The Virgin Proxy (10 page)

That night she suffered her recurring bad dream again, waking in a sweat, still seeing the cruel black eyes of the ravens staring down at her from those trees, their wings flapping, beaks screaming at her.

She rolled over, staring into the dark, too afraid to go back to sleep. How could it be that her mind had known this place before? Not the castle, but those trees on the hill. Even the shape of the grim clouds overhead that morning had seemed familiar. There was no explanation other than a premonition of evil. The sooner she got away from here the better.

Then she began to think about Guy Devaux in bed with his wife tonight. Good. Perhaps he’d finally stop molesting her. But a grinding ache of yearning, deep inside, threatened to keep her awake all night.

Guy realized he’d been a little slow to understand. He blamed it on the other wench—the one who distracted him until he could barely think with his brain.

Sybilia climbed into the bed, lay on her back and waited, not looking at him.

“No veil tonight?” he inquired.

She turned her head on the pillow. “T’was a wedding night tradition. It is not necessary tonight, my lord.” Desire deepened her cadence. She wanted him; that much was plain. He’d known all along that she did not avoid his bed out of distaste for him. He was, after all, the legendary Guy Devaux, he thought proudly. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want him?

He rolled onto his side and lifted her shift. She didn’t move, but lay like a dead thing for his perusal. Her breasts were pale and full, her waist narrow, the curls on her mound were perhaps a few shades lighter than Deorwynn’s. Sliding a hand between her thighs he touched her dry, hot flesh and noticed that she did not flinch, but parted her legs a little more, allowing his finger to explore. He was only semi-stirred. Again he felt frustration.

The curse of course! The Saxon wench had cursed his manhood.

He did not want this woman lying in his bed; he wanted Deorwynn again. It was perturbing for a man who seldom bothered to remember a woman’s name, let alone want her two nights in a row. Usually any woman would do to relieve the pent up energy. Not tonight.

He felt Sybilia’s inner walls tighten on his probing finger, but there was no maidenhead in his way. She’d been had already, just as he suspected, and not by him. He’d been sold used stock, by the noble, pompous Baron Senclere. He pressed his finger further to be sure.

Her eyes widened, lashes fluttered. “You broke me in well on our wedding night, my husband,” she purred.

“Hmm.” He slid his finger out.

“My lord?” She stared with sly, watchful brown eyes, reminding Guy of a coney, reared up on its back feet, sniffing at the approach of hunters.

Chapter Eight

A loud rap almost rattled the door off its hinges. The woman nearest clambered to her feet, shouting through the door, “What is it?”

“The new wench. The Saxon girl. He wants to see her.”

In a shaft of pale moonlight through the arrow slit, Deorwynn sat up, confused, drowsy. Hands tugged on the sleeve of her shift.

“Make haste. He wants you.”

She was pushed to her feet and prodded through the door, not even a moment to put on her shoes. The guard scowled at her. “Name?”

“Deorwynn.” She yawned.

“Aye. That’s the one.” He grabbed her by the shoulder of her nightshift and escorted her down the torch-lit passage. Her first thought was that he’d decided to throw her into his dungeon after all. But they were going up, not down. The stone was ice-cold under her bare feet and drafts blew around her ankles. They came to another door where a second guard waited. He tapped on the wood lightly.

“Come,” Guy Devaux called out grumpily.

The guard winked at her. “Do your best wench. He’s not in a good mood.”

Shoved forward into the chamber, she stood a moment, blinking sleepily, taking in her surroundings. It was a small chamber warmed by a fire pit. Additional light came from a low table set with candles, wine and little cakes. The Norman sprawled on a fur covered couch beside it. Naked. Waiting for her. The edges of the room were in darkness, neither firelight nor candlelight reaching far beyond where he sat, but around him the air glowed golden.

“I couldn’t sleep,” were the first words out of his down-turned mouth. “And I couldn’t rouse my cock for my wife. Undo that curse you put upon me wench.”

She yawned, looked at his groin and saw the object in question already hardening, lengthening. “It seems healthy enough now,” she remarked dryly.

He glanced down his body, then back to her. His eyes warmed subtly as he took her in from bare feet to rumpled hair. “Entertain me,” he said. “Woman.”

“Now you are not,” he observed with a half smile. “And the sight of you awakening, warm and ruffled from your bed, pleases me very much.”

His smile may be dangerous; it was also infectious. She fought the fever, determined not to be drawn in. “How do you expect me to entertain you?” she asked warily, quite certain she was not yet recovered enough from the previous night.

“My lord,” he reminded her calmly.

“
My lord
.”

“I see we still need to practice your manners, Deorwynn.” He waved her closer. “Come. You look cold. I have something here to warm you.”

Again her gaze wandered down his body.

He laughed. “I have wine and blankets. Come, sit with me.”

“Sit with you?” She was astonished. One moment he treated her like a serf; then he sought her company as if they were on equal footing.

“I would talk with you.”

“
Talk
with me?” The incredulity continued to grow.

He reached for the jug of wine on the table beside him and poured some into a tall cup. “Here. This will warm you.”

He was fortunate she was damned cold or she would have held out longer, but in the cheery glow of candles that fur-laden couch looked too inviting, despite the arrogance of the man laid upon it. And, much to her chagrin, she’d missed his company, pining for something she knew was bad for her.

Snatching the full cup from his hand, she sat. He hitched onto his hip to make room for her. “Can you not wear clothes to talk?” she muttered, feeling his shaft twitch against her shift.

“I prefer to talk like this.” He paused, watching her face. “Why not take off your shift, Deorwynn, and then we can both be at our ease. And talk to our hearts content.”

She almost spat out her wine. Glaring at him over the rim of the cup she noted an additional twinkle in his eye. His words were slightly slurred. She’d simply assumed him to be half-asleep before, but now suspected he was slightly drunk.

“I prefer to remain clothed.”

“I could command that you sit naked beside me.”

“You
could
command,” she replied archly.

He seemed to consider whether or not he wanted to struggle with her tonight—or suffer another of her curses. Then he sipped his wine, still watching her above the rim of his goblet.

“What shall we talk about then? Since you had me dragged from my bed at this ungodly hour, it had better be a remarkable conversation.” Nerves and excitement colluded to make her put on this brave front. She hoped he would not see beyond it.

“It was a good place until the Normans came and despoiled it,” she added. “I suppose nothing grows there now. They probably slaughtered all the people and all the beasts.”

He reached over, swept a stray lock of hair from her cheek and wound it around his fingertip. The contact started a flame under her skin. “How long ago?”

“Fifteen years.”

“So you are one and twenty,” he muttered, releasing the lock of hair. “Five years younger than me.”

She was surprised—had thought him older. But that explained the boundless hubris and the occasional playful twinkle in his eye; the excess of vitality that spilled out of him as if he’d not yet learned to control his needs and feared something good might be taken away from him before he’d had his fill.

Clearly Sybilia had not mentioned Raedwulf’s plight yet. Exhaling a deep sigh, Deorwynn wondered why that should surprise her. She sipped her wine.

He said nothing, not even to reprimand her for forgetting
my lord
.

Pushing her luck she said, “Well, I will not lie down and be walked over. I must have something good happen to me one day.”

His gaze sharpened; a smile tugged on his lips. It wasn’t an effortless, charming grin like Thierry Bonnenfant’s; it was wickedly knowing, urging her to misbehave. He set his empty goblet on the little table beside his couch. “You shall have a great deal of good happen, Deorwynn, if you obey me.”

He was ungodly handsome in the warm light. Tonight he surrounded his couch with a profusion of large candles and, sitting there beside him, she could have been enjoying a glorious sunny day in summer. He looked at her in a hopeful, boyish way. She must do something, say something to keep him away. “They say your bride wore you out last night.”

“Do I look worn out to you?”

No he did not. Not at all.

She sought desperately for another subject, but he raised his hand again, slid it under her hair to the nape of her neck and drew her face down to his. She almost spilled her wine. Their lips collided. His other hand was on her waist, firm, hot, the strong fingers spread. Her breasts ached, wanting his touch, her nipples already afire. Shameless. His tongue swept hers, gentle and cajoling, reminding her vividly of his skill in stealing unexpected responses from her body.

She finished her wine in one gulp and handed him the empty cup. For the first time she noticed there was a third goblet on the little table. Had Sybilia sat there with him earlier that evening? Had the two of them talked like this? Had they kissed? She pressed a hand to her pounding heart as the wine burned on its way down. Unfortunately this gesture drew his white hot gaze to her breast. He exhaled with a hiss between clamped teeth and it felt as if he’d fastened them around her nipple.

“You…you were born in Brittany?” she stammered.

He nodded and sucked on his lips. She imagined his mouth pulling on her breast likewise.

Think Deorwynn. Remember who you are. Do not melt in a puddle before him again.

He chuckled softly, his fingers tapping her waist, his head tipped sideways against the fur as he looked up at her. She should tell him not to touch her, but she couldn’t find the words.

“Then the King decided I was in want of a wife,” he said. “He means to burden me with domestic troubles and a dozen ungrateful brats.”

“I’m sure you and Sybilia will be very happy.”

“But I grow bored quickly. One woman can never be enough for me.”

“You are wrong.” She laid her free hand to his bare chest, unable to resist. “A man should give his body and his heart to only one woman and make her content.”

“Sounds very dull. And foolish. I would not put all my coin in one coffer. Why would I put all my heart and body in one wench’s hands? The more the merrier for me.”