The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) (5 page)

Chapter Four

Talon bred hunting dogs. As it so happened, the day previously—before he happened upon Lord Harold’s razed settlement—Spur had visited his brother’s well-stocked kennel at Ironguard, thinking to take a hound back with him to his keep. Unfortunately the female animal he had chosen was too young to travel, and he would not uproot a nursing animal from its mother. And so he had left the dog behind. As luck would have it, the unused equipment was still fastened to his belt. The leather restraints now served him in an altogether different capacity, though still employed on a bitch.

With no possibility of escape, his collared and leashed prisoner stumbled ahead of him, nude and cowed.

Still, Spur pulled his broadsword.

Mercenaries might lurk in these parts, and his charge was to protect this treacherous whore-
bitch
…but only until he learned the name of her lover, the mercenary leader. Though she had probably lain with every member of the troop, the names of the leader and the noble who paid him were all that interested Spur. After she informed on them, his protection ended. The wolves could have her for all he cared. Until then, however, he kept one eye on the woods that abutted the trail and the other on her.

The latter was hardly a sacrifice.

Say what he would for her lack of morality, he still thought her a beauty. In particular, he found her skin praiseworthy. Her face’s fair complexion continued all over, with nary a freckle to be seen anywhere. Countless men may have kissed her bare flesh, but ’twas obvious the sun had never enjoyed that same privilege.

He would decidedly
not
kiss her pale flesh. Neither would he suckle at her rose-tipped breasts, nor slip his tongue between her toned thighs to lap at her loins, a cunt encircled with a neat patch of winsome sable curls. Nor would he sink his cock into her well-traveled slit, regardless of its wet seduction. Neither would he turn her over onto her belly and poke her in back, a deep crevice that called out to him even now. Instead he would terrorize her until she spilled information in favor of his
not
spilling her blood. A fair trade. Then, after she gave up all that she was privy to, he would surrender her over to the king, who would hopefully decorate the end of a pike with the traitor-whore’s scheming head. Also fair. Traitors deserved execution. A waste of a prime cunt, but there ’twas. Duty was duty. He did serve his king.

His cock jutting uncomfortably within its metal armor, which placed him in the foulest of moods, Spur pulled on the leather strap encircling his prisoner’s throat. The yank brought her up short.

The trees had thinned here, and she turned to him, blinking at the sudden shift in light from shadowed to bright.

“Aye, my lord?” she said and swiftly cupped a hand to her eyes.

Raising an arm so quickly as she had sent her small breasts to jiggling. One nipple of those jiggling breasts showed the swelling of his punitive handling.

Her wincing told him she could not see him, but he had seen enough.

“Face forward,” he muttered, scowling.

“Aye, my lord,” she said again.

Jesus, but her sweet voice irritated him. So much so, he removed his helm and flung it up ahead. The metal headgear clattered against a rock several feet away. “Return that to me.”

“Why toss the helm if you required its return?”

“To show you how expansive is my authority over you.”

“A fruitless endeavor. I already recognize your authority. I am wearing a prisoner’s restraint, after all. The real question here is—do you recognize your vulnerability to ambush?”

He raised a disbelieving brow. “You worry over my safety?”

“I most certainly do, for how will you defend me without full armor? If you die, I die.”

Selfish minx!

But there was truth in her selfishness. He wanted something from her, and she wanted something from him the same, two coconspirators in the subversive act of staying alive. She needed his sword and his steed to get away from here. He needed the name of her mercenary lover and the royal who paid him so he could safeguard his territory from future attack.

Half vexation, half admiration, he swatted the round curve of her bottom, done with the flat of his sword this time. “Fetch the helm.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Going forward a few steps, she began to modestly squat.

“Knees straight,” he barked.

He knew the exact moment she realized the crudeness of his directive, for she visibly cringed, every muscle in her reed-slender body gone tense.

A traitor and a whore could not afford such transparency, nor should a woman leading such a life as hers exhibit a tendency to cringe. Yet, she did. Proving what?

That she knew how to play a part. That he could believe neither her words nor her actions. That she lacked any reliable credibility. And that he dared not trust her.

Whilst he observed her every move, she carried out the instruction. Dropping downward from her trim waist, she rounded—knees unbent. He could
almost
see everything.

“Legs well parted,” he instructed so that
almost
became in truth.

“Of course.” Thighs spread, she reached for the metal helm.

“Hold,” he called.

In absolute obedience, she steadied in her bent pose.

He gazed between her thighs, taking in her everything.

Projecting from between the folds of her genitalia was her rosebud. Never had he seen a nubbin so large. And plump. Amazingly beguiling. In back—located deep within the seam between her buttocks—was the forbidden egress. The puckered ring looked lamentably tight. And dainty. Frustratingly unapproachable. Though where there was a will, there was always a way. Every fortress had its protective walls and its assailable vulnerabilities. Some bastions simply took longer to seize.

After drooling awhilst, he sauntered forward.

He had never bedded such a compliant female, never bedded a female under his lordly jurisdiction. All his previous lovers, royal ladies to a one and primarily widows older than himself, were a willful, demanding lot, who saw to their own pleasures first, last, and always. True, this female’s submissiveness was involuntary—she was a whore, a peasant, and his prisoner, so what choice did she have but to do as he told her? Still, her unquestioning obedience excited him.

How would her meekness carry over to the furs?

Whilst wondering, he peered over her shoulder, noting again her tender young breasts, one tip bruised, one tip not, both uptilted despite her rounded pose.

He kicked the helm slightly beyond her present reach.

“The task was far too easy,” he explained.

Her downcast gaze prevented her from seeing his face, but he could see hers. Color rushed to her cheeks, and not from her down-turned position. Clearly she was fuming. To infuriate her even more, he patted her head, then swaggered to his former position behind her.

Christ’s stones, but his were heavy!

“Now you may retrieve the helm,” he mumbled. “But without taking another step.”

To do so would required a goodly stretch of her nubile young body—and a further invasion of her most intimate privacy—over which his vantage point would award him a unique visual perspective. Alas, the agony of his heavy testicles was bound to interfere with his enjoyment.

Damn her seductiveness, anyway! And damn himself too, for thinking to make her squirm by tossing out some poisoned bait. ’Twas a poorly thought-out maneuver from the very beginning. He was the one who squirmed—in male discomfort—not she.

Not that she noticed. After doing his bidding, she inched her way back up, taking the helm with her, her wiggling bottom waving in the air.

In an agony of arousal, he coughed. Coughed again. Tried to get himself under control.

Unfortunately his usual self-restraint failed him.

That left him but one option: To disguise his humiliating weakness, he said,
before
she could turn, “Carry the helm to my destrier,” thus keeping his bulging erection his big, inconvenient, secret.

The strategy worked.

“As you will, my lord,” she sang out cheerily.

Bah! Why had he ever begun this exercise?

’Twas apparent the self-serving wench had made herself his willing slave before ever he placed the collar about her neck.

Past disappointed with himself, he whipped the leather strap in his hand. A ripple raced down its length to her collar. “Walk.”

She did, his helm cradled under an arm, her gait as naturally sensual as a warm summer breeze, whilst he trudged disagreeably along behind her, his erect cock pointing the way to rack and ruin. Henceforth he would need to steel himself from her inherent sexuality, an effortless physical attraction that stirred him too easily.

His loins hurting, he stumbled after her, his hot gaze on the undulation of her swaying hips. And not just her hips swayed, provocative enough alone, but all of her swayed.

He groaned. Aloud. Further evidence of his male weakness.

As he braced himself for an extended bout of torture at her hands, a scuttling off to one side drew his attention. At first he put the sound off to scavenging animals on the hunt. ’Twas a common occurrence to hear dry wood splinter as beasts roamed the territory for prey.

A fine conjecture ’twas too…until a heavily armed band jumped out from the overgrowth of bush and surrounded them.

No ragtag paid soldier’s unit was this, no mercenary contingent looking to rejoin their main troop. An unkempt appearance and lack of military bearing and armor told Spur these men were outlaws.

Holding his helm before her like a shield, his naked prisoner backed up.

“Not so fast, dearie,” a red-bearded misfit said, and approached.

Pointing his broadsword at the outlaw, Spur pulled his prisoner clear of his advance. “One more step and the lice will flee those red whiskers of yours before I cut your throat.”

Up went Red Beard’s arms, hiked in the air. “M’lord, no argument do we have with ye. Kindly leave us to our jollies and we will release ye unharmed to go on about yer business. A decent exchange, methinks, yer valuable life for her worthless quim.” He clutched his crotch and shook the contents within. “Pardon our dropping in on ye, but we be a tad hungry for a female. Been a whilst since me mates and me had us a tumble.”

“In that case…” Spur sheathed his sword and then loosed his hold on his prisoner’s leather strap. “I quite understand, my good man. I thought to do the same with the whore. She has rather nice bubbies.” He winked lasciviously. “Well, have to, my friends, and best of wishes.” He stepped back and away from his naked prisoner.

“My lord! I pray you, do not leave me to them,” she cried out as the outlaw leader pawed her, his filthy hands kneading her breasts as spittle bubbled from his fleshy lips.

For daring to touch his property, Red Beard would be the first to die, Spur decided on the spot.

“Sweet Mary, nay,” the wench shouted and boxed the groping thief’s ear.

“You heard the whore,” Spur said drily. “Apparently she is declining your courtship.”

“Not just declining his courtship,” she said. “Insulted by it.” Showing her disdain, she swung the helm, beating her would-be suitor about the head and face until blood gushed forth from his unprotected nose.

The very diversion Spur needed.

As the outlaw tried to staunch the crimson flow, Spur made his move.

Red Beard went down first—a quick stab to the heart done with the dagger secreted in Spur’s left boot, followed by a similar dispensing of another maggot, the kills done in quick succession of one another.

As he was about to run a third man through with his sword, Spur was rudely interrupted.

A jump from an overhanging tree branch landed the ambushing outlaw atop Spur’s back. Fortunately the sneak attack fell a smidgen short, and his cunning prisoner had the presence of mind to use the botched attempt on his life to repeat her prior tactic.

Clunk
. She let the ambusher have it with the helm.

As this newest arrival sagged to the ground, Spur finished off two more of their attackers. Seeing no further comers, Spur sheathed his weapons, toed the crumpled corpses aside, and reclaimed his hold on his prisoner.

Only she, evidently, failed to view herself as such. Slight of build but long of leg, she stood tall and proud before him as if she were his equal.

He would forget for a moment that the wench was a whore. But as a peasant and a woman, and particularly as his prisoner, she was no equal of his. He was a nobleman by birth, a warrior by endeavor, and her warden on the trip to his keep—details she best not forget or by Christ’s testicles, he would…

What?

What would he do?

Cut out her tongue, perchance?

He would get no information out of her that way.

Time to face the truth: she had him over a proverbial barrel.

For now.

“Here,” she said daintily and passed him his helm.

Lest she use it against him too, he took it in both hands. “This served you well in the fight. But think of how a real weapon might have done you.”

“Done me in, more like.” She dropped her chin. “I-I helped you kill a man.”

“Actually, not to be picky, but ’twas two.”

She looked up at him woefully, her expression distraught. “Two men. I helped you kill
two men
?”

“A bloody mess you made of it too,” he muttered, examining his brain-splattered helm, loathe to put the armor back on his head.

She swiped her hands over her red-stained breasts and loins, smearing the proof of her success all over her hillocks and hollows.

“Bathe,” she moaned to herself. “I must cleanse their blood away!” With a jerk that broke his hold on the leash, she took off at a gallop down the trail for the river, in clear view.

Understanding rose up within him. He recalled all too well the first death brought about by his doing. Like her, he had not actually done the kill but had instead instigated the circumstance. ’Twas on a battlefield. A few years shy of her age at the time, he too had been horror-struck afterward. ’Twas not easy to hold life and death in the palm of one’s hand, to be the deciding factor in who took their next breath and who would wheeze out their last.