a good, stout man like you to pleasure me? But I’ve not quite decided yet, Pierre. Show me - show me what you can do, and then I’ll decide …’
And lasciviously she continued to stroke her deliciously-engorged clitoris, safe in the knowledge that the dumb serf would never be able to tell anyone of the lady of Morency’s crude preferences.
Nodding eagerly at her invitation, Pierre unlaced his leggings and pulled out his already-rampant phallus. Isobel eyed it with mock severity, pursing her lips. ‘Not bad’ she said critically, ‘but I’m a little disappointed in you, Pierre.’
Crestfallen, the youth gripped his engagingly curved penis with his hand and started working it quickly, hissing between his teeth, his eyes fastened on Isobel. The swollen purple knob glistened and throbbed angrily; he watched her in an agony of desire, as the red tide of frustration built up inside.
Lazily, Isobel, still reclining on the bed, reached to undo the lacing of her fine gown, lifting her full breasts from the confines of her chemise and squeezing them together, played lazily with her hardened pink nipples, as though Pierre did not exist.
It was too much. The sweat stood out in beads on Pierre’s broad forehead; his balls were tight and aching. His hand suddenly dropped to his side; his huge shaft reared upwards with a life of its own, jerking hungrily towards the woman on the bed.
‘Come on, Pierre. You can do better than that - ‘
With a gasp, Pierre rushed across the room, his penis rearing threateningly. Violently, he flung himself between Isobel’s parted legs, trapping her hands above her head, knocking the breath from her. Then, nudging her open thighs still further apart, he thrust his throbbing manhood desperately into her wet glistening flesh. Isobel made a sharp cry of protest; but her words quickly became soft moans as Pierre’s thick, pulsing shaft slid so deliciously into her aching love passage and began to ravish her.
‘Pierre,’ she gasped aloud. ‘How dare you, you wicked boy …’
For answer, he shuddered and leaned into her still further, driving himself into her juicy moistness with all his power, relishing every moment as his engorged penis filled her wildly clutching vagina. She locked her ankles around his back, and came almost immediately, bucking with ecstasy as his wild thrusts continued. Then, as she spasmed and relaxed, Pierre, muttering wordlessly to himself in his extremity, withdrew his long, slippery shaft and began to rub it excitedly across Isobel’s flushed, pouting breasts.
Isobel moaned aloud, shuddering in renewed orgasm as his swollen, silky glans caressed her incredibly sensitised nipples. Gripping and caressing the proud stem of his manhood, Pierre crouched over her greedily, rubbing his penis first against one breast, then against the other, his eyes closed in ecstasy. At last, with swift, jerking movements of his strong hand, he drove himself to the brink; and Isobel watched, wide-eyed, as his proud member quivered in ecstasy and his seed spurted out in milky jets all over her white breasts.
With a sigh of contentment, he bent to lick it off greedily, guzzling like a child at her nipples, his subsiding manhood still deliciously hot against her smooth belly.
Isobel lay back, utterly sated as his strong, rough tongue trailed across her flesh, the afterwash of pleasure still trickling gently through her. She closed her eyes, smiling contentedly.
Then she jerked upright, almost throwing Pierre to the ground.
Someone was knocking, lightly but insistently, on the door. A voice - Alys’ voice - could be heard, low and urgent. ‘My lady. My lady Isobel. Messengers have arrived! They say that the lord Aimery won’t be returning to Thoresfield till tomorrow at the earliest. I thought you ought to know.’
Isobel got up, hurriedly rearranging her rumpled gown, tying up her laces with trembling fingers. She flung open the door.
‘Damn you, Alys’ she muttered viciously, ‘must you follow me everywhere? Go, and prepare my bath - and a fresh gown. And not a word of this to anyone, you understand? Or I’ll beat you with my own hands …’
Alys, who had not failed to see the bemused Pierre sprawled on the bed, swung round and marched off, her face red and angry. One of these days, her ladyship would go too far. One of these days, she, Alys, would cease to act as Isobel’s faithful spy - and then, it would be interesting to see what happened at Thoresfield, she told herself grimly.
Elena sat on the edge of the bed in the upper chamber of the castle - the very room where she had spent her first night in the Breton’s arms. It was almost dark, but wax candles had been lit against the soft dusk; a flagon of sweet wine, together with spiced chicken, soft manchet bread and honeyed grapes had been set out carefully on the little table.
She clasped her hands anxiously in her lap, feeling utterly bewildered.
She’d spent another night in the cell, with Leofwin sleeping beside her, and during all the long day that followed, they’d talked quietly of the past.
She’d been resigned to yet another night of imprisonment when two guards had come down to her dark cell, about an hour ago, and dragged her up here. She’d had no time to bid a proper farewell to her fellow-prisoner, Leofwin, but he’d managed to whisper to her in their own tongue as the guards waited impatiently for her by the open cell door. ‘Soon, I’ll escape from here. And you shall come with me!’
For one last moment, she lifted her wistful face towards him. Oh, if only she could escape! But she was a true prisoner here, a prisoner of her heart. She couldn’t tell him that, though she thought he had guessed. Since that first wild coupling, he hadn’t attemped to make love to her again.
She gave him a swift, brave smile and followed the guards, wondering fearfully what lay in store for her now.
In her wildest dreams, she wouldn’t have guessed aright. What lay in store was luxury, just as she had experienced on her first night here. Isobel’s attendant, Alys, waited quietly on her; here, in this now-familiar room, she was bathed and anointed with scented oils
, and clothed in stockings and a chemise of finest cream silk. Her gown too was silk, in palest blue; it had a long, closely-fitting sleeves and a flowing skirt that clung to her waist and then flared out around her slender hips. Her tiny waist was further emphasised by an exquisite silver girdle that trailed almost to the floor; and as a finishing touch Alys helped her into a pair of dainty red leather shoes that fastened at the side with little buttons. Then, with the utmost care, Alys brushed out her newly-washed hair, gleaming softly gold, and braided it loosely, coiling it with ribbon at the nape of her slender neck.
Elena, dazed and bewildered, gazed unseeing at her own reflection in the silver mirror Alys had silently handed to her. ‘Why, Alys?’ she whispered. ‘Why all this finery?’
‘I only do as I’m bid,’ said Alys shortly, turning to leave.
She was interrupted by a sudden cacophony of noise from the courtyard outside the window. Men were shouting, running, barking out orders; there was the unmistakable sound of horses’ iron-shod hooves on the cobbles.
Elena, her breath stopped short in her throat, faltered out, ‘What is it, Alys? What’s happening?’
Alys paused by the door. The lord Aimery and his men have returned.’
‘Has he - has he defeated the rebels?’
‘Doesn’t he always?’ Alys started to open the door, and hesitated. ‘Best get out of here, my lady, while you can. You’re too good and beautiful for this evil place …’ She looked as if she would say more, then pressed her lips together suddenly and hurried out, slamming the door behind her.
Elena’s heart was hammering. She flew to the window, and looked out.
Far beyond the estate, the great forest that surrounded Aimery’s lands was in ominous darkness. But the castle and its courtyard were a blaze of light and activity. The night air was cool on Elena’s flushed cheek as she gazed down. Mounted knights, still on horseback, milled around, pushing back their stern helmets, while eager squires carrying wavering lanterns rushed to do their bidding. The cold, silvery moonlight glimmered on harsh Norman faces, on chainmail hauberks and the glinting steel of swords. Grooms hung to the big destriers’ reins as the victorious knights dismounted, and Elena leaned from the window, longing for just a glimpse of Aimery le Sabrenn. Perhaps her captivity in the cells had been a mistake. Perhaps . .
The door opened slowly, and Isobel de Morency walked in, and Elena knew that all her stupid hopes were in vain.
Isobel, her enemy, shut the door behind her, and smiled. It was not a friendly smile. She was exquisitely dressed, in an opulent silk gown of madder-red, embroidered with gold thread. Her raven black hair was concealed by a thin white veil, secured by a delicate golden circlet on the crown of her head; and her slanting green eyes glittered with suppressed excitement.
Elena knew now that this woman hated her. She stood very still, her back to the window, and waited.
Isobel said, ‘Well, my little convent girl. So you know now that the lord Aimery has returned.’
Elena bowed her head briefly in acknowledgement and resumed her quietly defiant stance, her hands clenched at her sides.
‘So’ went on Isobel, walking further into the room, ‘the game begins afresh. A word of warning, however. I would rather - much rather - that the lord Aimery did not know about the time you spent below, in the cells. It was, you see, purely for your own safety. As a Saxon, you might otherwise have suffered reprisals from the other inhabitants of the castle.’
Elena’s heart thudded slowly in understanding, her eyes meeting Isobel’s malevolent gaze in renewed scorn. So, her imprisonment was not Aimery’s order! He knew nothing of it! A sudden wild hope blazed through her.
Isobel paused by the table where the food had been set out. Picking up a honeyed grape, she placed it delicately on her tongue, licking her dainty fingers one by one. ‘But’ she went on silkily, ‘if, my dear Elena, you should take it into your silly head to complain, why, then, I shall have to tell Aimery about your ardent coupling with the prisoner Leofwin. Rather - bestial, my dear, wouldn’t you say? And you did appear to enjoy it so much …’
Renewed despair washed over Elena in numbing waves. How did Isobel know so much? The cruel Frenchwoman was toying with her, manipulating her, and Elena felt suddenly quite helpless again in her evil toils. As steadily as she could, she said in a low voice, ‘You know very well, my lady, that I did what I did in order to save the man Leofwin from the punishment you threatened.’
Isobel laughed and took another grape, savouring its plump, juicy sweetness. ‘Whose word do we have for that, my dear? Yours? Rather a feeble excuse, I would have thought, for such enthusiastic copulation! Do you really expect Aimery to believe you?’
Elena sagged back against the stone window ledge, her eyes wide and dark in her white face. Isobel laughed softly, lapping up her distress.
Tonight, Elena, we will play the game more subtly than ever, you and I. And remember, there can only be one winner.’
She turned to go, and shut the door softly behind her.
Outside, on the landing, the smile vanished from Isobel’s face. She was, for the first time since Madelin, seriously worried.
The girl was breathtakingly beautiful, and quietly brave. Isobel would gladly have left her for yet another night in that dark cell, but she feared Aimery’s anger too much. Better play safe for the moment. Have her bathed, fed and clothed in luxurious garments while Isobel made her next decision - the best time to tell Aimery how the innocent convent girl, with whom he had become so besotted, had been rutting on the soiled straw of the prison cell with a virile Saxon rebel.
Isobel knew from experience that Aimery was always grimly ready for sexual release when he got back from the tension of battle. He would be on edge, covered in sweat and dust, physically honed, wanting plenty of activity. She, Isobel, would be waiting for him.
Aimery le Sabrenn strode into the hall at the head of his men, his armour glinting in the spurting light from the cressets, his hair streaked with sweat where he had removed his helmet.
The floor had been freshly strewn with herb-scented rushes. The serfs, busy setting up the trestle tables for the evening meal, stood back in deference and gazed in awe at their Breton lord. Tales of the recent battle against the Saxon rebels were already flying round the castle; the bravery and strength of Aimery le Sabrenn needed no embroidery.
Hamet, at his master’s side as always, said in his soft, rich voice, ‘My lord. Shall I order wine to be brought to the high table?’
Aimery hesitated. ‘In a while - though see that the men are served with everything they want. First, I shall go and change.’
Hamet nodded. ‘My lord.’ He watched thoughtfully as Aimery le Sabrenn, showing no outward signs of the tiredness that must grip him after two days and nights in the saddle and some of the bloodiest skirmishing the Saracen had yet seen against these native rebels, made purposefully for the stairs that led to the sleeping chambers.
For two days and nights, as he swept through the forest with his men, Aimery had thought of the girl. The scent of her hair, the caress of her silken skin, had stayed with him. The way she had sunk to her knees and whispered, ‘You are all I ever dreamed of, my lord.’ Words that were followed, so sweetly, by her little cries of love. She was innocent, yet so instinctively, wildly sensual - all that a man dreamed of.
If Isobel had obeyed his instructions, the girl would have been well taken care of in his absence. Already he felt the hard ache at his loins, the tightening of desire at the pit of his belly. Later, he promised himself. Later …
His face set, he headed for his own room, fully intending to summon his squire to remove his armour, and then to go down and feast with his men. But on his way along the gallery, he saw a soft line of light beneath the door of the small chamber that the Saxon girl used. He stopped, and pushed open the door, quietly.
Elena, lying curled on her bed in silent despair after Isobel’s visit, spun round. The Breton stood in the shadowy doorway; his
harsh, gaunt face was unreadable.
Elena’s thoughts whirled giddily. What had Isobel told him? Had she told him about Leofwin? And, whatever happened, she must remember what they’d all told her about him. That he was using her, intent on destroying her because of his poisonous hatred for all Saxon women. She crouched on her narrow bed, trembling.
He said, simply, ‘Caran,’ and held out his arms, drawing her to him.
He kissed her deeply, hungrily; his hands roving over her face, her breasts, her slender hips. Elena, in disbelief, wrapped her hands round his wide shoulders, shuddering at the kiss of steel, running her fingers through his mane of tawny hair. He still loved her. Nothing had changed - everyone was wrong.
With a soft murmur of impatience, the Breton unlaced her gown and chemise, barely allowing the filmy silk to slip to the floor before bending to kiss her small white breasts. Then he unbraided her hair, combing it sensually with his fingers so that it glittered around her face and shoulders. Elena shuddered with desire, her soft, naked body clamped against the cold chainmail of his hauberk. Aimery gave an oath of impatience at his own hampered body; lifting her up and swinging her gently onto the bed, he quickly unbuckled his armour, and threw off the long linen undershirt that he wore beneath it.
Elena watched him from the shadows, her heart hammering passionately as his muscled torso gleamed in the golden candlelight. He was so strong, so beautiful. He sat on the edge of the bed, swiftly pulling off his dusty boots and leggings; she leaned towards him, and caressed his shoulder gently.
A laugh rasped in his dry throat. ‘Ah car an. See what you do to me …’ He took her small hand within his own sword-calloused palm and ran it slowly up the rough silk of his steel-muscled thigh to close over the hot, throbbing bulge of his genitals.
Elena gasped, the spasms of pleasure running through her, as she felt his powerful penis quiver and surge beneath her trembling fingers. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she stroked again experimentally, loving the soft, silken feel of his inner thigh, the rough coarseness of his heavy testicles, and then the pulsing, almost frightening strength of that mysterious phallus, the very core of him, rearing up massively now against his flat, darkly-fleeced abdomen. Already, she felt a burning need to feel that magnificent male strength within her. Instinctively she bent her head to lick at the swollen purple glans, to catch its velvety rim between her soft lips while her hand cupped his testicles.
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