The Virgin Proxy

by Fox, Georgia

  “Yes, of course.” Thierry bowed his head, but lifted it quickly again. “In fact, I came to let you know your bride has arrived. Shall I send her up?”

  “Hmm.” He stared into his wine. It seemed the Senclere wench was eager to become his brood mare and chatelaine, since she was half a day early. His turbulent mood was not soothed by the thought. This ‘pedigree bitch’, as the king had jovially called her, would provide him with a fine litter of males and the beginning of his own dynasty, but thinking of the next generation only reminded him that his own would soon be gone. It was almost as if the king had put him out to grass like a warhorse past its prime. In a few short years he would be thirty, an old man.

  Thierry waited patiently.

  “Not in the mood for her tonight,” Guy snapped finally. “Too damned tired.” It was the thought of marriage. A wife. Getting old. Getting fat and grey. This setting down of roots and turning respectable was the hardest mission he’d ever undertaken. He’d sooner face an unruly mob of cut-throat Saxon rebels than a wife. Wedlock—even the word had a grim finality to it.

  “You’re still worrying over the soothsayer’s predictions?” Thierry exclaimed, his tone bemused.

  Guy glowered into his cup. “Hmm.” In truth, he’d considered little else over the last few hours. The old woman who came to his gates earlier looking for alms, had offered to tell fortunes for a small fee and Thierry had brought her to Guy for a reading.

  “Your life is about to change, young man,” she’d told him. “You come to the end of one path and turn down another.” This was no surprise. The locals knew about his forthcoming marriage and no doubt the old woman had heard the gossip. But then she said, “What is lost will be found again.”

  And that stuck in his mind, pierced it like an arrowhead.

  He opened his palm and looked at the stone he carried. The crude but recognizable figure of a horse had been scratched into the surface by a determined hand. It fascinated him, ever since he found the pebble when he came here to clear the rubble of an old Saxon village and lay the stone for his castle’s foundation. He kept it with him at all times, wondering about the person who made the etching. They must have spent a great deal of time on it and then they lost it there, probably when the villagers were routed by the Norman army and their homes burned to the ground. Wexford, as it was called then by the Saxons, had been a nest of rebels. Now it was his, granted to him by the king, along with two other small parcels of adjoining land. The soul who lost the little stone was gone. But he had found it. The soothsayer’s words gave it new significance.

  What is lost will be found again.

  She had also warned him that fate would bring a rare kind of warrior to breach his fortress. He’d sneered at that. His castle, even unfinished as yet, was impenetrable, the outer walls thick, high and well guarded. Still…perhaps he should post additional men in the forest around his property.

  Thierry interrupted his thoughts. “I don’t know why you took the old crone’s predictions so to heart. I wager she says the same to everyone.”

  “But this marriage will change my life. It is a new path. A wife marks the beginning of decrepitude. She’ll make demands on my time and attention. She’ll fill this castle with other women and sickly sweet smells.”

  Thierry sighed. “So what shall I do with her now? Can’t very well leave her out in the yard on a night like this.”

  “You can find a place to put her can’t you?” he snapped. “Until tomorrow.”

  “Yes, of course, if you wish it.” Half turned away, Thierry paused. “She’s a fine looking wench.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

  “Dark blonde hair, delicate features, big brown doe-eyes and lovely…” Hands raised to cup the air, Thierry stopped just short of finishing his sentence. He grinned broadly. “Ripe as two plums about to fall before they’re plucked.”

  Guy gave a small grunt of dour amusement and swigged the rest of his wine.

  “Oh and the lady has requested a bath. It seems the dirt of her journey must be scraped off before she feels presentable for her new lord and master, although I couldn’t see anything wrong myself.” Thierry paused, grinning. “That’s what I came to tell you.”

  “Hmm.” Guy was studying his empty cup, scratching his chin.

  “About the bath. I’ll have it set up for her in the cookhouse shall I?”

  “Hmm.”

  Thierry nodded and hurried out, chuckling at his friend’s lack of interest.

  Guy looked again at his found stone and slowly closed his fist around it.

  * * * *

  By the time Sybilia was done, the bathwater was cold, but Deorwynn threw an extra hunk of dry wood on the fire beside it and stepped into the vacated tub with a sigh of contentment. For once she would bathe without a grave-faced nun standing by to be sure she wasn’t tempted to touch herself under the water. Furthermore, tonight she would bathe naked, without the under-shift the convent girls were forced to wear. Another step on the path to freedom, she thought merrily, sinking down into the water.

  Sybilia had gone grumpily to bed, insulted that her future husband had no time for her tonight. Relying on her “handmaiden” to empty the bathwater and fold up her clothes, she’d left the cookhouse with one sour warning. “Don’t wake me with your cold feet in my back when you come to bed. It seems we must share as they haven’t readied a proper lady’s chamber for me yet.”

  For now Deorwynn was blissfully alone. The cookhouse was silent, warm and empty, the doors bolted, a guard posted outside. No one would interrupt her. A rare, precious treat indeed. Eyes closed, she hummed softly, lathering herself with the little cake of waxy herbal soap that Sybilia left behind. Now to conjure her dream lover, the fantasy she’d created to help stave off the boredom of life in the convent.

  Slowly she slid her hands down her belly, arching her back with a deep sigh of delight.

  * * * *

  Guy Devaux put his eye to the peephole and couldn’t believe what he saw. His innocent, virginal bride touched herself intimately, her knees spread, eyes closed. Although her honey streaked hair was tied up out of the water, waving locks tumbled down to her shoulders, the ends dampened in the cloudy water, sticking to her pale skin. The song she hummed was no church music, but a popular country ballad with saucy words. He’d heard it sung before—usually by drunken peasants on feast days.

  She worked her arm faster under the water. Larger waves now slapped the sides of the tub and over the edge, making puddles on the stone floor. Her tongue, pink and wet, slid over her lower lip as she let out a mewl of excitement, her cheeks glowing, another lock of hair slithering free from its loose binding.

  When he came there to look at her, he expected nothing much, especially considering the peevish temper he was in. It was only out of duty that he came to see his bride, knowing Thierry expected him to make use of the side door and the convenient screen of drying hides. Should Guy not go to see his bride bathe, the other men might hear of it and think there was something amiss with him.

  Expectations low, he first put his eye to the hole just as she lowered into the water. Of course, Thierry had told him she was a beauty, but he could have said that as a joke or even just to be polite. After all, Sybilia Senclere was merely a good political match for an upstart like Devaux; he didn’t expect their union to ignite any passionate fires.

  But as he viewed his bride from behind the screen of animal hides, he felt a searing hot flame leap instantly to life.

  She moved in the water, lifting her shoulders against the edge of the tub. Between every wave her nipples bobbed into view, hot pink and splendidly perky. Her breasts were not large, yet beautifully formed, perfect handfuls, just as Thierry hinted.

  His loins quickened. Aha. This was more like it. He unfastened his leather chausses. Just when he’d begun to think there might be something wrong with his tools, they started working properly again. With speed too. He gripped his hardened shaft, trying not to breathe too l
oudly and give himself away.

  She slipped back into the water. Damn. He couldn’t see her breasts now. She opened her legs wider and let them hang over the wet sides of the bath. Now she used both hands under the water and he saw her small white teeth biting her lower lip. He ground his jaw, watching the water where it lapped around her arms. Guy knew, without seeing it, that his wife’s cherry basket would be as pretty and well-ripened as her plums.

  And he yearned to plunder it, to plant fruit there of his own.

  His balls tightened; he exhaled. Just a little too loud.

  Her eyes flew open, staring directly at the screen of hides. He halted, the tendons in his arm standing out, his fingers curled tight around his growing, surging manhood.

  She sat up, arms crossed over her breasts. Had she heard his breath, or just sensed him there? He wouldn’t be surprised by the latter, for the air was full of hot prickles, tense and thick, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm.

  “Is someone there?” she demanded. Her voice was soft, but not fearful or timid.

  Guy made a quick decision. She was his bride. He had a right to look at her, every part of her, and she had no right to stop him. So he stepped out into her view, still holding his proudly erect cock in one hand. He gave the shaft several slow, casual strokes and looked at the woman in the bath, waiting for her gasp of outrage. She wouldn’t know who he was, of course. Surely she would scream until a guard came. Then she would learn two things in quick succession—his identity and her only duty here in his fortress. On her back with her legs spread.

  Her deep brown eyes widened. Still she held her arms over her breasts and drew her knees up to her body.

  Neither spoke.

  She turned her gaze to his manhood and what was, at first, fear and astonishment on her pretty face, swiftly became curiosity. Then candid admiration. Rather than scream for the guard, she stared boldly at his nakedness.

  A spur of anger kicked at his temper. Had that old tight-purse Senclere promised him a virgin and cheated him with a whore? Some nobles from the old country resented the success of fresh, young blood here in this newly acquired land and they looked down on men like Guy, a common soldier raised up by the sword. Sending used stock, instead of the avowed maiden, would be one sly way for the Baron Senclere to bite his thumb at Devaux.

  When Guy looked into her wide, rich brown eyes, filled with flecks of gold, and saw her unguarded wonder, her soft lips part in a sigh of excitement, it mattered that he should be her first. It mattered a vast deal.

  * * * *

  In the beginning, still partially caught up in erotic fantasy, she thought her dream lover had finally emerged into real life. Her deep-rooted craving must have transformed him from a whisper of sensations into a flesh and blood man.

  By God he was huge. Built like a bear.

  Second thoughts quickly swept away foolish imaginings. He must be one of Devaux’s serfs, she thought. He wore a stained, ripped, sleeveless tunic of rough cloth and, beneath that, muddied leather chausses and boots. He carried his size well, approaching her almost silently, the muscles in his arm moving fluidly as he stroked his cock.

  Her next reaction was fear, naturally.

  She could yell for the guard like a weak woman. Or, like a brave Saxon warrior, she might reach for the long knife she’d taken from its hook and secreted under her folded gown beside the bath. Both options gave her some reassurance. Any moment now he would be sorry he spied on her.

  However, she was not sorry.

  The man was outrageously beautiful—all thick sinew, hard, bulging thighs and broad slabs of muscle, visible under his torn tunic. She liked looking at him, as much as he evidently liked looking at her. He stepped closer, one hand stroking up and down that rigid shaft, which kept growing even as she watched.

  This was only her first night away from the convent, she mused wickedly, and things were looking up already.

  Everyone said Deorwynn of Wexford was a bad girl, born that way and irredeemable. Yet there hadn’t been a great deal of scope for her creativity over the last fifteen years at the convent. Now free at last, she could give her intrinsic naughtiness full rein. Opportunities were here to be taken.

  Thoughts of reaching for that knife slipped easily away.

  Already aroused by her own hand and the lapping of those cool waves, the sensation reached a new level at the awe-inspiring sight of this stranger. Between her legs it felt as if she was melting, opening to fit him. Her nipples swelled against her arms, so she decided to stop hiding them. After all, he’d already seen, and he wasn’t shy about showing her his splendid proportions. She rested her arms on the edge of the bath and let him look his fill of her too. His eyes grew hot. They reminded her suddenly of her brothers’ gyrfalcon looking down at her through its little hood. Except this man’s eyes were not black like the bird; they were blue, shockingly fine, gleaming like stumbled-upon precious gemstones in his dirt-streaked, unshaven face.

  She was the prey. He just hadn’t decided which part of her to eat first.

  The danger only added to her excitement.

  Deorwynn sat straighter, the bottom curve of her breasts resting just above the water. She glanced down at her nipples—rosy and pert, enjoying the unblinking attention from his gaze. It was wrong to encourage him, but she couldn’t stop herself; she wanted this handsome stranger to look at her body. Parting her knees again, she let them rest against the sides of the tub, keeping her hands out of the way.

  From where he stood he could look down into the water, but it was cloudy now with soap residue and the remnant of dried herbs. He might see little teasing glimpses but not everything.

  Closer he moved, almost casually, handling his heavy balls and blushing cock.

  First one and then the other, she propped her legs over the sides of the bath and lifted her lower body toward the surface, until her tiny, golden pubic curls floated in the foggy water, just within his view.

  A low, tense grunt rumbled through his chest. He knelt beside the bath. Just as she began to fall back into the water, his thick arm shot out and he grabbed her possessively, his massive hand cupping her sex, holding her up by it. She felt his pulse, pounding through his big palm and into her soaking pussy as he held her. His middle finger was in the crack of her ass, while the pad of his thumb pressed on her mound and his palm squeezed her labia.

  Deorwynn gasped, the pressure almost hurting, but feeling too good to make him stop. Not that he would, she thought, looking up at his hard face, tight jaw and those stunning, clear, blue eyes. He would do what he wanted with her.

  A shiver ran through her body from that point where he held her so intimately. It spread through her limbs and all the way to her brain, obscuring any other sensation but this shuddering, keening desire.

  His hand was tanned and rough next to her light, smooth skin and the golden hair of her womanhood. The bones in his fingers were thick, long and powerful. He carefully wriggled his thumb between her labia and bent his head to take her left breast in his mouth. She leaned back, head hanging over the end of the bath, the rim pressing into her neck. His teeth nipped her, his tongue flicked over her nipple and then he took it between his lips and drew gently upon it. She arched in the water, hands gripping the sides, legs dangling, useless, over the edge, her heels thudding against the wood panels. At his mercy he held her—hand at one end, mouth at the other—and played her like an instrument.

  Then he eased his trembling thumb further into her pussy and his lips slipped from her nipple while he turned his head, observing his hand at work. His gaze grew even more intense.

  Warm spasms shook her violently. His fierce blue eyes, raking her body, worshipping her so heatedly, sent her over the edge into blissful oblivion.

  * * * *

  His bride was a virgin. Elation swept his blood like fire through a dry forest. He’d assumed the worst. Now, feeling the barrier exactly where it should be, he kept his thumb there a while, imagining how her tight sheath would fe
el tomorrow around his cock when he mounted her. The beautiful woman arched in the water, her buttocks squeezing his middle finger almost as hard as the silky inner walls of her cunt clamped around his broad thumb.

  She must know he was her intended, he reasoned, or she would never allow him these liberties. Should a high-born lady be this willing to let him play? No matter. He wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Since she’d let him touch her that way, she’d better damn well know he was her betrothed.

  His cock was fit to burst at the thought of all this being his, but he couldn’t fuck her yet. Not until they were married. He wanted this done the right way. All of it. He was no longer a mercenary full of bloodlust, was he? Guy Devaux was now a knight with his own coat of arms and he would have his lady on their wedding night, in his private chamber, as it should be. That was proper. That was what respectable men did with this thing called a wife. There were whores and then there were wives. One should not be mistaken for the other, so he’d been told.

  There were also mothers, but since his own mother had been a whore too, he was slightly confused about the third variable and didn’t know where to place it in the great scheme of things.

  As the last tremors wracked her slender body he finally took his hand away, rested his forearm on the edge of the bath and let her slide back into the water. He tried to assess her height. She couldn’t be very tall, but the demanding, sultry gleam visible under her long, gold-sprigged lashes, not to mention the saucy half-smile on her lips, warned him she made up for her lack of size in other ways.