The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) (12 page)

She was lying on her side before him, stretching languidly. He cupped her breast, his fingers biting into the silken flesh, and the disconcertingly hard nipple stabbed his palm.

“My lord, what is your pleasure?” she asked sleepily.

“You. Again. Just as you are, warm and pliable and drowsy with sleep.”

“How? You have only to tell me…”

His hand did his speaking. He hiked up her knee and led his cock to her from the rear.

She giggled. “Am I never to see your face again during moments of intimacy, my lord?”

He nibbled her shoulder. “I ’spect not. This approach makes a timely withdrawal easier. And more certain. As another incentive, I can delve you deeper,” he said and did.

She strained back against him. “Oh my—”

“See?” he countered and thrust full-on.

At her pleasured gasp, he went into her hard and fast, the intercourse unprotested by her.

Not then.

Not later. And not later again, when he rolled her to her belly.

He had her multiple times. And why not? After all, had she not told him: “
Fill me, my lord. Take me like a sheep. Rut on me until it pleases you to stop. I shan’t ever tell you to quit
.”

He took her at her word.

As she never once told him she could take no more, he filled her until duties forced him away.

Chapter Twelve

The following afternoon, Spur paced the outer courtyard but a few short steps removed from a private gate cut into the high stone wall that surrounded his keep.

Not planning to venture far, he had dispensed with his metal helm and nose guard as well as his heavy chain mail in favor of lightweight leather armor. As always, his sword and dagger remained within easy reach sheathed at his side. As he stomped back and forth in the dirt, he raked a hand through his recently shorn hair, the bowl cut compliments of Nym, as were his newly cleaned and buffed boots. Unfortunately the latter now sported a film of gritty dust from his impatient back and forth strides.

Belatedly he realized ’twas impolitic to chance having others observe his harried state—devils were not subject to distress—and his circling came to an abrupt end. His pose a pretense of nonchalance, he narrowed his far-reaching warrior’s gaze to the Great Hall, the egress through which a certain tardy consort would travel to meet him.

Where, by Christ’s bones, is she? And knowing her arrival was late, would she even hurry?

Unlike himself, who had arrived humiliatingly early, she most probably would take her time.

Since leaving her on the bed, he had been a tight ball of anticipation. All the day long, he had counted off the moments until he saw her again. Now he kicked himself for setting such a late hour for their tryst, an hour that arrived too slowly for his peace of mind.

His own damnable fault. A prideful unwillingness to bend caused him to arrange their meeting to take place directly before the bell rang for vespers.

Not wishing to appear anxious to see her again, which he most assuredly was, he had purposefully not stopped by to visit with her earlier, a deliberate avoidance on his part. Instead he had spent the day as cross as a wolf with a lance shoved up its arse, hissing and snarling at anyone who dared draw nigh. Now, fidgeting, unable to stand still longer than a trice, he awaited the attendance of his lady.

Wait! She was not a lady. And certainly she was not
his
lady. That such an absurdity had gained a toehold in his thoughts hit him like a battering ram.

His consort was a peasant. A common serf. A whore, for all that she looked as far removed from that lowly status as dirt did from the stars as she walked briskly to meet him.

She wore one of the
bliauts
he’d had Nym deliver—after she had broken her fast. In light of what he had demanded of her the previous eve, sustenance took precedence over wardrobe. The magenta gown’s sleeves fit snuggly from shoulder to elbow, and then belled out from there to the ground. Unlike a serf’s wool kirtle, this garb was made of the finest silk.

Better she make use of the garb than have it take up room in a storage chest as it had done for the last ten years. The bliauts had been made for his affianced, a lady who had killed herself rather than go through with their wedding vows. His thorny reputation, he presumed, had frightened her to death.

So be it. ’Twas a long time ago, that intended wedding day. It gladdened him to see the gifts meant for his lady wife were now worn by his peasant whore. As were the bejeweled girdle that rode low on his consort’s slender hips and the doeskin slippers that shod her high-arched feet. At least the coin spent had not gone to waste. God knows, her services were costing him naught.

“I rushed,” she gushed straightaway. “But in my excitement, I tripped and fell on my hem, which necessitated I brush everything off. I could hardly concentrate—or, apparently, walk—for want of seeing you again, my lord.”

Gratifying to know he was right about her. She might look like a queen in her new garb, but she thought like a common serf. Only a lowly born wench would admit such a telling thing to a man. A royal would be aloof, play coy. Never would a highborn demoiselle
gush
. Mitri’s unbridled excitement was coarse in the extreme.

And wholly appreciated by him.

His shoulders loosened, as did his gut, and he blurted, “I feel the same. I cursed the shadows for not lengthening sooner.”

“I pray you, do not wish for an early onset of eventide. When I awakened this morn and found you gone, I searched you out in the chamber. To no avail. I…I…missed you then.”

He might have put it to her hard, but in many ways, she was still a child. A rush of sympathy poured over him for her plight. And guilt for not being there when she had need of him. Defensiveness too, for verily, he had left her alone this morn because he had been too much the coward to stay. To protect himself, he had fled from her. Caring for her was not part of their agreement, and yet he found himself caring about her. And so he had left.

He cleared his throat. “The nobility are not like peasants, who sleep with their partners all the night through. Livestock too.”

“What the royals are missing! Not the cows, but sleeping with a human companion must be a comfort in the darkness.” She winked bawdily. “An occasion of joy too, if two searching mates bump into each other mid-night. Or early morn, as the sun comes up in the sky.”

“Perchance,” he said gruffly. Her inelegant observation had him pining away.

“I should like to thank you for my new garb, my lord. Never has anything so fine touched my skin.”

He could not say the same. Something fine had touched him last night.

Her skin. Silky smooth against his rough man’s flesh.

Why had he left her side? Why had he not slept beside her on that narrow cot and found joy inside her again this morn?

He would have liked to remain inside her body all day, moving at his whim. She would have allowed his whim free rein.

Laughing, she spun round, her feet nearly lifting off the ground, her magenta skirts a-twirling. “’Tis a beauteous day.”

Not as beauteous as she, he mused, and quickly turned away to unlock the gate.

The entrance swung wide, and he escorted her inside, an ungloved hand under her elbow, the fingers twitching with the effort it took to hold back from crushing her to him.

“Which way shall we go?” he asked.

“What are my choices? Difficult to make an informed decision without understanding the consequences.”

Did her statement hold deeper meaning?

He thought mayhap it might, but too befuddled to figure the riddle out, he accepted her words at face value and explained. “You have two directions from which to choose.” He pointed. “The path there on the left leads to a peaceful enclosed garden. The one on the right will take us to the encroaching wilderness outside the settlement.”

Only the closest members of his military entourage knew about the secret passageway hidden within the peaceful garden, an underground tunnel that would take a messenger into the woodlands, then to a boat concealed under a mound of evergreen bowers on the river. The waterway led directly to his brother at Ironguard. If the messenger carried dire news of a siege, Talon and his army would ride to Nettlewood’s aid. The system worked both ways. If an enemy attacked Talon’s keep, his brother would get a message to him at Nettlewood via the same route.

Mitri tilted her magnificent jaw. “Why can I not do both?”

“No reason.” He grinned at her piquant expression. “Save greed.”

“Guilty of greed as charged, for doing both is my decision. First the garden, then the wilderness. They each have their own appeal.”

He had always thought so as well. Naturally he kept that information to himself. He had already said too much. Revealing his impatience to see her had not been a sound move.

Of a sudden, Spur noted his consort’s uncovered head, the plaited brown hair swinging like a steed’s mane as she walked. “Did the coif I sent to your chamber not please you?”

She touched her escaped tendrils of hair. “The coif pleased me mightily. My thanks for the thoughtfulness.”

“If the coif pleased you, why not wear it?”

“Because the wearing would have been an unspoken falsehood. A lie of omission, if you will. Worse still, its wearing would have named me deceitful.”

“How so?”

“Virgins wear coifs as a sign of their innocence. Married women wear them as a token of modesty. As I am neither virgin nor a modest goodwife, but a bought whore, I dispensed with the symbolism.”

“Oh—” Was her decision to become his “whore” what she alluded to in her cryptic remark about choices and consequences?

For some reason, he had forgotten a coif’s symbolic meaning. He had also forgotten the ramifications of her becoming his consort—apparently for the same reason.

He had tried to justify her new position in life by telling himself she would receive a generous recompense for her carnal service to him, better payment than she would receive in London stews or in a brothel anywhere. Much better than making candles. As a peasant wife, she would have been destitute. At least whoring for him would keep her belly filled—in more ways than one.

The rub was, she had not set out to become a whore, and no amount of justification on his part would change that ugly truth.

His actions had brought her to that path, a road to ruin from which there was no return. She would never have a decent life now, a caring husband, a loving family. Her fellow peasants would shun her and the church would condemn her.

As for him—if word got out about the part he had played in her ruin, he would be seen from hither and yon as a royal lecher, a despot who took advantage of his overlord’s position of power to defile innocent peasant maidens.

His reputation would only benefit from such tales. Indeed, ’twas the very sort of notoriety he sought to garner for himself. A win for him and a loss for her all the way around.

At a narrow portion of the path, he released her elbow. “I shall order workers to widen this area posthaste. During your stay with me here at the keep, I look forward to many walks in the gardens with you on my arm.”

With a glimmer of a smile for his plans, she moved ahead, her fetching hindquarters gently swaying. And that swaying brought to mind the whipping. It had been dark in the bedchamber last night, and so he had seen very little of her luscious body. Was her shapely derriere still inflamed today?

At the thought, his cock rammed against the tight wrappings of his loincloth, weeping precum tears for release.

He swung her around to face him.

Her modest smile of before had spread from ear to ear.

Why, the crafty vixen had provoked him intentionally!

By Christ! Forget her chandler’s occupation; seducing men was her true calling in life. Knowing full well that he was smitten, she toyed with him, using her feminine wiles to bend him to her will, as any natural seductress would do.

He examined her as he would a viper in the desert. “’Twould be a mistake to assume my present enchantment with you will be long-lived. I am fickle in the bedchamber, and my lovers are always temporary. I would not see you…disappointed. Strive for another way to better yourself, Mitri. I am not your route to advancement. Neither will you ever see King Stephen’s palace, be that your ambition. We will enjoy our pleasures, and then we will be done and depart one another, each going our own way.”

“I have a confession to make. Before the mercenary’s attack on Lord Harold’s settlement, I made candles for market in London.” She added sheepishly, “
Erotic
candles.”

“You need not have told me.” And not only because he already knew.

Whilst walking along the garden path, she admired a posy here and there. “As you have shown your faith in me by believing I was not the mercenary’s accomplice, I promised myself to be forthright with you, here on out.”

A pity he could not return her forthrightness. Revealing how he had used a tincture of a tongue-loosening plant on her would steal those glittering stars from her eyes. She looked positively glowing, even enamored.

With him.

A new sensation, her affection. Generally females only directed fear his way.

A new sensation, his interest. And he was indeed interested, as his erect cock would testify. When not fucking her senseless, she would provide him with endless hours of amusement, a pleasant diversion from the present clime of anarchy. A few tender caresses and she would be positively slavish in her devotion to him, a genuine lapdog licking his face.

He brought her to a stand before him. “How did these erotic candles sell?”

“Very well.” She drew her finger along the tensed set of his jaw. “Frustrated females snapped them up by the score. The trade was quite lucrative. And I am proud of my skill. Ladies of the court adore my candles.”

“You will have to make some.” He raised a brow. “And show me how they are meant to be used.”

Lifting her hand from his face, she flicked his chest. “We shall see.”

Where had his adoring lapdog gone?

She no longer deferred to him, and this grieved him. Deference kept the nature of their relationship at the forefront. And kept her from thinking this would ever be something ’twas not.

“The point is,” she continued as if she were his equal, “I do have prospects. I apologize for bothering you with my problems and worries and fears last night. Now that the sun is out, I feel ever so much more hopeful. Now I know what I shall do in the future.”

“And what is that?”

“With the gold I earn here, I shall go to London and expand my artisan venture. Perchance I shall even be part of a chandler’s guild someday. I assure you, if ever I go to court, ’twill be because I am asked to go to transact my trade and on my own merit, not as an arrogant man’s doxy. What I do with you now is apart from anything I shall do in the future. You tempt me with the vices of hell, and I am merely succumbing to your deviltry. For now. A brief detour on my road to financial success, when I shall be my own mistress.”

But at present, she was
his
mistress, and he’d had enough of her speechifying. “Bend over yonder bench,” he said sternly.

She raised a regal brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“You, my presumptuous temptress, are getting above yourself. Face forward and raise your bliaut in back.”

As silent as the garden was abuzz with bees and birds, she rounded over the rock seat.