Warprize (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 5)(MFMMMMMM)

by Georgia Fox

  He showed her the ring with the seal and then the letter from the stolen calfskin purse. "Your uncle put these into my hands, as he entrusted your safe passage to me."

  She glowered at the scroll and then at him again.

  "I suggest you tell no one else that I am not Rufus Redbeard," he added carefully.

  "Why should I not?" she pouted.

  "Because if your intended husband doubts my identity he could also doubt yours and send you back again."

  "Good," she snapped. "I want to go back, and you can make yourself useful by taking me."

  "I fear I cannot, wench. I have my own concerns to manage here and have only agreed to escort you as a favor to your uncle. If your intended does not accept you as his bride, you must wait here, in the depths of this savage country, until someone may be found to take you back."

  The girl's eyes widened. She shivered and pulled her fine cloak tighter over her bosom. "I hope you do not think to ravage me."

  He paused. "It had not occurred to me."

  "I know what men are like. Little better than foul beasts in rut. You had better not lay a hand on me with such wicked intention. I am a virgin and would sooner suffer death than let you put your filthy hands all over me."

  Dom replied steadily, his amusement increasing, "Again I can assure you, I have no thought of it."

  "But you are a man."

  "And yet I do not go about raping indiscriminately to pass the time."

  She glowered stormily.

  "Now," he continued, "since we have a fair journey yet to travel, we should waste no more time." He bowed and gestured toward the horses.

  For a moment she seemed doubtful still, but then the wind picked up, tugging on her wimple and her skirt. She shivered, hunched her shoulders and stomped through the reeds. "Sacre bleu," she hissed. Again she gave no thought to her elderly companion, but left the struggling crone to manage her own path.

  "You have traveled long with Lady Rosamund?" Domingo asked as he offered an arm to the ungainly figure.

  A brown, wrinkled, wizened face peered up at him. "All her blessed life, young man. And aye...before you ask...I don't know how I manage it either. But soon, praise be, she'll be her new husband's burden and no longer mine."

  * * * *

  "She's here! She's here!" A flurry of panic and excitement swept the cookhouse, and suddenly Cedney felt even hotter, as if the flames in the great hearth had caught on her breeches and she was about to be consumed by fire.

  Too dazed and distracted even to think of putting the butcher's knife down, she walked to the door, her heart pounding out a battle march.

  "Go on then, lad," hissed the head cook, a thick-set woman with a merry face and scant teeth. "Go and meet your new wife."

  Bewildered, Cedney looked down at the elderly woman, wondering, as she often did, at this role she'd been given and where it would all end. She felt alone in this world, a soul holding a secret that could one day lead to her own death if it was discovered.

  But none of the manor's residents conceived any difficulty arising from this forced marriage. They crowded around their young "lord" in the door now, eager to catch a glimpse of the newcomer. She would have sent them all back to their work, but Cedney knew it would be unfair of her to do so. The curiosity was inevitable. They all loved a good wedding and the excuse to drink themselves silly.

  Several hands shoved her firmly from behind and thus she stepped out into the torch lit yard, still clutching a bloody knife, to greet her new bride.

  But the figure dismounting from a black warhorse was something very different to what she'd expected.

  Her first thought, on beholding the man immediately before her was, Dear God, he's enormous. And dark. And he has thighs as wide as my torso. And eyes...eyes the color of molten steel.

  With one huge hand resting on his sword hilt, the new arrival stood in her line of startled, confused sight and stared back at Cedney Bloodwynne in equal astonishment. His heated gaze caressed her painstakingly from toes to head, while she stood with her feet melted to the ground, unable to move an eyelash.

  Finally he said, "Are you going to come at me with that knife? Let's get the fight over with, lad, if you want to try."

  Belatedly she remembered the knife in her hand and passed it to the cook who stood behind her.

  The giant's eyes narrowed, as if he really had expected a fight. His fingers spread over his sword hilt and tapped slowly as she took a step toward him.

  "You are welcome here, sir," she said, her gaze on his belt at first and then down to his boots, before wandering up his great height, over those thick, muscular thighs clad in muddy, weatherworn leather. And on the way up she sneakily checked the very evident size of his bulge. Oh, if only she had one of those. Even half that size and she might be content. "We've been preparing... a large feast."

  The man still seemed wary. "Have you now?" he muttered gruffly.

  She wondered whether he was not accustomed to a welcome greeting, for his manner and posture was that of a man who expected a fight wherever he went. Slowly she raised her eyes to the brooch that fastened his cape and then to his face. He was frowning hard as he studied her. "You are Rufus Barberousse?" she asked carefully, thinking perhaps she ought to make certain. "You have brought my bride?"

  "What?" He seemed irritated about something. "Your bride?"

  Of course, she had not even introduced herself! Like a burbling fool she'd let herself be pushed out of the cookhouse before she was even thinking sensibly. "I should have said, sir. Forgive me." Wiping her hands on her woolen tunic, she bowed smartly. "I am Cedney Bloodwynne."

  * * * *

  Dominigo couldn't believe his eyes. This boy—this pretty-faced boy— was Cedney Bloodwynne, the Saxon who had held onto his father's manor longer than many of his kin had succeeded in keeping theirs? The tough-headed Saxon fighter who was said to have impressed King William to such a degree that he had railed at many of his own nobles for having less gumption, less bravery?

  Suddenly Dom's plans came to a halt and almost unseated his posterior. Like a racing horse confronted by a fence to tall for leaping.

  The letter he'd found on his victim, Rufus Redbeard, had revealed that the arrogant fool was on his way to Bloodwynne's manor, under the king's orders, to deliver a bride for the Saxon earl. Dominigo's idea had been to intercept Redbeard's charge on her journey and then either steal her and her fat dowry, or a ransom purse, for himself. But having met the girl and suffered almost a full day in her company, he erased both previous plans. She was not suitable wife material to take home for the d'Anzeray harem. Rich or not, the wench would never fit in. And keeping her in his custody until her family paid a ransom was not an acceptable idea. He had no patience for whiners and she'd already given him a headache.

  He'd thought briefly of dumping the moaning wench in a field and riding off, but however irritating she was, Dom's conscience wouldn't allow him to leave her and the old woman unprotected in the wild marshes. Finally, his third plan had come into being. He'd decided to complete his assumed task and deliver her to the man for whom she was intended. Let another poor fellow deal with the ill-tempered girl from then on.

  But now here before him stood Cedney Bloodwynne.

  And all plans were forgotten.

  The bloody knife had caused Dom a moment of apprehension, as had the red speckles liberally coating the front of the young man's garments, but that passed when his gaze traveled upward to the face. Very delicate features for a man. Warm blue eyes, smooth cheek, soft full lips. His shoulders were not very broad. There was something...off.

  Dom couldn't put his finger on it. He stared. His tongue could not seem to produce any words, not even to introduce Lady Rosamund. He'd almost forgotten anyone else was even there.

  Bloodwynne was no better. He too seemed oblivious to the other guest and had not taken his wide eyes off Dominigo's face ever since his shifty, wandering gaze finally landed there.

  "Thank you, sir, for
delivering my bride," the boy was saying, his voice slightly hoarse. "Now you will join us for supper? And stay the night at least."

  It hadn't been Dom's intention to do so. He'd meant to depart with all haste before anyone realized he wasn't Rufus Redbeard. At least he had a warm cloak and a new horse out of the adventure, and he'd find a bride elsewhere. But suddenly he couldn't see any sensible cause to make an exit until morning. The weather was grim and it would soon be dark. It might even snow tonight for there was a taste of it in the air. Why not fill his belly with good food, spiced wine, and sleep somewhere warm for a few hours?

  Cedney Bloodwynne was looking up at him with large, sensual, otherworldly, blue eyes and smiling, and Dominigo d'Anzeray suffered an unexpected stirring in his loins.

  Christ Almighty, that was one good-looking lad.

  Not a boy, he reminded himself, but a young man of age to marry. And a young man who had protected his manor with a skilled sword for the past few years, until he was eventually forced to concede defeat and pledge fealty to King William. Cedney Bloodwynne was a name held in high esteem, even by the Normans. He was known to have led a devoted army of soldiers and to fight fearlessly beside them.

  With everything Dominigo had heard of this young man, he'd expected something quite different.

  Suddenly Lady Rosamund pushed herself forward. "My Lord Bloodwynne. At last I am here after a journey of terror. No thanks to those who were charged with my safety along the way." She threw a sideways scowl at Dom. "My escorts have been ungracious to say the least. I shall most certainly complain to the king if you will not do so for me."

  Bloodwynne appeared to understand some French. At least he understood enough to know she was complaining. "I am sorry to hear you had trouble," the boy replied in his own tongue, finally looking at his bride-to-be.

  "Je ne parle pas votre langue de la peasents," she snapped, wrinkling her nose. Naturally, she had made no attempt to learn how to speak to her husband. Dom had known her only a short time and already saw how she expected the world to serve her needs before anyone else's.

  "He said welcome to the manor," Dom translated for her.

  There was an awkward moment of silence as they all looked at one another and at least one of them waited for something polite from Lady Rosamund. When it didn't come, the young Saxon earl added slowly and carefully, in stumbling French, "I hope our hospitality here will make amends for your harsh journey, Lady Rosamund."

  Dom muttered under his breath in the Saxon tongue, "I wouldn't make wager on it."

  He knew Cedney had heard, for those clear, summer-blue eyes slanted briefly, but Lady Rosamund did not know what he'd said, of course. Bloodwynne's attempts to speak French, however, must have improved her opinion of him for she was now—hard as it was to believe—smiling, as she took the young lord's arm and let him lead her into the great hall for supper.

  Dom walked behind the couple. The Saxon was tall, he noted, with much longer legs than Rosamund—evident in those hide breeches the lad wore. Dom found himself wishing that worsted tunic was shorter so he could get a look at the lad's arse. He had a feeling it was firm and round and sweet as a peach.

  He halted, shook his head and then walked onward, following the couple. What the devil was wrong with him tonight? He'd given up a rich bride just because she had a temper that didn't suit him and now he was eyeing up a young man's figure. His damnable cock was semi-hard already, just from letting himself imagine...

  Oh, this would not do at all. He'd have to get these thoughts out of his head. And quickly. Not that he had anything against a man finding his pleasure wherever he may. Dom believed strongly in all men being free to love, worship and fight according to their own desires and beliefs—after all the d'Anzeray lived with their own set of rules, which is why most folk condemned their way of life—but he just happened to prefer pussy. Always had and always would.

  However, even he could appreciate a good-looking man. He could also, so he now discovered, feel attracted to one.

  Chapter Three

  Cedney feared he'd seen through her disguise. When he looked at her there was nowhere to hide. His gaze was intense, thorough, merciless.

  It was overpowering even to be seated near his great size, to feel his body heat. She feared the struggle to remain calm and impervious to his masculine allure had revealed itself upon her face. Surely he would know what she was. He must. Her entire body was afire. She could barely breathe let alone speak. From the frenzied excitement taking hold of her reluctant female parts and seizing them in a fiery, throbbing grip, anyone might think she'd never had a man about the place before.

  Certainly no man like this one.

  Torvig would be envious, she mused, for he was accustomed to being the handsomest man about the place, the charmer no female could resist. Or so he liked to think.

  The first rush of alarm had now given way to a steady trickle of trepidation, waiting for Rufus Barberousse to make an accusation. To stand up and say, "Why, you're a woman! How could you think to fool me?"

  But seated on her right he tucked into the food with relish, laying quick waste to a leg of pheasant before moving on to another and another, his fingers and lips shining with grease. On Cedney's left, Lady Rosamund talked continually, her voice a monotonous drone, spewing nonsense complaints in her own tongue. At least it was noise to cover the fact that Cedney had fallen shy, so she nodded and smiled periodically to encourage the woman in her endless list of grievances.

  Meanwhile every one of her senses was preoccupied with the uncle of her bride-to-be. There was a lusty energy in everything he did, as if there was too much to be contained, even within his massive frame. He ate and drank as if he had a never-ending belly to fill and yet his stomach was not fat. His dark hair shone like coal in the light of the fire and the torches around the room.

  Odd that, she realized suddenly. Now that she was thinking with greater clarity, it occurred to her that he was entirely the wrong color. She looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Tell me, sir, why do they call you Rufus Barberousse? Does that not mean Redbeard?"

  He rubbed his unshaven chin where dark hairs, as black as those on his head, were in plain sight. "Ah...because I am so dark." He laughed sheepishly and shrugged. "'Tis a joke. Of sorts."

  Not a very amusing one, she thought.

  "We have an odd sense of humor where I come from, my lord," he muttered, apparently noting her doubtful expression.

  "So it would seem." She watched him cleaning up another plate of food and looked at the ring on his finger. "You have the seal, I see. And the king's letter?"

  He wiped his fingers down his tunic, reached into the purse at his belt and handed her the document that had secured his safe passage across the country and proved his identity. Yes, according to these things he was indeed the bride's uncle, Rufus Barberousse. Lady Rosamund had not said anything to suggest he was an imposter either. But still something was amiss. Perhaps she should not dig too hard, Cedney mused dourly. Her own situation was not one that would withstand too much scrutiny.

  As she watched Rufus drain his cup, she wondered suddenly what he would do if he knew the truth of her sex. Would he arrest her and take her to the king? Would he rape and slaughter her on the spot?

  Earlier, when Lady Rosamund's old nurse had stumbled on the slick cobbles of the yard, Cedney witnessed Rufus offer a helping hand to keep the poor, haggard lady upright. This act suggested he had kindness in his soul, as well as respect for the aged. Although only a small gesture, Cedney took note of it, for in this time of war and cruelty a man who showed patience and tolerance toward an elderly woman— one beyond the age of any sexual interest to him— was a very rare thing.

  But would he take the same pity on a woman who masqueraded as a man? Surely he would not want his niece wed to someone incapable of sowing seed. Lady Rosamund must have other prospects for a husband and it was every man and woman's holy duty to produce offspring.

  "I understand you are a deeply religiou
s man," she said to Rufus finally.

  His brows wriggled. "I am? Who told you that?"

  Cedney was quite sure someone had, but she couldn't recall who. "Perhaps I confuse you with your brother."

  He snorted with amusement. "I doubt it," he muttered through a mouth crammed full of juicy meat.

  "Do you not have a brother who is a monk and respected chronicler?"

  "Last time I checked none of them had been thus afflicted with Holy orders."

  She frowned. "None of them? You have more brothers?"

  The man stopped then, wiped his lips on his sleeve and gulped down a full goblet of ale. His gaze darted from side to side. "I use the term 'brother' for all the men I have fought alongside, of course."

  "Well, I was speaking of your blood brother, Herallt, sir," she said carefully. "He is a pious monk and chronicler for the King, is he not?"

  Cedney waited, watching his expression change. An uneasy frown creased his brow.

  "Herallt?" he muttered. "Yes. My brother, Herallt."

  Then he stuffed more food into his mouth and chewed violently. Apparently there was nothing more to be said on the subject of his brother.

  She struggled for more conversation. It wasn't that she couldn't think of any, but more a case of having too many to ask and all at the same time. Trouble was, she had little experience with polite conversation. Cedney had never hosted an important guest at the manor and her skills were all on horseback, with a sword or bow in her hand. In truth, there were few folk with whom she could talk comfortably. Ordwyn was likely to fall asleep at the table — in part due to his advanced age, but also because of his fondness for wine— and most other men she knew, like Torvig, preferred to speak only of themselves. This made any conversation one-sided, requiring nothing from her to keep it rolling along.

  Tonight however, she must make an effort.

  "How...how tall are you?" She bit her tongue and her eyes watered. Now why the devil would she ask him that? He would think her addled.