The Wagered Wench Read online

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2012 Georgia Fox

  ISBN: 978-1-927368-48-0

  Cover Artist: LF Designs

  Editor: Marie Buttineau

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Holly

  THE WAGERED WENCH

  The Conquerors, 5

  Georgia Fox

  Copyright © 2012

  Part One

  Aqua

  Chapter One

  Cornweal, Spring 1082

  Few people would venture into the stream before the sun was fully out to warm it. At this time of year, when ice blocking the stream’s progress across the bleak moor had not long thawed, the water was stinging cold. But Elsinora Gudderthsdottir was on a mission. And when she had a particular yearning in mind, nothing stood in her way.

  This was where the water took its steepest tumble, splattering and bubbling over a line of rocks that straddled the width of the stream. Then it cascaded down in a rush and a hiss, tearing off excitedly in the surge that drove the mill wheel further on. As she stepped down into the thrusting water, skirt hitched up to her knees, the first ripple hit her like jolt of lightening, taking her breath away. Glancing quickly over her shoulder, making sure she was alone, Elsinora raised her gown higher still and parted her stockinged legs, just an inch. Oh the anticipation!

  Here it came.

  The icy cold water frothed over the row of stones and slapped between her thighs, hitting her bare skin above the rough wool stockings. She shivered, catching her breath. The waves and bubbles puttered against her sensitive flesh, shocked her into an impulsive gasp, pulsed over her private crease and brought her close to that wicked, secret joy.

  Again she checked over her shoulder. Good. No one.

  She parted her legs further and crouched slightly. After coming to this part of the stream at least four days a week for three springs now, Elsinora knew the exact angle required for the greatest of soaring pleasure. She slid her hands down, touching herself, opening her nether lips for another gush of frenzied bubbles.

  Yes, Yes! She swayed in the water, eyes half-closed, letting the stream kiss and lap at her quinny. Thank Christ and all the saints that she ever found this place.

  Here came another gleaming wet tongue. Right on her daisy—as she liked to call that small, shy bud—waking the tiny flower from its slumber, opening all its petals. If she did not have chores waiting for her at home, preparations for her father’s homecoming, she’d stand there for half an hour, blissfully losing herself in the sensations. But of course, if she stayed that long, her flesh would grow numb and that defeated the purpose. With one hand she reached down and rubbed her wet nether lips with her warmer hand, making certain her labia didn’t become so cold she lost the glorious sensation.

  More, more…the water could not flow fast enough for her today. Elsinora was sure she would ever get enough of it.

  * * * *

  “I can never get enough of you, Dominic,” the woman gasped as he finally looked up from between her spread thighs. “More. Give me more.”

  Well, he would gladly oblige. Standing and lifting her ankles to his shoulders, he thrust solidly and filled her primed, quivering pussy with a yard of rock hard cock.

  Her eyelids drifted downward and her cheeks flushed. She handled her own titties, squeezing her long nipples, writhing on the creaky table with every deep poke of his sturdy rod. Of course her eyes were shut so she wouldn’t have to look at his scarred face. Dominic’s gaze traveled to the window of her cottage. Soon her daughter and son-in-law would return from the market and he’d best be gone by then, keeping this pleasant arrangement from becoming anything more than what it was now.

  She groaned as he moved in the slow, grinding rhythm she favored. “Oh, Dominic, you know how to do it better than anyone.”

  Better than her dead husband apparently, he mused. This merry widow claimed she’d never climaxed before, until Dominic Coeur-du-Loup had her for the first time. Of course, she could be lying. Deceit was prevalent in females, particularly when they needed his help, or something from him, and then they would say anything to flatter. He’d discovered that truth years ago, an education paid for with the sacrifice of his once handsome face. Any time he was in danger of forgetting the pain women could cause, if he let them too close, he need only look at his reflection to remember.

  He pumped away at his post, listening with one ear to the widow’s moaning delight. His other ear was tuned to the outside, listening for any sound of voices approaching in the lane. Spring air blowing in through the open shutters was heavy with salt and fish. In the distance, gulls echoed above the busy chatter of the marketplace down by the quay. A pale yellow butterfly—surprising him this early in the year—hovered above the window ledge and briefly landed in a patch of weak sunlight, seeking comfort where it could be found. It stayed for only a few seconds and then, probably finding the warmth inadequate, was off again on its journey.

  Dominic felt the widow’s pussy squeezing, heard her breaths quickening. Returning his gaze to her expression, watching all the familiar signs as she neared her peak again, he worked harder between her trembling thighs. It was not unlike riding a good, solid mare—one whose capabilities he knew well and who was best not challenged over tricky fences or ditches. She was a serviceable mount, good for a trot around the paddock. Not a racer or a warhorse, but reliable and safe.

  He felt no guilt thinking this of her, because the widow enjoyed her enclosed paddock. Several times he’d suggested more adventurous rides and she’d balked. This was what she liked. Plain and simple. On her back across the creaky table. A familiar rutting, orderly and neat as her little house.

  She was almost there now. He heard the whimper pushed out between her clenched teeth, and watched her hands fall to the nicked wood on either side of her body. Her fingertips traced patterns in the spilled flour she’d been pouring into a bowl before he came up behind her with his usual greeting— a mute, but effective salutation delivered by the forceful ramrod in his breeches. She’d complained once that a polite “Good morn, madam,” would not go amiss, but as far as Dominic was concerned that was a waste of time. They both knew what he was there for—the same reason she welcomed him there. Conversation was unnecessary.

  Better hurry up. He looked down at her dark pubic hair and the ridges of his thick manhood, slick with her juice, pushing in and out. For some reason today that sight was not enough. He had to close his eyes and think of something else. The widow’s moans grew husky, deep. Her back arched. Dominic hastily began sorting through his mind for various images he might use to work himself into a rapid spend.

  * * * *

  Elsinora tipped her head back and let another shiver run through her body, almost knocking her off her feet. She gasped as the cold, gleaming water slapped up at her sex and washed her aching daisy. Her nipples were hard, thrusting at the front of her woolen gown, catching on the worn threads through her old shift. She imagined teeth and lips tugging on those anxious buds and that sent her over the edge yet again, groaning loud enough to startle a blackbird from a willow branch nearby.

  * * * *

  He pictured a woman standing in a stream, lifting her gown to her thighs. It came suddenly into his mind. She had her
back to him, unaware of his presence. That was good, because then she couldn’t see his ugly face and be frightened by it. She had long, fair hair tied back in a braid and the end of it tapped her shapely arse, just above the valley between her cheeks. The damp material of her gown clung to her buttocks and accentuated the shape. As she lifted the hem higher still he could see the bottom curve of her cheeks above her woolen stockings, and when she parted her legs, bending forward slightly, it was enough to show him a teasing hint of pussy. He spied on her from behind a bush nearby, watched her wash herself in the water. She bent further and Dominic could have sworn her sweet cunny winked at him. Her flesh was bright pink. The water must be cold. He heard her joyous yelp as the bubbles licked her twat.

  Ah yes. He bit his lip and began thrusting faster, shaking the table beneath the woman he no longer saw.

  In that imaginary stream there was wild, tender, unguarded pussy, gleaming like a fresh-picked and washed raspberry, tempting him to swallow it whole.

  * * * *

  The water seemed to flow faster as if an obstruction further up stream was suddenly knocked free. A tumult of raw sensation flooded into her. The bracing gush almost swept her backward again, so she parted her legs wider to withstand the force. She was breathless and she didn’t care.

  Bubbles rushed by, pummeled her nether lips, slapping up at her trembling daisy. She flung her head back and wanted to laugh. Again. Again, Sweet Saint Geraint!

  * * * *

  Thinking herself alone, the woman playing in the stream touched herself intimately. One hand lifted her gown all the way to her waist, giving Dominic an eyeful of creamy buttocks. She parted her legs wider, while her other hand brought her to climax. She swayed, holding her balance admirably in the forceful flow of water. He couldn’t wait another minute to claim that prize she unknowingly offered. He wanted to come in her now, fuck her so hard, plow her furrow, drive his seed deep.

  In his mind he stepped out from his hiding place and ran down into the water. She heard his splashing, but had no time to turn. He was on her in mere seconds and his cock, hard as iron, smacked against her chilled, wet buttocks.

  * * * *

  Elsinora cried out, gripping the rocks with one hand to stay upright. Rough waves coursed between her thighs, while she came to her peak again, this time much more violently than ever before.

  Knees weakened, her woolen stockings soaked, she bent over, grinding her fingernails on the stones as another surge smashed through her legs. This wave was rougher and bounced back to smack her bare arse before it tumbled away down stream. She couldn’t restrain her laughter any longer as she felt that icy splatter between her cheeks and then water trickled down her crease, tickling and cleansing her intimately.

  * * * *

  Dominic held her around the waist and slid his cock between the imaginary wench’s thighs, up into her waiting sheath from behind. She cried out his name, somehow knowing who he was. Forgetting the widow spread out on the table before him, he saw only the girl in the stream and he fucked her as she bent over the rocks, knee deep in the water. He reached down and stroked the sensual bow of her spine. Christ she was tight. The frigid water, pounding against her cunt made her inner walls contract on his cock like an implement of wondrous torture. He worked his hips faster, skin smacking skin. Inside he was howling like a wolf, his lust primal, bestial.

  He was about to come. Hard. His body started to melt with hers.

  Reality stole its way in and reminded him, just in the knick of time.

  With a jerk he pulled out of the moaning, gasping widow and spilled his load on her belly.

  Chapter Two

  Elsinora dragged herself to the bank and stepped out, her stockings heavy with water and body soaked from the waist down. With a sigh, she dropped to the grass and lay there, staring up at the soft blue sky. Tufts of fleece cloud, innocent as newborn lambs, drifted by, exaggerating the shame she felt as she pondered her own wickedness.

  Such wanton behavior could not go unpunished forever, of course. One day she would pay for her naughty secret.

  Time to go back to the manor and organize supper for her father on his return. Gudderth was elderly and ailing, but he’d insisted on traveling to pay his respects to Robert, Count of Mortain, largest landowner in Cornweal except for the king. Elsinora knew her father was desperate to get her a husband before he died. Her only brother, Edwy, was killed in a foolish brawl ten years ago and her father could not leave a daughter in charge of his manor, Lyndower.

  “The men won’t fight for a woman,” he’d said to her many times. “The people will leave. They will desert you and Lyndower to find work and homes elsewhere.”

  To prevent this, Gudderth wanted her safely married. Then he could die at peace, knowing he left his land under “good”—meaning male—ward-ship. At nineteen, Elsinora was of age now, but Lyndower was a very distant outpost in the kingdom. The only suitable man within convenient distance was Stryker Bloodaxe and Elsinora had turned him down thrice, because he was an uncouth oaf who didn’t even think to wash his hands and face when he came across the moor to woo her. Thus Gudderth lost patience and took matters into his own hands, journeying many miles to discuss the matter with Count Robert.

  She sincerely hoped her father wouldn’t find an excuse to stop at a tavern on the road. If he did, only the devil knew what time he might finally stumble home. Or what day.

  Her fate was in his hands. She would marry because she had to—her father insisted. If Elsinora was allowed to remain unwed, she would have been perfectly happy with the bubbles of that stream to keep her content. What could a man do for her that those ripples could not? She’d let Stryker touch her that way too, a few times, but he always wanted more and grew angry with her when she refused to give it. The stream, on the other hand, did not make demands. It waited for her and allowed her to come and go as she pleased. No man would do that. Men wanted complete possession, but Elsinora Gudderthsdottir would always be her own person. Her father often remarked peevishly that he was certain there was no other woman like her in the world.

  Elsinora preferred to take that as a compliment.

  * * * *

  Dominic fastened his breeches while the widow still lay across her table, smiling drowsily.

  “That was the best yet,” she murmured. “I’m still a-quiver inside. What did you do to me?”

  He buckled the belt over his tunic, thick fingers fumbling for the holes in the leather, eager now to escape. “It’ll be a while till I come back this way. A month or so.” He always felt it fair to say that, even when his message never varied.

  She sat up, pouting. “Don’t be too long. What will I do without you?” This too never changed.

  Fuck one of those other men in the town with whom you keep company, he might have said. Instead he pulled on his mantle and strode to the door. “It’s getting late. Tidy yourself before your daughter returns.” He swept out, stooping to avoid banging his head on the low lintel. His sword rattled in the scabbard at his side and he almost tripped over the step.

  Outside he took a deep breath of relief. Whenever he was done fucking a woman, he always felt as if he’d just escaped some trap.

  The sun was warmer now. It must be after noon, for the day was settled into its robes. Helmet under his arm, he walked away from the widow’s house and headed down the muddy lane to fetch his horse, which he’d left in the tavern stables. Everything was just the same as it always was.

  Almost. Today he stopped and sniffed. Until now he hadn’t realized he was thirsty, but the odor of ale hops caught his attention. It was thirteen years since he arrived in England and had his first taste of their ale. Unlike many of his countrymen, who still preferred French wine, he had nurtured a taste for the favorite tipple of his adopted land. Perhaps he might stay for a mug. Why not? As he neared the tavern door he heard loud laughter and cheering. Sounded like one of two things going on inside—a good fight, or a good game.

  And Dominic happened to enjo
y both sports equally.

  So he stepped over the threshold into that crowded tavern.

  * * * *

  It was pitch dark out, and her father had still not returned. Bertha the cook observed, unhelpfully, that it seemed as if something had occurred to delay his trip.

  Elsinora looked up from the pork fat she was spreading on a lump of bread for a hasty snack. “Do you think so, Bertha?” They all knew exactly what was most likely to distract her father, and sadly there were several alehouses and brewers between Lyndower and the market town of Marazion.

  “I said that big black rook sitting in your father’s favorite tree today was a bad omen,” the cook exclaimed, carrying a pot of water to the fire in her bulging arms. “‘Tis your fault he undertook this journey in his frail state. Now we are left without a master. Who knows what will happen to us! Mercenary soldiers will come and we women will all be ravished in our beds. Mark my words. We have no one to protect us now. Your father’s fyrdsmen won’t stay and take orders from a thin-hipped, shrew-tongued wench like you.”

  Elsinora knew that this was what all her father’s serfs thought. They would blame her for any ill that befell their Eaorl as a result of this unwise trip in his poor state of health. “I didn’t want him to go,” she cried through a mouthful of bread and fat. “I told him to stay, did I not? He is my father, as well as your master. I love him too, you know, although you all seem to forget that fact!”