Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7) (16 page)

She missed him already. Every part of
her missed him.

Oh, how she had loved having him as
her neighbor to fight and challenge.

But this was her fate was it not? She
was born female and therefore this was her lot in life. God— and
King William— had willed that she be married again. Both God and
the King were unseen deities who ruled over her fate as if she was
a piece on a chessboard. They pushed her about with their own
scheme for winning and she was not meant to have any concerns other
than what they told her she should have.

"I was assured, Lady Calledaux, of
your own piety. It is why I thought we were well
suited."

She looked at the ground, afraid of
what he might read in her face.

"But now I see you before me," he
added, "and I feel doubt. It will put my mind at ease to have you
confess."

There was, it seemed, no room for her
to doubt him.

As Helene watched Gilbert de Vernon
ordering her beloved people about, she began to wonder about her
place in God's scheme. It was impertinent to question the almighty,
but she couldn't help herself. How did they all know what God
wanted? Who said?

She began to wonder whether God's
scheme might have been misinterpreted by those who had the skill of
penmanship and the will to put ink to parchment.

Do not believe all that
you read and hear
, Salvador had warned
her. There was no reason to believe that scribes of the past would
have any more innocent purpose than scriveners of the future. Every
man had his motive. Every man had his sin.

With terrible finality she knew she
loved him, despite his sins. He was lonely, even in his crowd of
brothers. He was special. He was her Demon just as she was his
Hellion. But it was all too late; they were both caught up in other
lives. She had Gilbert de Vernon, and he had six women that he
shared with his brothers. What would he want with one
more?

* * * *

He urged his horse faster, the fresh,
sweet morning air whipping by his face as he bent his head, eyes
narrowed, gaze fixed on the manor of Helene de Leon. The ground
rumbled by beneath the stallion's hooves, and Sal felt his pulse
racing to the same rhythm, even out-pacing it.

He had to see her now, as dawn broke
over the horizon and the far trees. The wives had insisted he stay
the night, but he hadn't been able to sleep. There was a sense of
urgency in his heart, as if, now he knew what he wanted, he
couldn't wait another moment to tell her. It was all clear in his
mind. She was the one thing missing, the woman he wanted. So he'd
said his goodbyes and set off the moment first light streaked grey
and mauve across the sky— reminding him of her eyes.

But as he neared the gate he realized
something had changed. The guards looked pale, fraught. Even the
dogs that usually dashed out to bark and chase back and forth,
slunk away, cowed, ears flat.

"Where is the Lady de Leon," he called
out, breathless. "Where is your mistress?"

Before they could answer, a tall
slender figure appeared from the shadow of the guard's shack. He
wore a long cloak of amber wool, tied at the shoulder with a large
copper broach. His eyes, cold as ice, raked over Sal and his
horse.

"Who are you?" Sal
demanded.

"Who am I? Who am
I
?" the other man
exclaimed, terse. "I am Gilbert de Vernon. And I assume you are the
bastard d'Anzeray."

Helene had just exited the main hall.
She looked harried, confused. And then her gaze found Sal on the
other side of the gate. Hastily her steps changed course and she
headed toward him, but de Vernon, turned to stop her, one arm out,
hand up.

"There is no occasion for you to rush
out here and greet anyone at the gate. Go back inside. You are not
a servant."

She halted. "But I have—"

"You can have nothing to talk to this
man about. From now on I shall deal with him. I shall deal with
anyone who comes to this gate."

Sal took immediate dislike to the way
de Vernon spoke to her. "My business is with Lady de Leon," he
growled, the horse beneath him skipping sideways as it felt his
agitation. "Not you."

"On the contrary, you can have no
business with my wife."

He looked over de Vernon's sandy head.
"She is not your wife yet. As far as I know." It couldn't have
happened yet, surely.

"I wait for the arrival of a monk to
complete the ceremony and then all this will be mine, as the king
decreed it."

Helene shook her head at Sal, a
fraught warning look on her small face. De Vernon spun around and
dismissed her again with a brusque, impatient gesture. She
complied.

He would have called her back, but she
walked quickly, her head down, and Sal sensed she didn't want
trouble. Today there was a gate between them again.

Very well. He would bide his time. But
not for long.

"What do you want, d'Anzeray? What
causes you to ride at this gate so early in the morning, yelling
for my betrothed as if she is a peasant?"

"I came to ask how my laborers are
working on her land. If they are adequate."

"Your laborers?"

"Yes. I offered to help her with the
haymaking."

"How..." de Vernon
sneered, "
neighborly
."

Sal felt his anger rising to new
heights.

"But you can have your
workers back, d'Anzeray. I will have no further use for your
help
. On my land." With
that de Vernon swung around and marched after Helene.

Sal watched for a moment and then
turned his horse. He had never walked away from confrontation in
his life. In battle there was no man braver, but when it came to
love he was a novice, unsure.

And she had walked away as if in
defeat.

He needed a sign from her to show she
did not want this man. Perhaps she did. She was, after all nobly
born, a pedigree Norman lady. Even if he knew that he loved her,
there was no guarantee his feelings were returned.

Salvador had never known a lack of
self-assurance. Until now.

* * * *

She waited until Gilbert was busy
going over the ledgers, talking to her steward and then she took
her chance. He did not want her in the room; told her she was not
needed there— of course, he thought she could contribute nothing to
these important matters. So, with time scarce, she slipped away
through the gate to see Salvador and say goodbye. She couldn't bear
for their time to be over like this, without even a word
exchanged.

He was in his fields, haymaking. When
he saw her, he sent his workers off for a break. Bare-chested, he
greeted her, much as he had done several days ago when she came out
to negotiate for two extra feet of field. It felt like a lifetime
ago, she thought, gazing up at him as he set his scythe down and
reached for her hand.

"I didn't know he would come so soon,"
she murmured as his warm fingers closed around her hand and he
tugged her down with him until they were hidden in the tall, waving
grasses. "But I did know he was coming."

"Why did you not tell me?"

She shook her head. "I preferred not
to speak or think of it, that way I could pretend it wasn't
happening." Her words came out in a rush, tumbling over one
another, for she knew they didn't have long.

He drew her to him and kissed her. It
was long, lingering, hungry. Oh, no, he was going to delay her. She
might have known he would be difficult and not content with a brief
meeting today. There was a very determined set to his jaw. "Well, I
knew about him," he whispered.

Helene frowned. "Then why did you not
say?"

"Like you," he smiled guiltily, "I
preferred to pretend it wouldn't happen." He kissed the tip of her
nose. "Where is he now?"

"Counting my coin."

Sal shook his head and grunted,
"Idiot. While he counts your coin, I will make love to
you."

"We can't. There isn't enough time. I
only came to say thank you and goodbye."

He squinted, his eyes
gleaming.

"I can't," she muttered.
"Salvador—"

He reached for her wimple and tugged
it from her head. Then before she could read what he was thinking,
the man took off, running through the field, her wimple clutched in
his hand. She had to run after him to get it back.

What choice did she have?

Breathless she chased him through the
tall, swaying grasses. At first she was angry, but it felt good to
run and stretch her legs. It must be years since she ran like this,
for no purpose but a foolish game. Finally he stopped so suddenly
that she fell into him and they went down together, rolling over,
lost in the sunny field, surrounded by the warm scent of
hay.

Salvador slid his hands up her legs
and touched her between them while he kissed her again and she
groaned, helpless to resist. His hand was hot, his fingers
masterful in the skill with which they caressed and
teased.

"We can't, Salvador—"

His lips moved down her neck, kissing
and nibbling, all the way to her breast, where he licked her
pricking nipple through her gown. "This is mine," he growled. "Not
his." He slid his finger into her pussy. "And this is mine. Not
his."

"Yes," she sighed, arching as he
settled between her thighs. "Yes, Salvador."

"Say you are mine, Hellion. Say you
are mine." He sucked her nipple through the cloth.

"I am yours, Salvador. You know I
am."

Quickly he moved forward and she felt
his cock, already freed of his chausses, entering her abruptly,
filling her in one powerful thrust. Helene gasped at the exquisite
sensation of fullness as he claimed her. She closed her eyes
against the bright sun and gave herself up to the blissful rhythm,
the grunts and sighs. The hay rustled beneath her and pricked into
the flesh of her bottom. His groans dampened her gown as he pressed
his mouth to her breast, and she felt his warm sac pushing against
her with every forward thrust. His cock was slick, fast, full of
urgency today.

"I love you, Hellion."

She was shocked. "Oh."

He stilled and lifted his head.
"That's all you have to say?"

Helene gazed up at him, at this
incredibly handsome man who was fucking her in his hay field, his
thick cock impaling her at that moment, joining them in a fierce,
savage coupling. And she whispered with unusual shyness, "I love
you." In truth she had not thought she could ever say those words
to another human, until that moment. He closed his eyes, slapped
his lips together and came, spending inside her again, his hips
pressing in a circular motion.

She felt him shudder and then he
opened his eyes and looked down at her. Framed by the sun, he
looked like a god painted on a fresco, his head edged by a halo of
gold. Unlikely, she mused, but beautiful. Breathtaking.

"Come live with me," he
said.

"Live with you?"

He took a deep breath. "Marry
me."

But the king had decreed she must
marry de Vernon. Had he forgotten already, or was he still
pretending the other man didn't exist? Oh, she wished she could do
the same.

"De Vernon has sent for a monk from
York," she murmured. "I am to confess all my sins before the
wedding." She groaned, rolling her eyes. "Now, thanks to you, I
have another to confess, don't I?"

"And does he plan to confess his sins
too?" Salvador snapped, sitting up.

"No. He says he has none to
confess."

Sal looked askance.

"Truly. He says he is a man without
sin. And I have to say I believe him." She'd never met a man so
cold and controlled. That day she'd watched him cut a plum into
four equal, perfect slices before he ate it, sampling the fruit of
her orchard. He chewed barely moving his mouth and swallowed
thoroughly before he took the next piece. He had inspected all the
fruit on the tree before he selected one devoid of any marks on the
skin. "He prays every morning and every night for four
hours."

Sal plucked a piece of hay and chewed
on it thoughtfully. "Without sin, eh? We'll have to do something
about that then."

* * * *

"You have not answered me, woman," he
said, watching her as he chewed on the hay stalk. "I just asked you
an important question and yet you avoided giving me an
answer."

She blushed slightly. "I cannot marry
you and of this you are well aware."

"Why not?" he demanded, sticking out
his jaw.

"You are a man with six wives
already." She snatched her wimple out of his lap. "And I will not
join a harem. To be shared by you and all your brothers. I know
what goes on in that fortress of your father's. Branding, public
exhibition. Orgies!"