The Virgin Proxy (8 page)

Apparently he had not stayed long abed this morning with his wife. Had the Norman enjoyed Sybilia as much—or more—than he enjoyed
her
?

The question crept in sneakily.

Would he notice a difference? Deep in some wicked place within her, jealousy reared its ugly head. It was completely and utterly wrong for her to feel that way, yet she did.

She thought of walking up to him, there and then, and asking for his help in freeing her brother. It would be a bold move. Yet in his merciless Norman eyes she was merely a peasant and a Saxon. It seemed unlikely he would listen. Surely she was better off waiting for his fine lady wife’s entreaty on her behalf. But how long would it take Sybilia to pluck up the courage? Perhaps Guy Devaux would think more of her if she appealed to him directly.

And why did she care what he thought of her?

Confused by this tumult of emotion she didn’t want to feel, Deorwynn backed away under the shelter of the blacksmith’s forge and watched her secret lover admonish the children so fiercely they dare not speak or move, until he dismissed them with a flip of his hand. Keeping the small boy back, he crouched beside him, chatting quietly; his manner was gentle when he thought no one watched. He tweaked the boy’s nose, finally forcing a smile from the child.

Rather than stay to watch further, Deorwynn hurried up the stone steps to the walkway. Two guards bearing halberds stood in her way, but a little flirting and cajoling was all it took before they agreed to let her go up and view the countryside. Apparently they were satisfied she was no threat to castle security.

At last she would see what lay outside these stern walls.

Wind whipped the hair back from her face as she looked out between the battlements. Low, iron grey clouds moved rapidly across the sky, closing out what little sun there had been. And as she stared out over the gentle swell of fields and valleys, she almost stopped breathing. There, on a far hill, stood a row of stark, winter-ravaged trees. Black against the sky, they reached their crooked, snarled branches upward, beseeching mercy from an unhearing god.

These were the trees from her nightmare. They were not filled with ravens today, but she knew them at once—recognized the contorted shapes and the immediate sense of dread they caused in her heart. Lifting her face to the wind, she could almost smell death and decay.

It
was
an omen then. Her nightmares had been a warning, a premonition of danger, perhaps even death. She would meet her end here, in this place, probably on the orders of Guy Devaux, when he uncovered the deception in which she’d participated.

“Then they’ll be punished.” He beckoned with one curled finger. Deorwynn remained where she was, chin raised half an inch, her cup held tightly to her chest.

He smirked, walking toward her with a narrow-hipped swagger that ought to be outlawed. Normans were fond of laws for everyone else. It was time someone set some rules down for this lusty devil with his piercing blue eyes and enormous….she squinted, carefully lowering her gaze…feet.

“You stole from me,” he said.

Her gaze snapped upward again to meet his. He knew. Or did he merely stare at her that way because he imagined getting her into bed with him and his wife, as he’d so boldly suggested? He had admitted he liked the look of Deorwynn. She remembered the quiet way he’d said it to her as she laid in his bed, pretending to be Sybilia.

He moved closer. “You stole my precious seed when you were not entitled.”

Horror streaked through her. Wind tugged on her hair and caught under her cloak. Dear God, he would have her killed now for deceiving him.

“When you bathed so boldly in my presence,” he added. “You took some of me on your tongue.”

Ah, he spoke of the night in the cookhouse, not last night when he spilled inside the woman he thought was his new bride. A sharp stitch twisted in her side but she daren’t move. Daren’t blink.

“That is a very fine brooch for a servant girl,” he said suddenly.

Deorwynn raised one hand to the mother-of-pearl brooch, fearing he might try to snatch it away from her. “My mistress gave it to me.”

Stuck my bare ass out of a bell-tower on a dare.
She imagined
his expression if she told him.

“Something amuses you, wench?” he barked.

She shook her head. “It is the unfortunate shape of my mouth and this dimple,” she pointed to the dent in her cheek. “I am not in the least amused by you. It just appears that way.” Although she should have stopped there, she couldn’t help herself; her natural, quarrelsome spirit would not lie down and be silent. “I cannot think of anything
less
amusing than a Norman.”

Prepared for his angry hand to strike, she welcomed it, hoping he would knock all the wanton desire for him right out of her bones. But it did not come. His lips twitched; his searching regard swept her again from toes to crown and then he snatched the cup from her grasp. “What is this?”

Calmly he poured the stinking concoction over the battlements. “You will poison yourself. Tansy and pennyroyal in those amounts?”

She was shocked. Someone must have watched her more closely than she knew and reported back to Devaux. Distraught, she glanced down over the battlements to where the green liquid spattered the grey stone. Had he done that out of spite or genuine concern for her safety?

“Go to my bedchamber, then, wench. Your mistress requires you this morning I’m sure.” A slow smile slid over his lips, sensuous and smug. “She will be tired and sore. I rode her well last night and stabled her sweating.”

She looked at him, at all that disgusting beauty—his wild blue eyes and windblown dark curls; those broad shoulders and their incredible power; the hands that had held her, touched her, stroked her. The fingers that had impaled her.

His smile widened and once again she wondered if he knew it was her last night. If he did, where was her punishment?

Anxious and confused, she found it quite impossible to remain mute.

“Take care, my lord. Your new destrier has a streak of wildness and a mouth that takes poorly to the bit. You may find yourself tossed from the saddle one of these nights.”

The self-satisfied smile faded from his rugged features, but the fire in his eyes remained lit. In fact, the flame stretched higher in the draft she’d caused with her impertinence.

Deorwynn moved to pass, but he stood in her way, feet apart. “Where did you sleep last night, wench? I searched these castle walls for you, after the wedding feast.” He grabbed her arm, his fingers spread, almost bruising her flesh.

“Why? What have I done?”

“Laid in a bath and let me see you. Tempted me almost beyond my mighty Norman endurance. Made me want to mate with you until I could think of naught else.”

His eyes sparked. “Have you done that before?” She tried to leave, but he would not relinquish her arm. “Have you?” he insisted, his voice sterner.

“No.” She squirmed to escape his grip, but a gust of strong wind slapped her gown against her legs. Almost swept off balance, she fell into his tall, steady form and the sudden bodily contact brought new light to his eyes.

“Why would you allow me to touch you? Encourage it even? Am I not your enemy? Do you not despise me? That is what my
wife
told me last night.”

“I didn’t know what to do when you saw me bathing. I was afraid. If I called out for the guard he might have done the same to me as you did. You rotten Normans are all alike.”

He kissed her. She couldn’t say she had no warning, but the softness of his lips caressing hers was unexpected. His other kisses had been forceful, frenzied, hungry. This one was warm, tender. It lingered. This morning there was no veil in the way.

Closing the small gap between them again, he placed his hands flat to the stone battlements on either side of her shoulders. “You lie, Deorwynn. You want my lusty sword, as much as I long to thrust it inside you. You told me so with your eyes when you lay in that bath.” He leaned closer, sniffing her neck. “I smell the soap on you still. Something else now too. The scent of coupling. Like the musk I left on my bedmate last night.” He whispered silkily, “Feel how it rouses me?”

“I doubt it takes much to rouse you.” Her wriggling only succeeded in snagging her gown on his belt buckle. She was trapped.

“You came to my bed and took the place of your mistress. Why?”

She felt his rampant arousal event through his chausses and her gown. “No,” she gasped, her breath shredded by another gust of wind. “I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.”

“Never. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.” She amazed even herself with her bravery today, but seeing him so soon again this morning had brought back every painful and pleasurable sensation from the night before. She feared that shameful, misplaced yearning would be clear upon her face. “Let me go. People watch us.”

His hands slid down to her buttocks, gripped her tightly and squeezed. His bold rod pushed at her stomach. “You were a virgin two nights ago in that bath,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “If you are not one now, I’d know the truth. Would I not? Let me …”

“No. Stop! Norman swine! Don’t you dare touch me again. I’ll put a curse on you.” Fists curled against his chest, she shoved him away. But he arched his groin against her again, his big hands covering her buttocks, holding her intimately against him. “I hate you,” she cried, her voice echoing against the stone. “I would sooner lie with an old boar!”

Fury raged in his eyes. He struggled to get hold of her wrists and she screamed at him again, “May you never have a child! May your over-eager cockerel crow once too many times, when and where it is not needed, and find itself stewing in a cook pot!”

Finally he released her. He stepped back, one thumb pressed to his lips, while his eyes roved over her body, measuring, considering.

“Go wench,” he grumbled suddenly. “Get out of my sight.”

To make the point that she went on her own command, not his, Deorwynn swept regally by him and down the stone steps. Everyone inside the bailey was watching her; watching
his
reaction to her, amazed that their lord and master had not slapped her into next week for her insolence. Even the relentless clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer stopped temporarily.

She was almost at the main door when Thierry appeared through it, moving at speed, not looking where he went. At the last moment he saw her and halted. “My lady Deorwynn,” he murmured giving her a little bow.

Yesterday, at the wedding feast, Thierry’s friendly chatter had put her at ease. She liked being called “my lady”. So she returned his smile, staying a moment to exchange pleasantries. Purely because he was nice to her. Nothing to do with the other man watching them like a bird of prey.