The Virgin Proxy

by Fox, Georgia

  “You are comfortable here, I hope?” he asked. “You have everything you need?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “We are a fortress full of men,” he muttered apologetically, “and we haven’t much experience of tending to women.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  He laughed sheepishly, “I mean—the accommodations. I know they are simple and less comfortable surroundings than those you must have known before.”

  “I can assure you, sir, my bed at the convent was no more luxurious than those you have here and the food far worse.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” he exclaimed.

  Across the yard, a loud, already familiar voice bellowed, “Perhaps when you are done wasting time in idle chit chat with my serf, you will deign to honor us with your presence on the training field, Bonnenfant!”

  Thierry waved to signal he heard.

  “I do not want to keep you from your duties,” she said, preparing to go inside.

  He stopped her with one hand on her sleeve. “Will you save a place for me by your side at supper again, my lady? I enjoy your company very much.”

  “Certainly, sir,” she replied demurely.

  His smile stretched wide, charming, not a solitary gleam of menace in sight. That brute. Guy Devaux could take lessons from his friend, she thought acidly. “I shall look forward to it, my lady.”

  A second cross shout from his petulant lord and master finally reminded him of his duty and then he trotted off.

  Chapter Seven

  When she entered his bedchamber, looking for Sybilia, she found the woman in a state of consternation. “What did you do to him last night?” were the first words out of her mouth. No “Good morning.” No “Thank you for suffering in my place.”

  “I did nothing,” she replied. “He did it to me.” If she told herself that enough times she needn’t feel so bad about bedding with a dastardly Norman.

  “Well, he won’t do it to me.” Sybilia was almost in tears.

  “What do you mean?” She tried not to sound too glad.

  The other woman glowered at her. “He woke today with a huge, stiff….you know.”

  Deorwynn was astonished to hear it. He was still raring to go after a night of fucking such as they’d shared? She knew she certainly could not have accommodated him this morning.

  “But he turned away and got out of bed. He…he didn’t want me.” Sybilia’s pride was wounded it seemed.

  “Perhaps he simply had other matters to tend, or he thought that I—you—would not be able to take him again this morning. After last night and all the…times that…” she trailed off, the other woman’s angry scowl scorching her face.

  Sybilia walked around the bed, straightening the coverlet of thick fur, brushing stray goose feathers to the floor and plumping pillows, feigning an industrious care for the tidiness of his chamber. “All he said to me before he left the bed was that I should not forget the entertainment I agreed to arrange for him. What did he mean by that?”

  “Naught. I know not. Who can say how his mind works? Not I. For pity’s sake. And glad I am not to know. To be sure.” She stopped, aware that she was chattering too much again.

  “You had better not flirt and encourage him,” Sybilia exclaimed. “I see how his eyes wander already.”

  “Of course not. Why would I…?”

  “Because if you do, I won’t ask him to intercede on your brother’s behalf.”

  She swiftly decided to say nothing about her confrontation with the Norman by the battlements. “You have not mentioned my brother to him yet?” she asked quietly.

  “There has been no opportunity.”

  “Will you ask him today then?”

  “We’ll see.”

  She should never have trusted this woman. Now she had no choice but to wait and hope Sybilia discovered a conscience. Her side of the deal was done; she had nothing left to barter. And after the encounter on the battlements she couldn’t beg Devaux for his help. If only she hadn’t lost her temper, she might have used his interest to win a favor; instead she’d made him angry.

  “In the meantime, if you encourage his attentions, Deorwynn, I’ll tell him you’re a Saxon spy who came to gather information for the rebels. You know what he does to his enemies.”

  Obviously Sybilia was not in love with her mystery fellow any longer. Not now she was married to Guy Devaux. Her affections were shockingly fickle, but then, of course, she had Norman blood. They were all like that.

  “He must lay with me. He must,” she hissed. “And soon. It cannot be delayed.”

  “Of course he will…”

  “You don’t understand. I am with child. If he does not have me soon, he will know the babe is not his.”

  Thus the truth emerged. Apparently Sybilia had only wanted her fooled long enough to use her as the virgin proxy; now the deed was done, she could reveal her true reason for this subterfuge.

  “But you saw your lover last year when you went to visit your sick mother. That was surely nine months ago at least.”

  Sybilia gave a curt laugh. “There was no Saxon lover, you fool. It was Brother Simeon.”

  Brother Simeon was a new young resident of the monastery that neighbored the convent. He was handsome and rather easily distracted from his prayers. All the girls had teased him, but Sybilia now confessed that her flirtation went further.

  “I met him several times at night. There was a niche in the orchard wall and two people could hide there in the vines quite easily.”

  Deorwynn now understood that the Bear of Brittany was not the only one who’d been tricked. When this woman came to her and begged for help with fat tears hanging in her lashes, talking of the humble groom she loved and could not marry, it had struck her hardened heart and softened it.

  “In fact you were useful the last time I saw him,” Sybilia added. “Brother Saul became suspicious and began to stand vigil by our meeting place. That was why I dared you to go up to the bell-tower and cause a distraction. Never could resist a dare could you?”

  All this time she’d called Sybilia the idiot! Yet her nemesis had known exactly how to play her. By turning her humble lover into a Saxon, she’d given her story the crowning touch—the last little push to win Deorwynn over.

  * * * *

  The horse thundered across the ground, hooves flinging clods of mud and dead grass. Guy crouched low in the saddle, his seat lifted, enjoying the speed and the rush of biting wind in his face. He’d cast aside his helmet, dirt and sweat making him itch after several hours training in the field, and now the cold air froze in his damp hair, made his head ache.

  It was good, refreshing. Helped cool his temper.

  Turning his horse in the churned field, he glanced back at his fortress and wondered if she watched. Probably not. Ungrateful wench.

  He’d bestowed great favor on her last night, when he could have had her thrown into his dungeon for lying to him. She did not appreciate it, or understand her place in his castellany. Instead she cast curses at his manhood and refused to admit her desire for him. Considering her bold mouth and that stubborn, fearless attitude, he truly wouldn’t be surprised if she’d gone to his bed last night planning to kill him. Remembering again the old soothsayer’s warning, he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.

  Fate will bring a rare kind of warrior to breach your fortress.

  He’d make certain she was watched at all hours from now on. But if he wanted her again he’d damn well have her, whatever she had to say about it. Problem was, he wanted her to smile at him with those full lips, the way she smiled at Thierry, not look at him with hate in her eyes, while that same mouth spouted curses at his cock.

  Surly, sharp-tongued ingrate.

  Thierry cantered over to where he sat, staring at the fortress. “You worked us hard today. I thought you were supposed to be tired.” Then he remembered a belated, “My lord.”

  Old habits die hard, thought Guy, sparing his panting friend a half smile. />
  “The Saxon wench, Deorwynn is a pretty thing,” Thierry said quite casually, one hand on his thigh as his gaze also returned to the fortress. “Interesting too.”

  “Is she?”

  “Do you not think so?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Mayhap.”

  “Of course you have a woman to keep you busy now,” Thierry exclaimed wryly. “I hear you have your hands full.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You don’t mean to share any details?”

  Guy managed a tight smile. “Let’s just say, it was…enlightening.”

  “So why did you delay the real wedding? And how long do you plan to get away with the masquerade?”

  He thought for a minute. His horse skipped sideways, restless. “The Lady Sybilia has a secret and I mean to uncover it.” It was half true, he reasoned. He certainly knew now that she had a secret of some kind, although it was not the reason for his decision to replace the monk with one of the traveling players at the last minute. In truth he still wasn’t entirely sure why he did that. He’d panicked, he supposed, the dread of married life closing in around him.

  “But her dowry– ”

  “We’ve had our ceremony, such as it was, and her father can be content with that. If I decide to keep her, all well and good. No one need ever know it wasn’t a real wedding. If I change my mind, however, her father and I will have much to discuss, including why he tried to pass his daughter off to me as something she is not.”

  “And you will not be bound by lawful vows.”

  “Precisely.”

  “It was naught to do with the Saxon girl then.”

  He kept his gaze on the fortress. “Why should it be?”

  “Oh.” He knew Thierry was smiling—heard it in his tone. “I saw the way you looked at her outside chapel yesterday and at the wedding feast. Your gaze almost burned the clothes off her. I thought perhaps….”

  “So what if I desire her? It makes no difference to my marriage.”

  “Of course, what was I thinking? Marriage to one woman would hardly prevent you from having her servant too, would it? You don’t generally let a few morals and scruples get in your way when there’s something you want.”

  Guy raised his eyebrows. “You say that as if there’s something wrong with it.”

  His right-hand man shrugged. “Not at all. You’re entitled to do as you please. My lord.”

  “Why thank you.”

  Thierry laughed and Guy managed another slight smile, watching the ears of his horse twitch. Suddenly he said, “I saw the Saxon wench naked in the bath. The night they arrived.”

  “I knew there was something! I knew when I looked at your face and hers, as we met them on the chapel steps.”

  “She put on quite an entertainment.”

  “Really?”

  “Apparently convent-raised ladies get bored and find ways to amuse themselves with their own hands.”

  “And you never told me.” His friend sulked because they’d always shared their conquests, never kept secrets.

  Guy knew he was dangerously distracted by the Saxon wench. She should have been whipped, not only for seeking to deceive him, but also for her impertinence by the battlements that morning. Yet he did nothing. All he thought about was the next time he might be with her. No woman should have such an effect on him. Something had to be done. The soothsayer had warned him.

  He looked over at Thierry, who was watching a flock of geese pass overhead. “Shall I arrange a similar performance for us both to enjoy tonight?” He should be able to share her, as he had done many others. Why not?

  The grin returned to his friend’s face. “I thought perhaps you meant to keep her to yourself.”

  “Have I ever kept a woman to myself?” He rubbed his chest where it pinched again, making him short of breath. Eager to change the subject, he sniffed at the air. “I smell roasting beef.”

  Thierry gathered up his reins and the horses jostled one another. “Last one back is a limp wick,” he shouted, as he always had since they were boys riding together. In many ways, thought Guy suddenly, they still were little boys riding together. On the outside they looked like men; on the inside they hadn’t grown up so much. It struck him today, for the first time, that he and his friend had avoided maturity for as long as they could.

  He quickened his horse to a canter and then a gallop, racing Thierry back to the castle gate.

  * * * *

  At supper Deorwynn gave all her attention to Thierry Bonnenfant. Hopefully, she thought, the Bear of Brittany would not venture near her again. Perhaps, after their encounter on the battlements, he feared she might really lay a curse on his vital parts.

  Later, she helped prepare a giddy Sybilia for bed and then retired to her pallet in the women’s chamber, where she lay listening to the others gossip and giggle. They did not include her in their chatter as she was still an outsider, but they took no pains to whisper. She heard them speculate on how long it would be before Devaux sought other comfort in his bed. Apparently he never wanted the same woman for long and had no particular preference in type—young or old, dark or fair. He was infamous for his staying power and had once enjoyed nine women, one after the other, in his bed, servicing each one like a stud horse.

  Well, nine was less than a hundred, she thought, amused, but these tales were laughably fantastic. The big-headed Norman would love to hear how legendry his prowess had become among these ignorant, starry-eyed women. He’d probably planted many of those stories himself.

  That night she suffered her recurring bad dream again, waking in a sweat, still seeing the cruel black eyes of the ravens staring down at her from those trees, their wings flapping, beaks screaming at her.

  She rolled over, staring into the dark, too afraid to go back to sleep. How could it be that her mind had known this place before? Not the castle, but those trees on the hill. Even the shape of the grim clouds overhead that morning had seemed familiar. There was no explanation other than a premonition of evil. The sooner she got away from here the better.

  Then she began to think about Guy Devaux in bed with his wife tonight. Good. Perhaps he’d finally stop molesting her. But a grinding ache of yearning, deep inside, threatened to keep her awake all night.

  * * * *

  How, he wondered, would the Senclere wench explain the presence of a virgin in his bed two nights in a row? Unless, of course…

  Guy realized he’d been a little slow to understand. He blamed it on the other wench—the one who distracted him until he could barely think with his brain.

  Sybilia climbed into the bed, lay on her back and waited, not looking at him.

  “No veil tonight?” he inquired.

  She turned her head on the pillow. “T’was a wedding night tradition. It is not necessary tonight, my lord.” Desire deepened her cadence. She wanted him; that much was plain. He’d known all along that she did not avoid his bed out of distaste for him. He was, after all, the legendary Guy Devaux, he thought proudly. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want him?

  He rolled onto his side and lifted her shift. She didn’t move, but lay like a dead thing for his perusal. Her breasts were pale and full, her waist narrow, the curls on her mound were perhaps a few shades lighter than Deorwynn’s. Sliding a hand between her thighs he touched her dry, hot flesh and noticed that she did not flinch, but parted her legs a little more, allowing his finger to explore. He was only semi-stirred. Again he felt frustration.

  The curse of course! The Saxon wench had cursed his manhood.

  He did not want this woman lying in his bed; he wanted Deorwynn again. It was perturbing for a man who seldom bothered to remember a woman’s name, let alone want her two nights in a row. Usually any woman would do to relieve the pent up energy. Not tonight.

  He felt Sybilia’s inner walls tighten on his probing finger, but there was no maidenhead in his way. She’d been had already, just as he suspected, and not by him. He’d been sold used stock, by the noble, pompous Baron
Senclere. He pressed his finger further to be sure.

  Her eyes widened, lashes fluttered. “You broke me in well on our wedding night, my husband,” she purred.

  “Hmm.” He slid his finger out.

  “My lord?” She stared with sly, watchful brown eyes, reminding Guy of a coney, reared up on its back feet, sniffing at the approach of hunters.

  “Go to sleep,” he grumbled, turning over and away from her.

  He should have had her, just to get the other one out of his mind, but he couldn’t. His cock was limp. It was sulking.

  This wasn’t good for his health, his sanity, or his reputation.

  Chapter Eight

  A loud rap almost rattled the door off its hinges. The woman nearest clambered to her feet, shouting through the door, “What is it?”

  “The new wench. The Saxon girl. He wants to see her.”

  In a shaft of pale moonlight through the arrow slit, Deorwynn sat up, confused, drowsy. Hands tugged on the sleeve of her shift.

  “Make haste. He wants you.”

  She was pushed to her feet and prodded through the door, not even a moment to put on her shoes. The guard scowled at her. “Name?”

  “Deorwynn.” She yawned.

  “Aye. That’s the one.” He grabbed her by the shoulder of her nightshift and escorted her down the torch-lit passage. Her first thought was that he’d decided to throw her into his dungeon after all. But they were going up, not down. The stone was ice-cold under her bare feet and drafts blew around her ankles. They came to another door where a second guard waited. He tapped on the wood lightly.