Purebred (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards #3 ) Page 3

  "Guidance?" No one could give him guidance when it came to bed sport, he thought."There must be rules, if I am to lend my wife's body to you for rutting, d'Anzeray," the other man explained. "I will be there, naturally, to watch that all goes as planned. It might inspire me, eh? To see her subdued might free me of that curse and help lift my prick into action again."

  So the man meant to watch while he did the deed? Interesting. Alonso was not one to baulk at an audience, but he sensed Lady Isobel might. "Does she know of your idea, Baron Louvet?"

  "She knows she is to be serviced tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "I can't wait much longer for a son and heir."

  Alonso scraped his fingers back through his hair. "But this is...soon."

  "You don't need time to woo, d'Anzeray. This is a fucking such as I'm sure you've had many times. 'Tis not a seduction. 'Tis a claiming. A job to be done. Nothing more. Now, don't spill anymore until tomorrow night. I want you to fill my wife up, eh?" Patting him jauntily on the shoulder, the Baron slouched off to his bed, leaving Alonso to consider exactly what he was getting himself into.

  Could he do it for a stud fee? It wasn't something he'd ever been offered before, but he found the idea arousing. Very much so.

  He watched the Baron disappearing up a flight of steps, weaving uncertainly, his feet almost missing the stone slabs. The aging fool was in his cups, of course. Would he even remember this idea by morning when he woke with an aching head and sour stomach? Oh he'd better remember it, because Alonso would not forget.

  She will submit to my wishes in this matter, and you may do with her as you please.

  He wasn't so sure about the first part of that sentence, but about the latter he was certain.

  The prim Lady Isobel was about to be broken in, and he would spill her virgin blood on his lance. Oh yes, he would do with her as he pleased.

  Her submission was optional, but not necessary.

  Chapter Three

  The clouds were grey and heavy, hanging low over the treetops that morning when she looked out. Lady Isobel had woken early and after one quick perusal of the sky, decided she would go for a ride on her favorite mare. Her husband, she knew, would be sleeping off the previous night's excesses and would likely not be up before noon, but he never objected to her riding outside the gates in daylight hours, as long as she took Jeanne and two guards with her for protection. It was one of the marriage terms she'd negotiated with the Baron. Since he only rode out of necessity he never took pleasure in a simple gallop and did not even like to hunt on horseback, but if it kept color in her face and helped her expend considerable restlessness, he was content to let her go out occasionally.

  "Better that than see your grim face moping about the manor," he would say.

  Jeanne had not mentioned the events of the previous night, and Isobel saw no reason to raise the matter. Although it was not the first time her maid had brought her comfort in such a fashion, it was the first time she had done so at the Baron's command. Isobel still couldn't be sure that he knew of the other times when Jeanne brought her relief by kissing and touching her in tender ways when her spirits were low. Perhaps it was merely an idea that had come to him on the spur of the moment when he was frustrated with her. Whatever his reason there was nothing to say of it this morning. The two women never needed many words between them. Mistress and maid had been together for ten years, grown up side by side, and if not for Jeanne, Isobel feared she would have never known affection of any kind.

  Her life was a lonely one at her husband's manor, and Jeanne was her only friend; for that she was greatly valued.

  As the two women entered the stables, dressed to ride, they found Alonso d'Anzeray grooming his stallion in one of the stalls.

  Usually they would have ignored each other, but this morning he paused his work and greeted her. "Good morning, my Lady Isobel."

  There was a definite emphasis on the "my". She turned her head to look at him as she passed. He wore no tunic, just his leather breeches and laced boots. The skin of his chest and shoulders was sun-browned, taut with muscle. Today he wore his hair tied back in a tail with a thin leather strip. Most Norman soldiers wore their hair very short, but many these days grew it longer. His had more length than most. A sheen of sweat dampened his bulging shoulders and the thick slabs of muscle across his chest, proving he'd been at work for a while. She muttered a "good morning" in reply, but then he came out of the stall and propped one bulky shoulder against the wall.

  "You go riding, my lady?"

  She frowned. "Yes. Not that this is any business of yours."

  He tapped a brush in the palm of his hand. "I should come with you." He added, "Two guards is not enough."

  "I am hardly likely to run away," she snapped impatiently. "Where would I go?" Not that she hadn't thought of it, many times, of course. But it was a fantasy, like other ideas that sometimes traveled through her mind. A woman could go nowhere alone.

  "I did not suggest the guards were needed to keep you from running away, my ill-tempered lady."

  "Then what are you muttering about, fool?"

  "I refer to the fact that there are Saxon rebels out there who would gladly capture you and hold you for ransom. At least four men should ride out with you and your maid. The Baron is lax to send only two."

  "Well, you raise the matter to him then, if it bothers you, insolent creature."

  His dark eyes narrowed. "I shall. But as for today, I should come."

  "For the last time, d'Anzeray..." she slowed down her speech and addressed him as she would a child, "You. Are. Not. Needed."

  A slow grin bent his lips. "On the contrary. I am very much needed, so I hear."

  His eyes widened again and became a deep, rich shade of brown, reminding her of chestnuts warmed in the glow of a hearth. The sudden idea startled her, but Isobel was pulled in by his gaze. Almost trapped by it, she faltered, stumbled, but then straightened her spine. She remembered that she was a noble-born lady, a daughter of the Duc de Bressange, and he was only a by-blow, a half-breed who lived his life by the sword and apparently without scruples. "Have you no peasants to slaughter today? No stags to hunt? No rebels to round up and houses to burn?"

  "I'm sure I can spare time for you, Lady Isobel. Since your husband cannot."

  Her pulse beat was too rapid suddenly. She walked on, but he followed. Today it seemed he was intent on gaining her attention. The grooms had readied her horse and one for Jeanne too.

  "It seems likely to rain, my lady," her husband's hired mercenary exclaimed. "Perhaps you should delay your ride and wait for the storm clouds to pass."

  Isobel did not reply, but took the reins and led her horse out into the yard. Again she heard his steps close behind.

  "Unless, of course, you can keep the rain away with your witching spells."

  She whirled around. "I like the rain, d'Anzeray. I welcome it."

  "I suppose life has been too dry for you here." He smiled, showing off a gleam of straight, white teeth. "But no more. Not after tonight."

  Suddenly she realized he was trying to tell her something. He did not merely follow her because he knew it pulled on her nerves.

  There was a pause while the breeze ruffled that tail of his long dark hair and pushed the wool of her gown against her legs. His gaze, heated and languid, swept down over her figure, and it was as if his hands had caressed her breasts and the curve of her hip. The sensation lingered, even after he turned away to help Jeanne up into her saddle. Isobel quickly used the help of a groom and a block to mount her own horse. This clearly disappointed d'Anzeray, for when he turned back to assist her and found he was not needed, he scowled fiercely. She was reminded of one of her brothers sulking whenever she beat them at some silly game.

  "You must wait for me to come with you," he said.

  She looked down at him from her horse and replied tersely, "There is nothing I must do for you, d'Anzeray. It seems you forget yourself. You are the Baron's hired hand, his
tamed barbarian and—from what I hear— a bastard son of a whore. Just because my husband relies upon you and finds you so very amusing, does not mean I need ever do the same."

  To her surprise he banked his irritation, smoothed his frown and merely smiled. "Ah, of course. A noble woman such as yourself needs nothing from a humble soldier. What could I ever do for you? What service could you ever want from me?"

  "Exactly."

  But there was that warm glimmer again, a knowing, self-complacent lilt to his smile. She felt her pulse somehow beating in the soles of her feet and she was dizzy suddenly, the air too thin.

  What service could you ever want from me? The question sank in, descending with as great a thud as her heartbeat had previously.

  He rubbed a hand down over his face, apparently making an effort to quell his smug grin.

  "Is there something you meant to say to me, d'Anzeray?" she demanded, breathless.

  "It can wait. Go, enjoy this ride. Later will be time enough for you and I."

  Isobel gathered the reins and prepared to move on, but he stopped her by patting the mare's neck. His gesture was gentle, his hand almost elegant in its movement, with the long fingers trailing through the horse's mane. His fingernails were kept trimmed and squared off. They were clean, she noted with a jolt of surprise.

  "A fine beast. A pedigree Arabian, eh?"

  "Yes," she snapped reluctantly.

  "The Bedouin's say that Allah created the Arabian horse from the south wind."

  "I would not know about that." She waved a hand dismissively. "This horse was bred by my father, the Duc de Bressange, and gifted to me on my marriage." Really she should have pushed him aside and ridden away, but pride was a terrible sin — one of her worst.

  "A purebred for another purebred," he muttered thoughtfully. While moving his hand from the horse's neck, he touched her knee. Briefly. It might have been a mistake, but with the jump of her pulse she knew it was intentional. "And you too must be bred, my lady."

  She kept her lips pressed tight, but a shiver of part fear, part anticipation raced through her veins.

  "Bred by your husband's hired barbarian bastard."

  Oh, dear god no. No. Her pulse had raced ahead of her, leaving her body frozen stiff, her mind stalled. She knew how a doe must feel when it spied hunters in the forest, aiming their arrows to bring her down.

  His smile widened. "Yes, all those things you said of me are true. All but one, my Lady Isobel." He leaned closer and whispered, "Don't think there's anything about me that will ever be tamed."

  She kicked out with her foot. He stepped aside smartly, and she steered her horse forward at a fast trot, anxious to leave him behind. The guards and Jeanne followed her, the horses' hooves clattering over the stones of the yard. Isobel put her shocked face into the wind and did not look back.

  * * * *

  Alonso hadn't planned to mention it to her, but the superior expression on her face when she looked down at him from the back of her horse prompted him into it. That woman needed a lesson. Several lessons.

  First, she must learn that she did need him. Apparently she thought she would be safe riding outside the gates of the manor with her little maid and two guards. If Alonso was her husband that would be out of the question, but then the Baron seemed to take his husbandly role with a grain of salt. He did not even bother correcting her sharp tongue, so why would he care if she went out riding with only two lackadaisical guards? Some men didn't know how to handle wives, he mused. Or they were too lazy to bother.

  Mounting his horse quickly— not even waiting for a saddle—he rode after the small group. He kept enough distance that they wouldn't hear him and then, when he knew they were heading for the forest, he took his own short cut.

  The trees were about to turn color, some already showing an edging of gilt and copper. On that day there was enough wind to rustle the crisping leaves and it covered the sound of his horse moving over the dry bracken. Within half an hour he had the riders in his sights again through the trees and, as he suspected, they had stopped at the lake to let their horses drink. Alonso waited until the two women had dismounted and the guards were talking—one with his back turned—then he set his horse forward at a sharp gallop.

  The Baron's two guards were too slow to react with any effect. Clearly they were so familiar with Lady Isobel's routine that they had grown complacent and never expected a challenge. Like most of the Baron's men they were fat and out of fighting condition, which was why he had called upon mercenaries like Alonso to keep his castellany safe.

  He swung his club, neatly knocking one man from the saddle. The other guard's horse reared up and his portly form lost balance until he slipped back over the rump, cursing wildly and swinging his sword in a futile arc.

  Alonso swooped down on Lady Isobel, grabbed her around the waist, and hoisted her up onto his own horse.

  * * * *

  "Put me down! You great stupid oaf! You will pay for this."

  "I had to prove my point, Lady Isobel."

  His arm was like steel wrapped around her, holding her on his horse as they galloped through the forest at seemingly reckless speed. Isobel thought they would surely crash into a tree and be killed. She closed her eyes and felt branches tug at her gown, scratch her legs, and pull on her wimple. Still he rode on, his body hard against hers, one of his thick thighs tense under her bottom.

  "I would say your damn point is proven," she yelled, breathless. "Go back at once."

  "No."

  But he slowed his horse at last and she could take a breath. "There was no reason for that display. If you have hurt those men—"

  "I wounded their pride, nothing more. Perhaps next time they will have their eyes open as any man guarding you should."

  Little pinpricks of moisture scattered through the canopy of leaves and hit her forehead when she turned her face upward.

  "See," he said proudly. "I warned you it would rain."

  "Then take me back to the manor."

  "Not yet."

  "You will do as I say!"

  "No."

  Isobel was no longer afraid that she would be killed, but she had no idea what else he had in mind for her and his adamant refusal to take her back to the others hinted that his intentions were far from good. Her heart thumped hard in her breast, and she had begun to perspire under her woolen gown, but the cooling spatter of rain was refreshing and somewhat soothing. Whatever he planned to do to her, he had better be prepared to face reprisals, she thought. "My husband will not find this amusing," she exclaimed.

  "Your husband, my lady, lies abed with his guts afire this morning. I doubt he'll find anything amusing until he's drunk again."

  The horse halted and he swung down, dragging her after him.

  "And now you will apologize to me, Lady Isobel, for doubting."

  "Doubting what?"

  "That you had need of me."

  She tried to regain her dignity, despite the fact that she'd lost a shoe and her wimple had been dislodged, half torn off by the branches. The rogue was looking at her hair, and she could have sworn there were flames leaping in the depths of his gaze. Hungry, savage flames. "If you will not take me back, I'll go alone."

  "Say you are sorry, Lady Isobel."

  "Never." She spun around but had not got two steps before he grabbed her, jerking the remains of her wimple off her head. "How dare you touch me?"

  "I will touch you as much as I like. Your husband, my fine lady, has given me permission. In fact, he has given me orders to touch you. To touch every part of you."

  Isobel struggled, but he held her firm and backed her to the wide, gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. She couldn't believe it. She didn't want to.

  And yet she did.

  This was what her husband had meant when he spoke of her being "serviced".

  Alonso d'Anzeray leaned over her, shutting out the dappled light through the trees, sheltering her from the raindrops that fell harder now. "He tells me you are still a vi
rgin."

  Since he did not phrase it as a question she gave him no answer.

  Not that he needed one. "I'll find out for myself," he muttered, eyes hot, staring down at her. He raised the right hand to his mouth and used his teeth to pull off his leather riding glove. "I need to know now."

  "Don't," she gasped, shaking her head, her long hair snagged on the rough bark.

  He didn't listen, of course; she may as well not have spoken. His bare hand was under her gown before she could kick out in protest, his long fingers sliding between her thighs. "Your husband intends for me to put a child in your womb, because he cannot. So this rough, uncouth, bastard barbarian will be putting his cock in you tonight. What think you of that, eh?" His voice was low, deep, his breath blowing against her brow as his fingers reached her trembling pussy and parted her nether lips.

  "I don't," she snapped, tense. "I don't think of it at all."

  "Why? It's going to happen, whether you like the idea or not. Are you afraid? Anxious? Horrified?" He laughed coldly. "Disgusted by the thought of my big common cock filling your dainty cunt until it can take no more, fucking you over and over?"

  To Isobel's shame she knew she was wet and he would feel it on his naked fingers. One of them was prying between her labia now. His thigh was tight against her leg, holding her back to the tree trunk while his finger explored.

  "I have no feelings on the matter," she managed finally through gritted teeth. But the images his words drew in her mind were impossible to ignore and her sexual needs had been stifled so long that they were ready to betray her.

  "I'll make you have feelings," he hissed, forcing his finger farther, invading her body. "I'll make you scream out my name by the time I'm done with you, my lady."

  She swallowed hard. Her body had tightened instinctively on his finger and now he grunted, half laughing as he looked down her body to where her nipples pricked against her gown. "Christ, you're ripe. I ought to take your maidenhead now. While we're alone. Spoil Louvet's fun."