by Ann Jacobs
“Sometimes I think I recall a gray stone castle upon a cliff overlooking the sea. Waves crashing against the rocky shore beneath it. The great hall had a hearth as wide as two men are tall.” She paused. “I can make out no more. No faces but those that have haunted me before…”
Her words trailed off, as though she pondered possibilities too painful to put into words. “Rolfe, I lived in that castle…in my dreams I’ve seen myself standing at the bedside of some gravely injured knight. Heard my sire give orders to his men to take me away.”
“Then you are no serf.”
“Nay. I am…my name lies somewhere deep in my mind. I cannot…Yes. I see an old woman now. She calls me Demoiselle.”
“‘Tis the courtesy title given a maiden of noble birth. Think, sweeting. What is your name? The name of the castle in your memories?”
She turned in his arms, burrowing her face against the hard wall of his chest. “All I remember is an old woman helping me to dress, calling me Demoiselle.”
A gray stone castle, on a cliff that overlooked the sea. Rolfe could think of only two within the distance of two days’ travel that fit that description. He and Giles had overseen the destruction of one of them, in Lincolnshire, during their most recent service with King Henry. The other stronghold was to the north, about two days’ hard ride away. SummerfieldCastle lay near the oft disputed Scots border. ‘Twas a fine castle as Rolfe recalled, held by Earl William, a marcher lord whose fury at the highlanders had apparently caused him to ally himself with some near neighbors who the king had outlawed and vowed to destroy.
“Might your sire be Earl William of Summerfield?” Rolfe asked gently.
Jasmine lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “I know not. Mayhap if you took me there…seeing it might stir my addled brain.”
“Summerfield lies two days’ hard journey from here, sweeting. I’ve glimpsed it only once, when Giles’s army did King Henry’s business in the North some months ago. It has two great circular towers and an older square one. The portcullis is emblazoned with a large, elaborate replica of a hawk on the wing. A deep moat protects the three sides facing land. The steep cliff protects it from intruders who would come by sea.”
Her eyes tightly closed, Jasmine appeared to be trying to place the details Rolfe described—details he imagined only a warrior would recall.
“Does this place have a massive fireplace in the great hall?” Her dejected expression told him his description had opened no doors in her flawed memory.
Rolfe stroked Jasmine’s silky cheek, hoping to dispel the anguish he heard in her voice. “I know not. We did not venture within its gates.” The king had let his army bypass Summerfield. When he recalled the reason—that Henry had known Earl William lent succor to the northern robber barons they’d been fighting to destroy—Rolfe barely managed to hide the apprehension that washed over him.
“Jasmine, think on this. Did the sun rise or set over the sea?” Please God, her home would prove to be the keep in Lincolnshire, even though it now was naught but a pile of rubble and its lord had departed in disgrace for France.
She lay still for a moment, as if in deep thought. “The sun disappeared into the sea at eventide,” she told him after a few moments’ silence.
‘Twas Summerfield from which she came. Bones of the Savior. Rolfe’s emotions vacillated between joy and terror. His Jasmine was an heiress beyond any he’d have dared to seek. A marriage prize without equal if she was now her father’s only heir. The heir of a man who stood on the cusp of disaster, if rumors that had circulated around the battlefield not two months past were true.
“Have you sisters, sweeting?”
“Nay. Only a brother. The one at whose bedside I stood vigil.” She sounded strangely certain about that, as though that particular part of her lost memory had suddenly been restored.
Rolfe’s hope dwindled, for he knew Earl William’s only son had recently succumbed to his wounds. His credentials were such that he could aspire to win the well-dowered daughter of a powerful nobleman, but not the only heiress to a great estate. “I believe you are the demoiselle of Summerfield, sweeting. Too rich a prize for the fourth son of Comte deVere of Normandy, even though I enjoy King Henry’s favor. He will wed you to a prince, mayhap even to one of his own sons.” He’d not tell her he feared Henry’s armies were even now laying siege to her father’s castle.
“Nay!” she cried, rising from his arms and glaring down at him. “You have asked me to wed with you, and I now accept. I will have no other man in my bed. No other hard cock in my cunt, spewing its seed. Even now I may carry your babe,” she said, her voice gentler now as she toyed with the rings in his tightening nipples. “Summon your priest and we’ll say the vows, and then take me to this place you believe to be my home so I can regain the parts of me that I have lost.”
“‘Twould be dishonorable to wed you without your lord father’s blessing, sweeting.” Possibly fatal as well unless King Henry could be persuaded to order the marriage.
Jasmine clasped his face in her dainty hands. “If I knew who my sire was, ‘twould dishonor him. But I do not know. You said you wished to marry me. If you still do, you will stand before the priest with me this day.”
Rolfe wanted nothing more, but… “The banns…”
“…can be waived,” she said. “The priest owes you his livelihood, so he will do your bidding.”
“Rise, sweeting. We will break our fast, then depart for my lord brother’s castle. If he agrees ‘tis the right path to take, we will be married there ere we journey north to end the mystery that surrounds and confounds you.”
A wife he loved who loved him, too? An estate even richer than his brother’s? Rolfe allowed himself to fantasize as he and Jasmine rode there across Harrow’s fields and meadows toward Giles’ castle. He imagined himself a marcher lord, King Henry’s faithful follower keeping order along the wild Scots border. He’d have strong sons and beautiful daughters. Jasmine would sleep in his arms each night, be at his side by day.
Not likely. Henry would most likely have his head for defiling such a marriage prize and give his woman to another more favored vassal.
Not while he yet breathed! With luck the king would remember the services he’d rendered…the fact that Giles had saved his life on the field of battle…the times they’d drunk ale and wenched and fought side by side for Henry’s causes.
If they were very lucky, Henry might let him live and let this marriage stand, while confiscating Summerfield and bestowing it separately upon some other worthy knight. If so, Rolfe knew he’d have won the greater prize.
Chapter Six
“‘Tis a bold move you plan, my brother. Marrying her could mean your fortune. Or your death.”
His throat dry from the hurried ride from Hedgewick, Rolfe quaffed his ale, then met Giles’s concerned gaze. “I wed with her for love. Not for the riches she may bring me.”
“Nonetheless—your Jasmine is a great heiress indeed if she is Earl William’s daughter. King Henry has declared the earl an outlaw and ordered his properties reverted to the Crown. We ride out on the morrow, to join his armies and take Summerfield by force.”
“Why had you not sent me word?”
“Henry’s messenger arrived only yesterday. Sir Tomas was about to ride out this morning as you rode through Harrow’s gates to raise troops from Hedgewick and my other holdings.”
Rolfe thought of Jasmine, her hopes of regaining her lost memory, and despaired as to what the coming battle might do to her fragile mental balance. “I would not tell her who we go to fight.”
“‘Twill be a difficult secret to keep, I think. Even now Brianna has likely told her your wedding celebration comes on the eve of a great battle.”
* * * * *
“There. You will wear this for your wedding.” Lady Brianna pulled an undergown of shimmering gold silk from a coffer by the window. “I like it not on me, but with your vibrant coloring, it will be beautiful.”
“
Thank you.” Jasmine doubted any garment would be less than fetching on the countess, whose unusually short blond curls framed a classically beautiful face. Even now, so soon after she’d given birth, her waist seemed small enough for her lord husband to span it with his two hands. “I will wear it gladly. I fear Hedgewick’s attics provided little in the way of ladies’ garb.”
“It matters not. I was dragged to the altar to wed with Giles, wearing boys’ clothes, with soot and tar smeared in my hair and on my face and hands. You see, I tried desperately to escape him. Now I thank the saints I did not.”
The way Brianna’s expression softened told Jasmine the match that had begun by force had become a love match. Having seen Lord Giles, who looked much like Rolfe only sterner, Jasmine had no problem imagining Brianna having fallen quickly in love.
“Is this the tunic you were seeking, my lady?”
Brianna took a practically transparent garment from the hands of a man—the biggest, most unusual-looking man Jasmine had ever seen. She tried without success to drag her gaze from his shining scalp, practically beardless face and…his naked chest and the colorful open vest he wore over ballooning pants. He reminded her of some of the erotic pictures in Rolfe’s book.
“Thank you,” Brianna murmured. “Jasmine, this is Arnaud. He is my right hand when my lord Giles must be about on the king’s business. His services this night will be my gift to you and Rolfe. Go, Arnaud, tell my husband and brother the bride will be ready soon.”
His services? Surely Arnaud could not be the eunuch of whom Rolfe had spoken… “This is too fine, my lady. I cannot—”
“Silence. You wed with my beloved brother-by-marriage. Naught is too fine a gift to celebrate his good fortune.”
Confused, for she brought naught but herself to Rolfe, Jasmine stood silent while Brianna and two serving women fussed over her hair and fought over which of the fine girdles Rolfe had selected as her bride-gifts looked better with the shimmering sunburst of sarcinet and the gold undergown beneath it.
The picture book image of a woman and her lover, attended by a huge, exotic man who was not a man, made Jasmine wonder. The possibilities intrigued her. Did Arnaud pleasure Brianna when Lord Giles was off fighting the king’s battles? Did he join the two of them to re-enact the scenes that had fascinated her so? She tried to control the lust that had her nipples tingling and her honey flowing slickly down her thigh, but the erotic images wouldn’t go away.
“I think the rubies,” Brianna said decisively, crisscrossing the long rope of gold chain interspersed with brilliant faceted stones. “We will sew you another gown that does justice to the sapphires and diamonds Rolfe also gave you as bride-gifts. Come, let us get you wed, so that you and my brother may enjoy the pleasures of the marriage bed for a few hours ere he rides out again on the king’s business.”
* * * * *
An heiress. The only surviving child of an outlawed earl he was bound to set out to fight on the morning after wedding her. A marriage prize too rich to aspire to, yet he was waiting here in Harrow’s great hall in all his finery to take her before God and his lord brother’s household.
Rolfe straightened the red velvet tabard that bore his family’s device worked in gold thread and glittering gemstones. He adjusted the jeweled belt that held his dress sword in a jeweled scabbard. In his sweating hand he clutched the ruby-encrusted gold ring he’d soon place on Jasmine’s small hand.
Perhaps if he fought valiantly and well, Henry would ignore the fact he’d wed the only living child of the Earl of Summerfield without royal consent, and let him live.
Mayhap, if he distracted himself with the activity around him, he could get his mind off the probable consequences of listening to his cock and his heart instead of his brain. He scanned the room, finding his two knights lifting their tankards with some of Giles’s men while servants scurried about with food and drink they’d hurriedly prepared for a wedding feast.
And Giles, richly-garbed as befitted a belted earl in black velvet with the deVere device worked across his chest in diamonds and silver. He strode across the hall to join Rolfe. “They come now,” Giles said, his gaze leading Rolfe’s to the staircase that led to the Lord’s Tower.
When Rolfe saw Jasmine his doubts fled. He’d do anything, risk anything, to keep this exquisite creature for his own. She wore her raven hair loose, crowned with a wreath of herbs and flowers, her golden gown belted with the ruby girdle he’d brought back from the East…and a knowing, very unvirginal smile lit her beautiful face when she saw him.
They made their vows and drank the toasts, broke bread and fed each other the tenderest morsels from the plate they shared. They laughed at the antics of traveling minstrels…danced…partook of the honey cake the cook had hurriedly prepared to celebrate their nuptials.
“We will prepare your bride for you, my brother,” Brianna told Rolfe before spiriting Jasmine up the stairs.
Surprised, for he’d expected no bedding ceremony, Rolfe turned to Giles. “All know we anticipated our vows. I presented the bloodied sheet to your priest, as proof that Jasmine might already carry my son.”
“The bedding is Brianna’s gift to you. She lends you Arnaud this night.”
Rolfe’s cock swelled in his chausses. “Arnaud minds not?”
“Would you mind servicing a woman as fair as your bride?” Giles shook his head, as though Rolfe had taken leave of his senses.
“Nay.” Tonight, his wedding night, seemed far removed from the villa Giles had captured near Constantinople. And he, very different from the frightened, injured boy his brother and the houris in the seraglio had tried to comfort after the death of his captors. “You showed me then that giving a woman pleasure could bring almost as great satisfaction as receiving it. I’ve not forgotten that day. Or the houri who let me lick her cunt and bring her to pleasure with a great glass dildo. ‘Tis grateful I am that I use these lessons now to enhance the pleasures I bring my lady with my cock.”
Giles laughed. “How does your Jasmine like the embellishments you wear in it?”
“She seems fond indeed of that jewelry. I thought perhaps to give her some of her own.” The idea of putting his mark permanently on the parts of Jasmine that now belonged only to him made Rolfe’s balls tighten and his cock grow stiff. “How long will it take for Arnaud to ready my lady?” he asked.
“I gave him the time it took me to finish a bottle of her father’s finest wine and wash away the grime of battle from my body. Your bride, however, does not require the effort it took Arnaud to rid Brianna of the tar and soot she attempted to use as a disguise—and you need not a thorough scrubbing. We’ll share another bottle of wine ere I take you to her.”
* * * * *
Brianna and her ladies divested Jasmine of her bridal finery, folding it neatly and laying it atop the coffer of clothing and jewels Rolfe had brought from Hedgewick. She stood, her loose hair arranged to veil her nakedness, expecting at any moment for Rolfe to be propelled into the herb-laden bedchamber by his brother and those of the knights and men at arms who were sober enough to climb the steep, curved stairs.
Instead, Arnaud came in. And the ladies in waiting departed. “Arnaud will ready you for your husband.” Brianna poured two goblets full of rich-smelling red wine and handed one to Jasmine. “His services this night are my gifts to you and Rolfe.”
“Lie on the bed, my lady,” the giant ordered, his voice soft yet rumbling, as if it came from deep in his barrel chest.
Jasmine hesitated. Though ‘twas titillating to imagine being attended by two lovers, she was loath to violate a vow made before God. The priest’s solemn words reverberated in her head.
…keep yourself only unto him, until death do you part.
“Go on, little sister. ‘Tis no sacrilege. Arnaud, tell Rolfe’s bride you mean him no dishonor. That your intent is to bring him greater pleasure on his wedding night. I leave you now. Rolfe will join you shortly.”
The giant took a step toward her and clasped
both of her hands. “Feel my hands, my lady. They are as soft and smooth as yours. I have no beard, no warrior’s hard body. Most important to your lord husband, I have no cock or balls. My only road to pleasure is to bring satisfaction to my mistress.” Exerting gentle pressure on her hands, he dragged them to his empty crotch. “Tonight it pleases her for me to pleasure you in the ways of the infidel. Lie down, and I will prepare you to accept Lord Rolfe’s great sword.”
Sexual excitement warred with fear. Jasmine lay near the edge of the bed upon a linen towel that had been left there. Velvet hangings at the foot of the bed obscured her view of the door. A breeze carried the sweet, musky scent from a hundred glowing candles—and a foreign, pungent but not altogether unpleasant smell—to her nostrils, making her fight to keep from sneezing.
That scent intensified when the giant eunuch sat beside her and began anointing her with a cool, thick substance. Her arms…calves…thighs…her cunt…
“What do you do?” she asked, alarmed at the tingling sensation that followed his touch.
“I make your skin smooth for your lord’s pleasure, my lady Jasmine. While the paste works, I will pleasure you with these.” He held up a stiff feather from a falcon’s wing, a pair of ben-wei balls, and a string of large round pearls like the ones Rolfe had inserted in her cunt after their first mating.
Jasmine felt her honey begin to flow when Arnaud very gently spread her pussy lips and slipped the mercury-filled balls inside. Her arousal intensified with the motion he set off by laying his big hand on her belly and rotating it in a lazy circle. His other hand went to her anus, already sopping with her own juice, and she felt him inserting the pearls, one by one, past the tight opening and into her sensitive rear passage.
“Oh, yesss,” she purred when he began stroking her slick, wet slit with the tip of the feather she’d seen. She lifted her hips, setting the balls in motion inside her cunt. ‘Twas all she could do to suppress a scream.