Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh

by Ann Jacobs

  GOLD, FRANKINCENSE AND MYRRH

  An Ellora’s Cave publication, November 2003

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  PO Box 787

  Hudson, OH 44236-0787

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-659-3

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  A GIFT OF GOLD © 2003 ANN JACOBS

  A GIFT OF FRANKINCENSE © 2003 CASSIE WALDER

  A GIFT OF MYRRH © 2003 JODI LYNN COPELAND

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imaginations and used fictitiously.

  A GIFT OF GOLD, edited by ALLIE MCKNIGHT

  A GIFT OF FRANKINCENSE, edited by MARTHA PUNCHES

  A GIFT OF MYRRH, edited by PAMELA CAMPBELL

  Cover art by DARRELL KING.

  GOLD, FRANKINCENSE AND MYRRH

  A Gift of Gold

  By Ann Jacobs

  A Gift of Frankincense

  By Cassie Walder

  A Gift of Myrrh

  By Jodi Lynn Copeland

  A Gift of Gold

  Ann Jacobs

  Chapter One

  Summerfield Castle, Christmastide 1177

  Set on a ridge overlooking the North Sea, Summerfield Castle’s gray stone towers reflected the noonday sun, giving off a silvery glow. A welcoming glow indeed for the deVere men who shivered in their armor this December day. Earl Rolfe spurred his destrier, and soon he, Will and Gavin had outpaced the troop of knights and men-at-arms. The others could take their time, guard the wagons and siege engines they’d used to quell yet another rebellion in the midlands.

  No doubt they all yearned for the comfort of home, too…anticipated the pleasures that awaited them. Especially Gavin. For him this would be the last time he’d return to the castle where he was born and call it home.

  As his father had done twenty-two years earlier, Gavin would wed with a great heiress and become master of her holdings. The wedding would take place ten days hence, at Summerfield, as part of the Christmas celebration. When he swung out of the saddle onto the ground of the frozen bailey, Gavin tried to tell himself ‘twas time. That all would end well so long as he had land and titles to pass to his own son when he became a man. He even attempted to dredge up a bit of enthusiasm toward his betrothed, Lady Evelyn fitzSimmons, whom he’d soon meet for the first time.

  A more sharp-tongued lady you’d be hard-pressed to find. Sends the servants a-runnin’ for cover when something’s not just right. Haughty, like nobody but her has more than a pisspot for a brain. She’s a fondness for the table, too…plump as a Christmas goose. Mayhaps barren. Mayhaps not although she gave her husband no bairns, for he was old and battle-worn. The words of the jongleur who supposedly had met the Lady Evelyn in her castle—soon to be his, Gavin reminded himself—sent another shiver clean to his balls as he dismounted and handed the reins of his snow-white destrier to a waiting serf.

  That jongleur had also mentioned that Castle fitzSimmons, his betrothed’s main holding, possessed high round towers. Three of them. If he found his bride too repulsive, he could confine her to one of them as soon as he got an heir on her. The way Gavin felt today after three long months of fighting, he’d have no trouble dredging up the necessary enthusiasm to fuck any female on two legs, no matter how distasteful she might prove to be.

  When they passed over the drawbridge, Gavin noted a lighter than usual number of men at arms along the wall and wondered briefly which of their northern neighbors might be causing havoc along the border. No matter. Had it been a serious problem that required dealing with, a messenger would have galloped to their train to enlist their aid.

  ‘Twas past time for him to enjoy the comforts of home, the gaiety of the season. Putting his worries out of his mind, Gavin mounted the stone stairs and made for the great hall, with Will and their lord father at his heels. Mayhap he and Will would share a wench or two, as had been their habit for seven years now.

  Gavin recalled that first encounter, when they’d first learned some things were more fun when shared. The accommodating milkmaid they’d encountered in the barn at Harrow ere going to the castle to enjoy their fourteenth birthday celebration had apparently thought so, too, despite the clumsiness of two boys with no finesse and no staying power. At least she’d come back for more. Many times over. By the time they’d finished their fostering, the sassy little whore had given them as much training in pleasuring women as Uncle Giles had provided in the use of weapons and strategy for battle.

  Back home, they’d honed the art of seduction, learned it added to the excitement when they added toys and erotic games into the mix. Gavin’s cock stirred when he recalled the way one adventuresome kitchen maid had creamed herself when they stripped her naked and tied her to the cross-shaped beam they kept in their chamber to hang their plate armor. They took her in tandem, Will’s cock in her cunt and his in her tight, hot ass, while she whimpered and moaned and begged for more.

  Excitement hung in the air. Proud of his battle-hardened physique, Gavin flexed his muscles against the warm steel rings of his chain mail. He reckoned there was some of the boy left in him, for he yearned for home and family, merriment, and the sorts of ribald amusements that always made his lady mother shake her head. Debauchery ran ever rampant at Summerfield Castle, but especially during the Christmas season. His cock grew harder as he anticipated dipping it into the sweet, hot cunts of one or two willing wenches.

  The hall smelled of precious spices and roasting meat. A huge fire crackled in the fireplace that would soon hold the massive Yule log they’d cut last spring. Flickering beeswax candles cast shadows on walls bleached to a grayish white, illuminating tapestries that bespoke the triumphs and tragedies the earls of Summerfield had seen over the years. Gavin would never tire of hearing the tales depicted in scenes of the Holy Land—settings his father had described. Exotic places Lord Rolfe had seen when serving as his brother’s squire on the crusade that nearly cost him his life. Gavin inhaled deeply, took in the heady fragrance of the spruce boughs and pomander balls that decorated the hall.

  “Jasmine!” Lord Rolfe shouted from the base of the winding stair to the north tower. Gavin knew his father had gained politically by wedding with his mother, but ‘twas obvious to all that the countess had fired his sire’s blood. Damn, from the hot, needy look he saw in his father’s eyes, Gavin doubted not that the fire still burned, hardly banked at all in the twenty-two years since they’d wed.

  Lady Jasmine ran down the stairs, flinging herself into his father’s arms as soon as he’d laid his helm and gauntlets on a long, narrow table by the stairs. Lord Rolfe lifted her, swung her around in circles. “‘Tis good to be home once more. You told me not of any trouble along Summerfield’s borders in your last message, my love.”

  “Reivers. Clan MacFarlane from the look of their plaids, said the serf who brought the news. I sent a party out to chase them back over the border.” Lady Jasmine laid a hand on Lord Rolfe’s mail-clad chest.

  Gavin would have liked naught better than running the wily Scots laird through with his broadsword and consigning him to hell for all the trouble he caused—but damn! Not now. His ass ached from the long ride, his throat was parched for lack of ale. He stank of the road, his saddle, and his destrier. He turned to his twin, resigned to riding out again, postponing the start of the yuletide celebration. “Shall we ride out and join in the
rout?”

  “It will not require us both. I’ll go, be sure the bastards are running, tails ‘tween their legs,” Will said. “After all, ‘tis my inheritance they plunder. Besides, you’ve got a wedding to prepare for.”

  Summerfield. His brother’s legacy. Not Gavin’s. And his upcoming wedding to a widow he’d not laid eyes on. Not very cheering thoughts though they all were true. “If you do not mind, I’ll stay. My arse is saddle-weary, and you’re right. My sword won’t be needed to vanquish no more than a few bloodthirsty clansmen. I’m for a bath, some wine, and a warm wench—not necessarily in that order.”

  * * * * *

  The lord’s solar smelled of fresh evergreens and precious incense brought at great cost from the East. Earl Rolfe deVere lay back in his tub later that evening, sipping mulled wine whilst his lady wife rubbed away the grime of battle from his naked body.

  “‘Tis good we will all be together this holy season,” Lady Jasmine murmured, her soft hands stroking Rolfe’s chest before reaching under the water and squeezing his fast-awakening cock. ‘Twas a miracle that after twenty-two years, his lady still could arouse him with the simplest of touches. “I want you to name Gavin Lord of Misrule.”

  The younger of their twin sons held a special spot in Jasmine’s heart—his, too. Still Rolfe had to laugh. “That honor should go to one of the serfs, sweeting.”

  “‘Twill be the only way Gavin will ever rule Summerfield.”

  “I know. And I’m aware the law of primogeniture rankles you. But take heart. Gavin surely won’t have to earn his way by hiring out his sword. I’ve already gifted him with a king’s ransom in gold and jewels, he’s betrothed to the fitzSimmons heiress, and I’m certain he’ll win more titles and estates by force of arms, as Giles and I both have. Even now he and Will plan a fierce campaign against Laird MacFarlane, and I expect that one day soon they’ll rout the clansmen clear back to the highlands from whence they came. They’d best, ere that wily Scot makes off with all my livestock. When they do, I shall ask Henry to grant the MacFarlane lands to Gavin, though I know not whether he will. ‘Twould make the deVere family among the most powerful in all England.”

  Jasmine frowned as she worked the soap into a lather and scrubbed away some stubborn dirt from Rolfe’s forearms. “Tell me about this prisoner Will sent word that he is bringing back.”

  “According to his message, some men-at-arms who were patrolling our northern border caught her on Summerfield land. A Scots lass wearing the MacFarlane plaid. I’d nay be surprised were it Laird MacFarlane’s own daughter. A wild lass from all I hear. If it be she, her presence should liven the Christmas festivities. Especially for our sons who are ever searching for another pretty wench to seduce.”

  “Speaking of seduction, I have missed you.” Jasmine’s touch lightened to a caress, and though she stroked his arms, it was his cock that stiffened and throbbed. “Does your bath water grow cold?” she asked when a tremor of pure desire shot through his flesh.

  “Nay. But I grow hot.” Rising, Rolfe took a length of linen and began to dry himself. “Get you to bed, my lady, that I may drink of your sweet honey. ‘Tis too long I’ve been away.”

  He’d never get enough of her, not if he lived a hundred years. His beautiful countess who’d brought him wealth and title, and most of all the love of a lifetime. “Have you a picture you’d like for us to re-enact this night?” He gestured toward the beautifully illustrated pillow book that had fascinated her from the moment he’d shown it to her years ago.

  “Tonight I wish for you to take me as though you’re starved. As though you’ve been without a woman since last we fucked.” She lay back, her raven hair spread across the snowy bed linens, her legs spread and her cunt glistening in the light from the fire.

  “Who’s to say I am not starved, my beautiful lady? ‘Tis true,” he added when she shot him a skeptical look. “When I think of you, it destroys any passion that might rise in me for the camp followers who service my men.”

  Her smile warmed his heart, set his balls on fire. “I too have starved, my lord earl.”

  “Then let us feast together.” Tossing aside the drying cloth, Rolfe joined Jasmine on their massive bed and straddled her, offering his cock for her to feast upon as he buried his face between her shapely thighs.

  Her whimpers, and the copious flow of hot, sweet juices from her cunt attested to her need—a need Rolfe was determined to slake as he flailed her clit with his tongue. When she closed her lips around him, his cock swelled to near bursting against the heavy ring in its head, and his nipples tightened against the small gold rings that had adorned them for nearly thirty years. The tiny sounds she made as she suckled him made this encounter incredibly erotic…incredibly arousing.

  Tonight he felt not one moment older than he had when he’d first taken the maiden he called Jasmine to his bed, nor one bit less grateful that God had sent him a fallen angel without a memory to tutor in all the arts of love. Her clit hardened and swelled when he tongued her there, and when he slid a finger into her cunt and found her wet and ready, he had to caution himself to make the moment last.

  She felt tight. So tight he’d not have believed she’d borne him four sturdy sons if he’d not watched each of them emerge from her slender body. And God’s bones but her cunt fit his cock like a glove, hot and slippery and schooled over the years in pleasure with the ben-wa balls she wore each day as she directed the castle servants.

  Her anus drew his attention, made him remember their wedding night—and the eunuch Arnaud who had initiated that part of his bride’s lush body to the pleasures of the flesh. Mayhaps—nay, though Arnaud would be arriving with Giles, Brianna, and their children to celebrate Gavin’s marriage, Rolfe had not been able to curb his possessive streak sufficiently to ask again for the use of the big, docile creature who’d guarded his sister-in-law’s virtue since her marriage to his elder brother.

  With gentle fingers Rolfe invaded Jasmine’s rear passage as he used his tongue to fuck her cunt. When she stopped stroking his ass cheeks and slid her hands between them to cup his tight, aching balls, he could waste no more time on the niceties of arousing her. If he did not take her now, he knew he’d fill her mouth with burst after burst of his pent-up seed.

  “Stop, my Jasmine,” he ground out, turning and positioning his cock at the dripping entrance to her cunt. “I’d come inside you, where my seed may yet take root.”

  “You’d still give me a daughter, would you not?” Her smoky eyes shining, Jasmine framed his face in her hands as she lifted her hips to meet his initial thrust. “‘Tis to my shame that we’ve not been blessed again.”

  “Hush. I told you, sweeting, ere we were wed, that deVere men throw sons. ‘Tis not your fault we’ve not been blessed with a tiny lass. And I’d as soon not risk you again in the effort.”

  “What will be, will be. Oh, my love, you fill me so completely. How I’ve missed you, missed this.” She gasped when he sank into her to his balls, finding along the way that spot that always produced an instant climax. He braced himself for the hard, quick contractions of her spasming flesh, held steady as she came, then started to thrust again.

  He’d make her come for him again. This time he stroked the silken flesh of her throat, her beautiful breasts. Sucked upon the nipples that had fed his sons. He murmured words of sex and love and the lasting devotion with which she’d blessed him over the years.

  When she screamed again with the force of the pleasure he gave her, he let go of his iron control and buried his cock deep. So deep he could hardly feel where he ended and she began as he spurted out his seed deep within his Jasmine’s beautiful beloved body.

  “On the morrow, I’ll name Gavin Lord of Misrule,” he told her later as they lay spoonlike beneath the soft, warm sable furs that made their blanket. “I cannot deny my Jasmine anything her heart desires—except her little girl. And a love match for the son of her heart.”

  * * * * *

  A love match. Lady Evelyn fitzS
immons paced her tower room at Summerfield, coveting the painfully obvious mutual emotions she’d seen passing between her betrothed husband’s handsome parents.

  Not that she’d seen them from any less distance than she’d glimpsed Sir Gavin, soon to become her bridegroom. Upon her arrival at Summerfield yesterday, she’d begged Lady Jasmine not to reveal her presence, to allow her to remain in the guest tower alone to contemplate her upcoming wedding. Evelyn glanced down at her ample curves and tried not to envy her future mother-in-law’s lithe, slender body.

  No way could she, with her love for good food and fine wine, starve off enough flesh in five short days to compare with Lady Jasmine…not that she’d do it if she could. Not even for Sir Gavin, with his great height, powerful body, and a face that would do justice to a dark angel. Evelyn reminded herself her betrothed was wedding with her for her estates, not because he loved her or even desired her person.

  She shouldn’t mind that. After all, she’d wed with the elderly and bellicose Baron fitzSimmons four years earlier for the wealth and position he’d offered. As she’d done then, her betrothed could always visualize the land and castles that came with her if looking at her made him regret his decision.

  But what if Gavin couldn’t stomach the thought of bedding her? Unlike women, men had to summon a measure of passion ere they could perform in the marriage bed. While she’d found some, like her late husband, who’d appreciated her ample curves, she’d come across a good many potential suitors who’d run at the thought of bedding a woman whose waist they couldn’t span with their two hands. Handsome, virile men like the one she was about to wed.

  You’re naught but the veriest coward, Evelyn. Otherwise you’d not be cowering in the shadows, keeping your presence secret from Sir Gavin and the castle folk. Though she chided herself for a fool, Evelyn had stayed glued to the peephole in the tower’s thick stone wall, afraid to face her betrothed and mayhaps see revulsion spreading across his angel face.