Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7)

The seven bastard sons of
Guillaume d'Anzeray are on a mission to find wives -- women to
breed the next generation of a dark dynasty that many wish to see
extinct.

It won't be easy to find
brides from among the Norman nobility, for the d'Anzeray are
upstarts, their family's fortunes raised through bloodshed and
violence. As one holy man and chronicler of their times has
written,
"From the devil they came and to
the devil they will return".
But these
brothers
don't care much for holy men or
for what is written about them. Now, with the future of their
bloodline at stake these mercenary warriors need wives and they
have no scruples when it comes to claiming the women they
desire.

Hellion

Seven Brides for Seven
Bastards, 6

The Final Wife

by

Georgia Fox

M/F/M, F/F, ANAL SEX,
ORGIES, SPANKING,

CANING, BADLY BEHAVING
WOMEN,

BRANDING, AND PUBLIC
EXHIBITION

Twisted E Publishing,
LLC

www.twistedepublishing.com

A TWISTED E- PUBLISHING
BOOK

Hellion

Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7

Copyright © 2014 by Georgia Fox

Edited by Marie Medina

First E-book Publication: July 2014,
SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover design by K Designs

All cover art and logo copyright © 2014,
Twisted Erotica Publishing.

ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED:
This literary work may not be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part,
without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book
are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is
strictly coincidental.

To Mandi

"
They came from the bowels of hell to slaughter, ravage and
pillage wherever they went. It was said they were descended from
the daughter of Satan and I know of no man alive in their time who
would doubt it."

The words of Herallt, medieval
chronicler, on the deeds of Guillaume d'Anzeray and his seven
bastard sons.

Prologue

With his clawed, impatient hands,
Herallt, the monk and chronicler, opened an unexpected delivery.
The candles around his writing desk burned steadily, the flames
stretching tall and unwavering on that calm summer's evening. But a
change was in the air. As the contents of the parcel tumbled across
his parchment, something wild also leaked out into
being.

For there, by the suddenly fevered,
flicking light of breeze-blown candles, he found the bells once
worn around the wrists and ankles of a whore he'd sent to
assassinate his enemies.

Jessamyn of Al-Andalus, otherwise
known as "The Enchantress"—a dancer of purported mystical power—
had fallen foul, it seemed, of the d'Anzerays' own wicked
magic.

The messenger who brought the parcel
had fled already, and the monk was alone. The thick stone walls now
closed in, their previously benign guardianship turning now to
menacing imprisonment. The ink words across his page, which should
have dried by now, began to run and drip into each other, forming
grotesque faces with fangs. The still, quiet evening was no
more.

Tucked inside the package with the
bells was a simple note.

"
The Enchantress is dead and gone. This is all that remains.
She wanted you to have them."

The monk exhaled a groan of fury, his
fingers so tight around the bells that two of them broke and small,
dried insect eggs, or seeds of some kind tumbled across his writing
desk. They were not recognizable to Herallt, which was unusual as
he had extensive knowledge of herbs and plants. Was it, perhaps, a
poison in some form he'd never seen? It could be the method by
which the Enchantress had planned to dispatch that family of devil
spawn back to their maker.

Now they had captured her and killed
her instead.

For all her pride and confidence, and
despite that reputation for skillfully and speedily dispatching her
enemies, she had failed.

Ice-cold panic seized his gnarled
frame, froze him to his bench.

It was not for the dead woman that he
had any concern, but he feared the wench might have told them who
hired her.

Struck by this bone-chilling thought,
Herallt glanced back over his shoulder and glared into the darker
corners of his chamber, his imagination finding shadows of
peculiar, terrifying shape. He drew his robes tighter against the
sudden brisk cold that was more fitting for the depths of winter
than for this summer's evening, and bent over his work again. At
least he could still continue his chronicle— the bloody story of
Guillaume d'Anzeray, an uncouth, uneducated, lawless, faithless
peasant who rose up by the sword and sired seven bastard sons. All
of them, thieves, rapists and murderers.

Even worse— they were heretics,
unbelievers of the true faith.

Herallt would ensure their name went
down in infamy as the most evil and despised of all men. It was the
least he could do. This would be his vengeance.

But as he swept those strange seeds
and broken bells aside, preparing his quill in the ink again, a
hard, howling gust of wind came out of nowhere. Abruptly his candle
was snuffed.

Plunged into darkness, Herallt sat
very still. All was silent, but for the distant scratch of mice
under the floor and bats in the rafters. He closed his eyes,
muttering a hasty prayer. Perhaps those shadows creeping around him
had not been drawn by his imagination. Perhaps the d'Anzeray flew
like bats at night and gathered around him now.

Something laughed in his ear.
Something else tugged on his sleeve. Something pinched his
nose.

Gripped by an unearthly,
blood-chilling power, Herallt could do nothing. The quill fell from
his fingers, and he heard the nib scratching away without his
direction.

Chapter One

Summer, 1077

Salvador d'Anzeray watched his
brothers on the training field with the other soldiers and decided
they were all getting fat and slow. He blamed it on the acquisition
of six wives. The wives liked to cook, and his brothers liked to
eat. His brothers also had taken to spending more time at the
castle in the company of these women, instead of exercising in the
tiltyard or the field with Salvador. Their soldiers, likewise, were
slacking off in these times of relative peace.

This was not good. What if their
enemies came one day and caught his younger brothers being lazy,
playing foolish games with the women, or their soldiers napping at
the gate? Salvador had great confidence in his own abilities as a
warrior, but even he didn't believe he could single-handedly fight
off an attack against their father's castellany.

Even his brother Dominigo, previously
the most thick-headed giant ox who breathed, ate and slept battle,
had begun to read poetry. And had been seen — Salvador could hardly
bare to think it—picking flowers for one of the wives, weaving them
through her hair.

Where would it all end, he thought
grimly.

He'd never been completely behind this
idea of their father's that all seven brothers should bring home
wives to share and build the next generation of d'Anzeray. Women
were difficult. Let one into your life and that was trying enough.
Let more in and a man was asking for trouble. But, as the eldest
son, he'd gone along with it, dutifully abiding by his father's
will. On the surface at least.

So far, however, he had not
contributed a wife to the collection.

Salvador had thrown his energies
instead into building his own fortress, just a few miles away over
the valley and on the next rising hill. It would take a few years
yet until it was finished, but the sight of those stone towers
pushing up proudly into the sky was gratifying in a way that few
things were these days for him.

He spent his time traveling back and
forth between his half-built fortress and his father's castle,
keeping their soldiers in line as best he could, trying to remind
his brothers that life wasn't all about merry wives and
fucking.

"Sal," his youngest brother Ramon had
said to him recently, "put your spurs up for a while and learn to
enjoy yourself. What's the reason for all this hard work and
fighting, if we never take time to benefit from what we've
achieved?"

And rest on his laurels? Never. There
was always someone, somewhere looking to steal from him. To move a
wall a few inches, for instance, and slyly lay claim to a bit of
grass that was his. Oh yes, he kept an eye out for the villains. Or
villainesses.

"You're always in such a grim mood
lately," another brother, Alonso, had remarked. "I mean to say,
even more sour than usual. What's put a wasp down your breeches? Or
should I ask whom?"

"Nobody," he'd snapped immediately,
before downing an entire flagon of ale to keep his lips from the
temptation of saying anything further about a certain vexing widow
on the other side of his hill.

"You spend more time at your fortress
than you do here with us," Alonso had added slyly. "You can never
wait to get back there." He laughed. "We miss your cheery face,
brother."

Sal burped and gave a half sneer. "Yet
you seem to manage well enough without me." Gesturing around the
hall with his empty flagon, he muttered, "These women keep you
busy." And too tame, he thought.

At least his brothers had stopped
asking him when he meant to find a wife for their harem. Six women,
in his opinion, was enough. Even their father hadn't asked him
about it for a few months now, content with the brood of
grandchildren he already had.

Sal saw no reason to find a seventh
wife when the six they already had were in danger of making too
many changes. His father's castle was now decorated with tapestries
and a profusion of fat pillows that got in his way when he tried to
sit down. There were candles everywhere, curtains to keep out
supposed drafts that he'd never felt, and bowls of dried petals
that made everything smell like an expensive whore's petticoat. And
minstrels.