The Wagered Wench (5 page)

“Men can take by force,” her mother used to say, “everything but our love. Always keep your heart pure. It belongs to God. Lock it away where no man’s filthy, undeserving hands can abuse it.”

Because Elsinora had avoided marriage to Stryker Bloodaxe for so long, the other women thought she was the same as her mother and had no passion, no desires of that nature. But they were wrong. In youth, she’d believed what her mother told her, but, as the years passed and she discovered her own bodily needs, Elsinora grew to doubt her mother’s lectures. She knew Gudderth had enjoyed the company of a cheerful mistress for years, although he liked to call his visits to her cottage “medicinal”. Elsinora was often sent to find her father and deliver a message when he was in the arms of his mistress. Many a time she remembered sitting on a barrel outside the woman’s cottage, kicking her feet in the dirt and singing songs while she waited for her father to get dressed and come out. It had eventually occurred to her that her father’s mistress was far too happy about his visits for the act of swiving to cause her any pain, terror or degradation. There were often screams from inside the cottage, yes, but they were not the screams of fear or torture. Too often they were followed by laughter and pleas for more of the same.

She’d began exploring her own body then, just to see if she was capable of sinful sensations like the lusty wenches in the village, who tumbled gladly with any man once they’d had enough cider under the hot harvest sun. When she stood, thigh-deep, in her stream for the first time and realized she was not like her mother at all, it was hardly a welcome discovery. It meant she was a sinner and had a great deal of praying to God ahead of her if she ever hoped to join her angelic mother in heaven. However, this never stopped her from visiting the stream for what became a naughty ritual, a rite of spring.

Further exploration with Stryker Bloodaxe had made it clear to her that she was in danger of becoming a wanton. She liked the touch of his fingers on her quinny and the gentle pinch of his lips around one reluctantly bared nipple. She’d even liked watching him handle his cock until it gushed creamy threads of seed, high in the air. But that was only once and as far as they went. This alone was enough to keep her on her knees at prayer for hours, repenting and begging the good Lord’s forgiveness. When she told Stryker that they could never do that again, he left in a rage, calling her a teasing hussy.

Gudderth’s marriage to his lady wife had consolidated land and wealth, but in his words she was “made of too fine a cloth for everyday wear.” She provided him with children, as was her duty, and that was the last time they shared a marriage bed. Once, sitting up late and playing chess with Elsinora, he’d drunkenly explained to her that men needed swiving far more often than women did, so it was only natural they should hunt as many sources as they could find. It was expected for a man to sow his seed far and wide.

Elsinora’s view of marriage therefore, was marred by the example of her father’s rampant sexuality. On the other hand, her ideas about men and the act of sex were formed by a fearful, devout mother, who had made her feel guilt for entertaining even the tiniest of lusty thoughts.

All this considered, the giggling women in the cookhouse only confused her further. Rather than stay to admit this, or let herself feel any curiosity about the Norman and what those women might have seen, she left the cookhouse, her chin high, braid swinging. And who should she see but Dominic Coeur-du-Loup, crossing the yard, his hair still wet from bathing in
her
stream.

He glanced her way, acknowledging her presence with a quirk of his lip and a very slight nod, but without pausing his stride. She ran after him, ready to fight. Like a runaway cart downhill, she almost tumbled into him.

His hair was dark, glossy with water. A definite curl was more evident today, although he’d slicked it back with his hand as she came toward him. The curl was a surprise. And he’d shaved off most of his beard. He looked ten years younger. When her gaze slid downward, the angry mist slowly clearing from her eyes, she realized he wore nothing above the waist. His tunic was slung over one shoulder. More surprises quickly followed as she took in the sight of his well carved chest. A line of dark hair trailed downward, disappearing beneath his breeches, which sat low on his hips. Very low, far enough to reveal the flat stomach and a defined inverted triangle of taut muscle, leading her eye downward. She thought again of what the women had seen that morning in her stream—something that made them blush and giggle like brainless hussies. “It is not for your filthy…” What was she saying?

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to know I’ve decided to stay. I like this place and it is pleasantly situated. The fields are fertile I see, despite what you tried to tell me yesterday. The only thing disagreeable that I can find is you.”

“But I am not certain you will suit me for a wife. I think I will find another woman here who will be grateful to marry. A woman of yielding tenderness, who will serve me loyally.” His gaze stroked her from head to toe and back again, but she saw in him something apprehensive, even timid. When he found her staring back he withdrew at once under a hard shell. “Your father and I should discuss your place here. I suppose I can let you stay as a goat herd, or some other servant.” He turned away and walked on.

Elsinora was dizzy. Her mind spun with things she should say, anger and hurt she should fling at him. But she was distracted by the dip at the base of his spine, leading to the first slash of a cleft between his buttocks. She suddenly thought of yesterday afternoon in the stream, when that unexpectedly violent wave slapped backward, hit her bottom, and trickled down betwixt her cheeks. Instantly she was aroused, the warm heaviness squeezing and settling in her quinny. What had he done in her stream? Had he let the cold water cleanse him just as she liked to? No wonder the other women were all aflutter this morning. She could imagine how he looked as he waded in the water. But surely, the cold would have caused a shriveling of certain parts? She knew enough about men to know how cocks reacted to various sensations. If his manhood was still large enough to be giggled over when it was hit with frigid water, it must be an organ of remarkable size.

For heaven’s sake, why think of that?

She must get her thoughts back in order.

“Discuss my place?” She ran after him again and leapt several inches to slap him across the shoulder. “You monstrous Norman swine, you are not worthy to kiss my feet! I am Elsinora Gudderthsdottir and you—”

He did not break his stride. Breathless with fury, she ran around him and stood in his path.

“You will not come here and insult me, Norman. And for the sake of all that’s holy pull your damnable breeches up!”

Finally he was forced to stop, or step on her toes. “
Me
insult
you?
” His expression was perplexed.

“Leave,” she cried, watching a bead of water drip from a dark curl above his ear. Oh, her stream. Her stream. He contaminated its spring purity. “Leave now and then you will have no trouble. If you stay I will see to it that you never have a moment’s peace.”

That drip of water tumbled from his hair and rolled down the slope of his broad shoulder. “You will be too busy to cause me trouble. Anyone who stays here will work hard to earn their keep. That includes you.”

Elsinora heard, but barely registered the words, too distracted by her thoughts.

When she pleasured herself in that stream again, would some remnant of him remain there and touch her intimately? She shivered at the thought of it.

It was true that healthy young males were few and far between in Lyndower. They had thick-waisted farmers with bowed legs; fishermen with weathered faces and sparse teeth, and young lads like Nat, the spit-boy. Now that Dominic Coeur-du-Loup had washed the grime off his face and body, Elsinora understood why the girls in the cookhouse were so happy that he came. If he wasn’t intent on stealing away her home and treating her like oxen he would yoke to a plow, she might have lusted a little too. A little. Mayhap.

This was a regrettable realization and she did her best to smother it quickly. It was a sad state of affairs that the women here should be so in want of alluring male company that they would settle for this creature who couldn’t even hold a spoon.

“If you do not like this,” he added, “
you
should leave. It is not your right to say who stays. If you cannot,” he leaned closer, dripping water, “or
will not
give me the comfort I need from a woman, I’ll find it elsewhere.”

Just what Bertha had warned! She felt sickened by the thought. “I am the mistress here, Norman swine! You cannot take my father’s land and make me your servant.”

Of course he wanted to rule her every move, while she would never be allowed to question him. “I do as I please,” she snapped.

“Until now perhaps. No more.”

“I have bathed in that stream for three years.”

“And any man could have stumbled upon you, watched you, chased you down, had you on your back in the grass before you could scream once.”

Elsinora pictured it vividly as he spoke. Saw him over her, his body hard, heavy, determined. Her heartbeat skipped from canter to gallop. She was suddenly too warm, perspiring under her gown. Her nipples formed two swollen beads, rubbing on her clothing. Somehow she forced her lips to argue. “No man in this place would dare lay hands on me.”

His dark lashes drifted upward again, his gaze meeting hers but holding secrets, guarding them with quiet, steady reserve. “Until now, perhaps. No more.”

The words lay even heavier between them the second time around. Did he dare threaten her? Fury bit into her chest, shortened her breath. “Go then and discuss
my place
with my father. Whatever you try to make me into, I am Gudderth’s daughter and so shall I always be.”

Again he spoke quietly, “Until now, perhaps. If I decide upon it, you will no longer be Gudderth’s Daughter, but Dominic’s Wife.”

He pursed his lips, began whistling a tune, and then slowly walked all the way around her, before turning his steps toward the hall again.

Elsinora watched him for a moment, the sun on his bare back, the broad muscles flexing. And the narrow hips with breeches that drank in the damp from his skin. He still had not pulled his damnable breeches up!

She thought of the girls in the cookhouse, any one of whom would gladly fulfill his base needs at the mere crook of a finger. They would do whatever he wanted, keep him content, while sniggering behind her back. How they would all love to see her brought down a peg, pushed aside by another woman he would make his mistress because she had refused.

Sometimes she thought sadly, one had to keep the enemy close, or risk being shut out in the cold. He was there and he was apparently determined to claim his winnings. She had two choices: poison the bastard or marry him. And Elsinora was no murderess. Therefore she would have to be his wife, if she wanted to keep her place as mistress of Lyndower—the place she’d held since her mother died twelve years ago. She’d always known it would come to this. She must sacrifice her happiness for Lyndower.

He was a stranger, but then any man sent by Count Robert to marry her would have been the same. He was ill-mannered, brutish, not at all the handsome, chivalrous husband she’d imagined for herself. But as Bertha had so kindly pointed out, what other choice did she have?

* * * *

Dominic stopped, still with his back to the maddening wench. He should keep walking, ignore her rather than engage in argument. Alas, he could feel her eyes shooting flaming arrows into his back. Her anger and frustration was too hot and she needed putting in her place, but she was also too fine a woman to be ignored.

When he first saw her that morning, running after him across the muddy yard, he was struck anew by the vision of her vulnerable beauty. The sun shone bright in her hair, her eyes wide awake and sky-blue. Her gown, once again, was too big for her and yet too short, ending a few inches above her ankles. A growth spurt must have taken her by surprise at some point.

He’d seen the way her gaze surreptitiously stroked his chest, almost afraid to do so, yet incapable of resistance. She must be curious about him, as he was about her. But rather than approach, she circled him, prodded him with a stick—in this case, her sharp, quarrelsome tongue.

His blood raced, like that of a boy about to dip his wick for the first time. She confused him, tangled his thoughts which were usually so straight and uncomplicated.

Now, half way across the yard, he could not put one foot before the other. Somehow the evil pixie bewitched him into turning around again and confronting her.