My Lady's Pleasure ~ Three Kinds of Wicked ~ Book 11

by Alice Gaines

  An eRedSage Publishing Publication

  This book is a work of complete fiction. Any names, places, incidents, characters are products of the author’s imagination and creativity or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is fully coincidental.

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  My Lady’s Pleasure

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  My Lady’s Pleasure © 2010 by Alice Gaines

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  My Lady's Pleasure

  ***

  By Alice Gaines

  TO MY READER:

  What woman doesn’t want a huge warrior with unquenchable passions and the right equipment to put them into action? I created Ulric to fill my own fantasies. I hope they energize yours, too.

  My Lady’s Pleasure: Chapter One

  “They’ve breached the wall!” The call came up from the bailey, followed by the blare of a trumpet to alert all within the castle that the intruders would soon overrun Randmead.

  There’d been no hope for them since the siege had begun. Weakened by interminable wars and run by a mere woman, Randmead had offered no resistance except for the desperation of its people. And now, the unthinkable would happen, possession by Vikings. At least the siege would end, and they would all learn their fate.

  Josalyn went to the window and stared out as her few fighting men took up their spears and swords. Even the farmers, armed with little more than pitchforks, lined up for battle. Archers rimmed the top of the walls and fired their arrows down on the invaders. Useless. The Norsemen came in a horde, well equipped, well fed, and trained to kill.

  ”My lady, what will we do?” Anne wailed from beside Josalyn. “They’ll murder us all.”

  “We can’t know that,” she said despite the pounding of her heart.

  “They’re Vikings, not even Christian. I only hope they kill me rather than rape me.”

  “Remain calm.” She gripped Anne by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “The Holy Mother will protect us.”

  Anne crossed herself.

  Mother Mary hadn’t protected her father when he’d ridden out to fight in one of the silly wars men started to fuel their own ambitions. The Blessed Virgin hadn’t protected her mother when she’d watched her husband’s body brought home draped over his horse. Divine intervention came according to some whim Josalyn couldn’t fathom. She’d find scant help from that direction now.

  Forgive me, Holy Mother. I only tire of the killing. Give me strength to face what this day brings with grace and courage. In They Son’s name, I pray. Amen.

  Outside, the battle grew deafening with the clang of steel meeting steel as men shouted and screamed. Bodies lay in pools of their own blood, men she’d known her whole life. Someone had started a fire in a pile of straw and timbers near the stables. Horses screamed as men and women did their best to free the terrified animals and lead them away. Smoke rose into the air, burning her lungs and making the scene resemble a nightmare more than reality.

  In the thickest part of the battle, one of the Vikings stood taller than the others. He stopped for a moment and stared up at her out of icy blue eyes. The nosepiece of his helmet made him resemble more a bird of prey than a man. Fierce and wild. He stood staring at her as though under some enchantment. Then, he did the unthinkable. He lowered his arm, dropping his guard. One of her soldiers took the opportunity to lunge for him with a spear. The tip caught his cheek just below the eye.

  The Viking roared, swung around with his sword, and ran the Englishman through. She recognized the fallen warrior just as the reality of his death registered on his face. John, the cooper’s son, fell to the ground, his life’s blood gushing from him.

  “Stop!” she yelled. “Stop! In the name of God, no more!”

  Somehow, her voice carried over the din of the fighting. If she’d prayed for a miracle, somehow the Heavenly Father had granted that one small one.

  Her men obeyed, even though it might cost them their lives. The Viking hefted his sword and issued a guttural order, and his Norsemen put their weapons down, too.

  The leader took a few steps toward the great hall where she stood. He stared up at her out of his bottomless eyes. “Do you surrender?”

  “I do.” God, help me.

  “Where is the lord of this holding?” he asked.

  “Buried in the chapel.”

  “You’re his wife?”

  “She’s buried beside him,” Josalyn answered. “I govern here now.”

  A smile curled his lips. “Then I accept your surrender.”

  Surrender. She’d done it now. The Viking and his men would do as they wished here. Loot, burn, rape. In truth, she hadn’t thought at all but had acted rashly when she saw John fall. Still, they’d had no hope, and one way or another, she would have had to pray for the invaders’ mercy in the end.

  The Viking warlord made for the main entrance, and Josalyn turned to collect herself before she had to face him.

  “Oh, my lady.” Anne twisted her hands together. “What will become of us?”

  “Calm yourself. Don’t show them fear.”

  “They’ll violate us all,” Anne said. “Even the little ones.”

  “Shush now.”

  The Viking strode into the hall, followed by a few of his men. He handed his huge sword to one of them and studied the room with an appraising eye. Then his icy gaze fell on her. “More than acceptable. Everything.”

  No mistaking it. He meant her. Her knees trembled, but she lifted her chin and stared back at him. Next to the stools and trestle tables–the everyday items of her life–he looked even bigger than he had in the bailey.

  “I’m lord here now,” he said. “I own everything. Do you get my meaning, lady?”

  “May I know your name?”

  “You’ll address me as my lord.”

  “May I know your name, my lord?” She pointedly did not curtsey.

  “Ulric,” he said. “And yours?”

  “Josalyn.”

  “Josalyn.” He appeared to let it linger on his tongue, and he smiled again, a predator’s expression that chilled her blood. “You’ve done well here, Lady Josalyn.”

  “How is it you speak English?”

  “Enough questions.” He removed his helmet and handed it to the man who’d taken his sword. This revealed a mane of golden hair. Even damped with sweat, it had the color of ripened wheat. Before this, she hadn’t noticed the cords of muscle in his neck or the sensuality of his mouth. Even that suggested a purely animal power.

  “You’ll stitch up my wound,” he said.
>
  “I?” she said. “Surely, one of your men—”

  “Learn this of me, my lady. I speak my mind the first time. I don’t favor repeating myself.” His voice had an edge to it. That hint of a threat promised a real menace would follow if she didn’t do as he wished.

  “Anne, get my herbs, some water, and clean cloths,” she said.

  Her maid ran from the room, clearly glad for the excuse to leave.

  “You’ll need to sit,” she said.

  “I’m used to pain,” he answered. “I’ll stand.”

  “I won’t be able to reach the wound properly. You’re too big.”

  He gestured to one of his men, who dragged a stool to where she stood. Ulric finally sat. Now his head angled close to her, and she could bend to his face. A stubble of honey-colored beard covered his chin, and lashes of the same color surrounded his eyes. Very striking. Just below one of his high cheekbones, the gash in his skin still oozed blood. Slowly, God be praised. He was right. It needed to be stitched.

  “It’s cut into muscle,” she said.

  He only grunted in reply.

  “I’ll sew you up, but you’ll scar.”

  “I’m not known for beauty,” he answered.

  And yet, he had a primitive beauty. Nothing like the man she’d dreamed of since childhood, the brave knight who would have saved her from this very danger. A noble Englishman, fair and just and gentle. Childish dreams. Even those were gone now.

  Ann returned with her medicine basket and set it on the table near her. A bowl of water and a pile of clean cloths went next to it. Josalyn gestured with her head that the maid could leave, so she curtseyed and skittered off again.

  Josalyn dipped a cloth in the water and dabbed at the gash on his cheek. The backs of her fingers brushed his skin, and the strangest rush of feelings shot through her. Intoxicating and dangerous. She almost dropped the cloth, but she clutched it and stepped back.

  She knew nothing of this man’s plans. As soon as she’d finished ministering to his wound, he might force himself on her, even in front of his men.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “You stopped.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Get used to the sight of blood, my lady. No one leaves this life without dealing with more than this trifling cut.”

  She’d stitched up wounds the likes of this one before, but if he wished to think her weak about blood, she’d let him. Better that than know the truth—that she feared the man, not the sight of his blood.

  “You’re quiet, mouse,” he said. “I don’t like the quiet ones.”

  “I’m not a mouse.”

  He chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest.

  “Most men don’t enjoy a woman’s chatter,” she said.

  “If you chatter, I know where you are,” he answered.

  “Ah, but words can hide a number of sins,” she said. “Like treachery.”

  “Finish with the wound,” he said. “We’ll joust latter.”

  Oh they’d joust, would they? He had all the strength and all the weapons. With any luck, she could avoid him and then disappear completely.

  She soaked the cloth again and dabbed it over the wound, the one he’d received because he’d let down his guard when he’d stared at her. After several passes, she’d cleaned off all the blood and dirt. To stop infection, she smeared a salve of thyme and sage over the area. His eyes narrowed at the sting, and his jaw tensed, but he gave no other indication he’d felt anything at all. Now to stitch him closed.

  After her mother’s death, she’d become the lady of the castle and had worked on dozens of wounds, many worse than this one. She set about her work quickly, passing the needle through his flesh over and over to bring the jagged edges of skin together. No warrior admitted to pain except in the most extreme conditions. Some took wine to help steady themselves. But none sat as stoically as this man, staring straight ahead of him with his jaw set in a grim line.

  She finished finally and snipped the thread with her tiny scissors. “I’ve done the best I could, but the skin will pucker.”

  “’Tis no matter.”

  She replaced her medical items in the basket. “Keep it clean and tell me if you become hot.”

  He chuckled again, a quiet but dangerous sound. “Trust me, Lady Josalyn, you shall be the first to know.”

  “I meant fever,” she said.

  He turned that blue gaze on her. “You’ve already set a fever in my blood.”

  She stepped back. “Not intentionally, I swear.”

  He leaned toward her until his breath warmed the skin of her throat. “Imagine your power if you tried.”

  His men might not have understood his words, but they caught the meaning of his posture. They broke into raucous laughter. Some even hooted.

  He barked an order in his native language, and they fell silent, but they still looked on with evil intent in their expressions.

  The Viking commander rose from the stool. “Find quarters for my men. I’ll take the master’s chamber.”

  “But—” She stopped herself before she objected that she slept there. Better to find some other bed than even to hint at sharing a bed with him.

  “But?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You question my order?”

  “I’ll have the master’s chamber readied for you,” she answered.

  Another of his men entered the hall and went directly to Ulric. He said a few words in his native language.

  “English, man,” Ulric said. “How can we expect the lady to obey our orders if she can’t understand them?”

  The Devil take him. Bad enough she had to bow to his wishes. Did she have to bend to the demands of every man in his army?

  The second man gave her a small bow. “They’ve done well for such a long siege. There’s still wheat to grind for bread and some vegetables.”

  “My people are disciplined.” In truth, if Ulric’s victory would put an end to their constant, gnawing hunger, everyone within the castle walls would celebrate.

  “The buttery’s well stocked,” the second man said. “Plenty of mead and wine.”

  “We don’t drink much spirits,” she said. “Our well gives us good water.”

  “We’ll drink plenty tonight,” Ulric said. “My men and I will have a feast.”

  “There’s naught in the way of meat,” the man said. “A few chickens and a cow.”

  “We’ll eat the cow,” Ulric said.

  “But, you can’t,” she said.

  Ulric gave her an icy glare. “Lady, you try my patience,”

  Her knees went weak again, but she lifted her chin and answered with a steady gaze of her own. “She gives us milk for cheese. Besides, she’d be tough.”

  He continued to stare at her until she could fairly swim in the blue of his eyes. Finally, he huffed in disapproval.

  “Take some of the lady’s archers–now my archers–into the forest and kill something,” Ulric said. “We’ll rest tonight and feast tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man turned sharply and left the hall.

  Ulric took a step toward her, so close that she had to crane her neck to look into his face. “Everything here belongs to me now, the master’s chamber, the archers, even the cow. Do you understand me, Lady Josalyn?”

  What could she say to that? She’d surrendered. She had no way to fight him back, except treachery, and neither her God nor her conscience would allow that.

  “My lady?” he snapped.

  “I understand.”

  “Everything at Randmead is mine. Including you.”

  ***

  Ulric sat on a stool in the darkened kitchen and removed his shoes. Beside him, steam rose from the tub of water the servants had poured for his bath. Things ran smoothly here. One would scarcely guess that Castle Randmead had fallen to an invader only hours before.

  “You’ve surveyed the tenant farmers and the villagers?” he asked his second-in-command.

  “As best I could,” Olaf answered
. “The ones who didn’t fear to speak to me.”

  “Loyal to their lady?”

  “Devoted, but if you can protect them better than she can, they’ll be happy for you, too.”

  “We’ll have to become Christian,” Ulric said.

  “Do Gods matter to you?”

  “You know me better than that.” He removed his sword and scabbard and set them on the floor. “Odin or Jesu, I serve whichever one serves me.”

  “Best not let the parish father hear you say that.”

  “’Tis not the priest who concerns me,” he said, “but the mouse who stood up to the dragon this afternoon.”

  “The Lady Josalyn.”

  “Aye.” Ulric rose and removed his shirt and braes. Now naked, he stepped into the tub and lowered himself into the water.

  “I thought she caught your eye,” Olaf said.

  “My eye has nothing to do with this.”

  Olaf laughed. “Your cock, then.”

  “She did.” As long as he lived, he’d never forget the image of her standing in the window of the hall and staring down at the battle. Probably nothing more than the slanting rays of the sun had caused the illusion, but her hair had seemed aflame. She’d worn it loose around her face and shoulders, and the color changed with her every movement. Now red, now chestnut, now sending golden highlights. It had gone back to a brown luster, beautiful but humanly possible, when he’d finally met her inside. But, she still had alabaster skin, flashing emerald eyes, and a mouth that whispered sin and innocence all at once. He’d never before seen her like and likely wouldn’t ever again.

  “Yes,” Olaf said. “I’d say she bewitched your cock.”

  In truth, she’d struck him like a bolt of lightning in much the same way his father often claimed his mother did when he got a belly full of drink. Unlike the old man, Ulric would keep his wits, and keep her, and not spend the rest of his life stuck in memories and bitterness. Yes, what a wonderful bit of luck. Not only would one conquest bring him lands and a wife, but good lands and a good-looking wife. “What did you hear of her in the village?”