The Virgin Proxy (14 page)

She dabbed his thigh gently with the damp rag, wiping up the dried blood. His prick lifted, trying to brush against her arm. “I see you are not so badly hurt after all,” she muttered, keeping her eyes on the task. “Mayhap I should send your wife to tend you. My lord.”

“Curious. I mentioned to her on our wedding night, as she lay in my arms.” He grabbed the end of her braid. “I did not expect her to defy a command.”

Ignoring his hold on her hair, she finished cleaning the wound and then took a small clay pot of herbal lotion from her apron pocket.

He wound his hand around her braid, slowly pulling her closer to his bed and his lips. “I keep my friends close, but my enemies closer.”

“Then do your enemies not have you surrounded?”

He should have been furious with her for forgetting the “my lord” again. He was not, however. “Saucy-mouthed wench. What’s in the lotion?”

“Herbs to guard against infection, of course. Although I daresay it’s too late and your leg will fall off anyway.”

“Lucky I’ve got a third one then,” he quipped, winking. He couldn’t help it, she made him feel light hearted. Her presence was a wonderful antidote to a bad mood and even when he’d planned to play the invalid and work on her sympathy, his spirits were too lively when she was beside him.

He lay as still as he could—hard indeed for a man with too much energy—while she applied the salve. Then he bent his leg so she could bind a clean cloth around his thigh.

“I suppose you cheered to see me brought down by your gallant champion,” he mumbled sulky again at the thought of her favor tied on his friend’s tunic.
It matters not. She is just another woman. I can share her with Thierry, as I have done in the past with others.
He was only six and twenty. There were a great many more women in the world to have before he was an old man. Guy Deveaux could not allow this weakness to invade his heart. Many warriors, stronger and tougher than this Saxon wench had failed to bring him to his knees. What was so different about her?

“Don’t you remember?” she said.

He thought he remembered her face peering down at him, full of concern and fear, but that could simply be a fantasy, caused by a stout knock upon the head. “Remember what?”

“You held my hand.”

“I did?” Strangely enough he wanted to hold her hand again, to feel her soft warm fingers in his palm. He wanted that as much as he wanted to feel other things and that was rare for him.

A sudden knock at the door preceded Sybilia’s unwanted arrival. He sat up quickly. “Ah there you are, wife. I was just discussing our arrangement with your handmaid. It seems you forgot to mention it to her.”

The woman said nothing. She had no idea what he was talking about, of course. Instead she looked at his hand gripping Deorwynn’s braid and then her furious gaze swung to the sight of his enormous erection. She scowled hard at both items.

Deorwynn finally pulled away, grabbed her bowl, bowed her head and hurried out. He curbed the urge to fly after her and drag her back. Somehow he had to get control of this. Thierry thought she was special to him, but how could that be? She was Saxon, mouthy, defied his orders and claimed to have no fear of punishment. Yes, she was a great and exhausting fuck, but surely that was all. He should have handed her off to Thierry and not made such a display. “Strutting” as his friend had called it.

Tearing his eyes from the door, he suddenly remembered the other woman. She was patrolling the foot of his bed, her hands clasped tightly before her.

“You pay much attention to my handmaid,” she muttered. “Folk noticed this afternoon.”

“What of it?”

“I am your wife, my lord. Am I to be ignored in favor of a penniless serving girl?” She licked her lips and he was reminded of a serpent, hissing its way across the ground toward him. “I doubt my father would be happy if he knew this. He might take back some part of my dowry if he thinks me ill-used.”

Two dots of red appeared on her thin cheeks, bringing new life to her otherwise sour expression. He knew very well that she had no idea what he was talking about. Evidently Deorwynn had said nothing to her of his request for an additional bedmate. So the two women were not communicating in complete openness. Interesting. But Sybilia was definitely complicit in the exchange that took place. Had she initiated it, or was it the other one who suggested they swap? He thought of Deorwynn sitting at his side last night, her fingers touching his chest timidly as she talked of never sharing a man she loved.

A man she loved
.

Probably just an expression, a turn of phrase. It did not mean she had feelings like that for him. In Deorwynn’s deep brown eyes he was the enemy; whatever her reason for taking his wife’s place in bed that once, love was not it. Yet she had leapt down from the stands when he fell. He was confused by her actions just as much as he was confused by his own.

He’d known her only a matter of days. Yet there was something between them, binding like ropes of exquisite silk.

“You could not remember what I asked of you?” He glared at his supposed wife. “I do not often make my demands twice, Lady Sybilia, but today I will make an exception. Perhaps the pleasures of the wedding night completely swept your mind clear of all other matters.”

She stood very straight, looking at him as if she feared he might leap up and strike her with his fists.

“I asked you, my Lady Sybilia, to bring your handmaiden Deorwynn to our bed one evening, so she might join us.” He paused, one hand resting on his wounded thigh. “Do you remember now?”

It took her a few moments to compose herself. Her thin brows curved slightly, her lips parted, exhaling a small sigh of resignation. “Yes, of course,” she murmured finally.

He wanted to laugh at that, knowing this was absolutely a false statement. That was why the entire matter was puzzling. A woman of Deorwynn’s stubborn, proud nature would not willingly take another woman’s place and give her virginity away to a man she considered her enemy, unless she had an important reason.

“And you are content with the arrangement?” he demanded. “You will do all that I ask?”

“You are my husband and your wish is my command.”

There was no emotion on her face. Unlike the other woman, she would gladly share him it seemed. “Good. I look forward to our evening’s sport.”

Sybilia moved back around the bed, suddenly raising her hands to the collar of her gown. “Why wait until then, my lord? You have not enjoyed my body since our wedding night.” She jerked the cloth downward. “I am ready for you. I always will be. Whatever you wish me to do.”

He was shocked at how quickly she went from prim and proper to half-undressed, offering herself without dignity to the man she’d thought to fool on his wedding night. She was a woman desperate for him now, it seemed, although two nights ago she gave him to another.

She tugged her shift down likewise, exposing two high, firm breasts with pale nipples. He signaled her closer. Glancing down at his lap, she must have seen the hem of his tunic lift as his cock hardened again. A small, pleased smile parted her lips, triumphant relief gleaming in her eyes.

“Kneel before me,” he commanded. “Take my cock in your mouth.”

She did. Darkly amused by her mute obedience—so different to Deorwynn—he stared down at her bared breasts as she sucked his cock diligently. Her skin was so ghostly pale that a tiny network of blue veins could be traced from her nipple, spreading over the full curve of flesh.

Suddenly his door opened and Thierry barged in. “I thought I…” He stopped, turned and would have left without a word, but Guy called him back.

“So much for privacy,” he grunted. “Now you’re here you may as well stay. You can take over in a moment as business calls me elsewhere.”

Sybilia scrambled to her feet, his crest slipping from her mouth with a loud pop.

“My lady wife tells me she will do anything I ask,” he said to his friend.

Thierry was staring at her ripe breasts, his interest evident. He had, of course, told Guy how attractive he thought her on the night she arrived. “Does she?” he mumbled. “Very nice.”

“Yes. And I’m sure she’ll be equally generous to you. If she knows what’s good for her.”

The woman made a small gasp of protest.

Guy reached for his wolf-skin robe. “Now those dewy pink, noble woman’s lips of yours—at both ends—will tend my good friend’s prick to his satisfaction and perhaps I might manage to forgive the massive deception you and your father tried to play upon me.”

He stood, pulled the robe over his shoulders and limped out of the chamber.

Chapter Eleven

Again she disappeared and this time he knew she wouldn’t turn up in his bed later. A hot sickness mounted in his gut at the thought of losing that woman. He yelled at the guards by the gate who were nonplussed by his anger. No one, they assured him, had come in or gone out.

And then he heard her laughter, coming from the cookhouse. He turned, belting his robe with unsteady hands. Limping, he crossed the yard and jerked open the door. A hot blast of steam hit him in the face, instantly dampening his skin and hair. The place was filled with servants, all busy at work, until the cold air he let in caused them to stop, look over in readiness to complain, and then notice him there. At once they fell silent, heads bowed while his gaze swept the crowded interior.

“Where is the woman Deorwynn?” he bellowed.

Someone moved aside and then she was there, stepping into the roaring light of the great hearth. Amid all the noise he’d heard her voice—he was pathetically attuned to it. The sight of her was so pleasing that he could not speak for a moment. He’d thought her gone. He’d expected, at the very least, that she would hide from him. Neither had happened.

* * * *

She ignored the knowing glances of the other servants and hurried after him. Since the scene in the tiltyard, rumors had spread rapidly about his lordship’s preference for his wife’s handmaiden. Pretending he needed her only to tend his wounded leg again, she kept her head high, her expression bland and followed him from the sweltering cookhouse.

Half way across the yard he turned to face her, his robe swinging around his ankles. He was barefoot, she realized, shocked. He must have come in great haste to find her.

“You left me before I was done with our conversation.” His breath shot out in a fine mist.

Going from the stifling heat of the cookhouse to the chill of the yard, her entire body pimpled with goose bumps. The thin layer of perspiration on her skin dried speedily. “I thought our
conversation
had come to its natural end with the arrival of your wife. My lord.”

That gave him a little of his own medicine, she thought with amusement. She’d heard him make that sound before, several times, and now understood it was his way of seeming to answer a question without actually doing so. It kept the other person on their toes, discouraged further questions on the same subject and made no commitment on his part either way.