Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7) (11 page)

Helene thought suddenly of Gilbert de
Vernon. It might be a good moment to warn this man about the
message she'd received and that she would soon marry again. But why
did he need to know? It was really none of his business. He was
just a common soldier who had achieved a measure of success through
dark means. A depraved heathen— if all those rumors were true. And
she had more reason to believe them now that she'd seen the
forbidden things he did as if they were natural.

Slowly he ran a finger down her cheek.
Again the wistfulness in his touch surprised her, puzzled
her.

This thing betwixt them
was nothing more than a
small
happening,
as she'd said to him. A
moment's wicked indiscretion. Was it not?

Exhausted now, she wanted to go home
and fall straight to bed, her limbs so pleasantly weary.

The way he was looking at her
suggested he might try to keep her there.

Before either of them might feel
tempted to utter some foolish remark betraying feelings of awkward
tenderness, Helene hurried away, leaving him standing by the wall
of the blacksmith's forge.

* * * *

Elyce ran out to greet her. "My lady,
I thought you were just going out for a stroll in the air. I did
not know what had become of you!"

"For pity's sake, don't fuss, Elyce."
She swung down from her mare and handed the reins to a groom. "I am
quite capable of looking after myself."

"Yes, my lady, but—"

"Elyce, do not answer me back. I am
the mistress here." The maid looked startled and quickly dropped a
curtsey.

"Yes, my lady."

Helene sighed as they walked together
across the yard. "I do not mean to snap, Elyce, but sometimes I
feel that people tend to forget what I am." She had lost control of
herself that night and she didn't like it, but that was her fault
and she should not take it out on poor Elyce. After all this girl
had served her well and faithfully for eight years, caring for her
through many disappointments when she had hoped for a child in her
womb, and standing at her side as she nursed a sick husband through
his final illness.

The maid replied shyly, "We do not
forget what you are, my lady. It's just that...we are fond of you,
my lady. You are like part of our family, I suppose." She blushed.
"It is wrong of us to think that though, isn't it?"

"No. Not wrong." Helene smiled at the
girl.

"But I daresay we should not act that
way if a new husband does come, so we should prepare for it
now."

She said nothing to that, for she had
no intention of talking about Gilbert de Vernon or letting anyone
know what had been in that letter. The subject seemed much on
Elyce's mind however.

"I hope he is a nice man, my
lady."

For all their sakes she hoped the
same. There was always a chance that Gilbert had undergone a
dramatic transformation. After all it was fourteen years since she
beat him in that pony race. And he might not even remember the
incident.

"Did you have a good ride, my
lady?"

"Yes, it was
very...refreshing."

"I thought so my lady, you look very
flushed, contented and happy, as I have not seen you in a long
time."

Helene had known some ladies who
always sought their reflection in any shiny surface they came
across, but she had never bothered. Not since she was eleven or so
and had decided, at that point in her life, that hoping for beauty
was a lost cause. Rather than sulk about it, she'd simply decided
to make the best of her lot. She might not have a face men would go
to battle for, but she had a brain and four good limbs. While other
little girls tended their appearance diligently, Helene nurtured
her mind. She was always asking questions, studying how things
worked, observing the world around her. Perhaps, somewhere inside
her, she'd hoped that might impress her father and make him notice
her existence, since she had no beauty to make him
proud.

Instead, her intelligence had only
made him further withdraw from her. But the thing about a busy,
well-trained mind was that the information it found and stored
could not be taken away. She could hide it when she needed to, and
she could use it when she wanted to. And she was learning every day
of her life, even now at the age of four and twenty. Meanwhile,
many of those young girls she once envied for their pale features,
small mouths, fair hair and high (but empty) foreheads, did not
continue to gain looks. Over time looks faded and, likewise, their
value in the world and thus their happiness.

But on that evening, for the first
time in thirteen years, Helene opened her eyes as she leaned over
the water in her washbasin and stared at the shadowy reflection of
her face.

Was it improved, as Elyce
claimed? Hard to tell. But she did
feel
something different.

She just didn't know what it
was.

Chapter
Ten

Following the visit from his brothers,
Salvador hoped to be left alone. Alas, it was not to be. Three of
their wives now converged upon him, bringing food and wine— as if
he might be starving in his own home— and a new tunic they'd sewn
for him.

"I hope you are taking care of
yourself," exclaimed Princesa. "Out here all by yourself with no
woman to look after you."

He was puzzled by this apparent belief
that he needed a woman around. Who the devil came up with that
idea?

Isobel and Jeanne forced him to try on
the new tunic. Then they insisted he needed a shave and a hair
trim, which they immediately took in hand without waiting for his
permission.

"Look at his grim scowl," Jeanne
laughed. "Anyone would think he's not happy to see us."

Isobel grabbed his hands and studied
his fingernails, shaking her head. He tried reclaiming his fingers,
but he was outnumbered. Before he could even protest they had begun
scraping the dirt out from his nails and filing them down evenly.
As if he was a damned horse.

"Who sent you to me?" he demanded,
cross. "Dom, I suppose?" That meddlesome oaf.

"Nobody sent us, you dour
old curmudgeon," Princesa replied. "You are our responsibility and
our burden to look after, since you married us.
All
of you married us. Therefore you
are our husband just as much as any of the others." She shot him an
arch look, "Even if you don't think you need a wife."

He glowered stormily at her. "I'm no
one's responsibility. And no one's burden."

They merely laughed at him, peppered
his face with soft kisses, patted his hair, and turned their
attention next to his feet.

It occurred to Sal that he was being
prepared, like some sort of sacrifice.

"You must come back to your father's
castellany tonight and dine with us," said Isobel as she scrubbed
at his bare, newly soaked feet with a piece of grey
stone.

It felt quite pleasant actually, so
although he wanted to protest he did not. "I have plans tonight,"
he managed tightly, thinking of Helene and the next gift he planned
to send her. He'd been up all night thinking about a good present—
something she could use, something significant too. She wasn't the
sort to want jewelry or anything like that. She had no time for
it.

"How can you have plans when you are
all alone here," said Jeanne with a pout. "We have missed your
visits. You neglect us. Perhaps you have fond a woman of your
own."

At once Isobel and Princesa nudged her
into sharp silence.

Sal forced himself to pay attention to
the wives. "All right, women. What the devil is going on? You may
as well tell me before I feel inclined to spank it out of
you."

All three exchanged glances and
returned to the scrubbing of his feet.

"I see," he grumbled. "Who wants to be
spanked first then?"

The three pretty women began to laugh,
apparently vastly amused by his attempt to uncover the
mystery.

He knew he should have threatened them
with something else, because they all enjoyed a good spanking.
Himself included.

* * * *

As it turned out, the d'Anzeray wives
had come to see his "milkmaid" with their own eyes, since Dom had
told them all about her. They were eager for Sal to end his "lonely
exile" and hoped he had finally found a bride to join them. Their
excitement was such that they'd not been able to contain themselves
and so they rode over to visit.

He calmly assured them that nothing
about his life had changed and they were premature in their well
wishes.

"But Dom said you are smitten," Isobel
exclaimed. "He said he saw it in your eyes."

"Dominigo would see hearts and
rainbows floating out of a mule's arse these days," he replied
wryly.

"We had all begun to think you would
never find a wife for yourself," said Princesa. "And we need a
seventh wife."

"You
need
a seventh?"

"Yes," she said firmly, not
elaborating.

He couldn't imagine what the reason
was for this sense of urgency they suddenly had. "I am quite
content as I am," he exclaimed, as all four lay naked together on a
fur by the fire. "Why would I not be content with my brother's
wives to share?"

"But we must have seven," said
Princesa, licking his nipple with her gentle tongue, her hot
bottom— still no doubt throbbing from the spanking— cupped in his
hand.

"Your father decrees there should be
seven," agreed Isobel, licking his other nipple, her long dark hair
caressing his chest as she sprawled over him. "It is a mystical
number."

"Plus," said little Jeanne, kneeling
between his legs, her hands on his thighs, "one wife for each
husband." She lowered her pert lips over his cockhead and he closed
his eyes, sinking into the blissful sensation.

It was a splendid way to be
nagged.

"Tell us about your milkmaid,"
Princesa whispered.

He scowled. "She's just a plaything,
that's all. A temporary plaything. 'Tis nothing
permanent."

"A plaything. Like all women to
you?"

Princesa, he decided, was getting too
bold. When Raul first brought her home with him she was meek,
obliging and quiet, but apparently she'd now shaken off the
remnants of her old life as a slave and transformed into a mouthy
wench. "I'm no worse than my brothers," he growled. "Women are for
pleasure."

"But your brothers have all found
love. Why do you resist it?"

Oh, she was intent on spoiling the
excellent sucking he was getting from Jeanne's sweet mouth. "Love,"
he grunted, shifting his hips and stroking Isobel's hair, "might be
for them. Not for me." His brothers, he could have reminded her,
were not supposed to fall in love. They were supposed to share
their wives equally and therefore not lose their hearts or become
weak, careless and stupid.

Their father's idea of a harem was a
practical one. There was never supposed to be individual love
involved, for then there would be jealousy, possessiveness, tried
loyalty — all things that could render a strong family asunder.
Their father knew that and he wanted better for his sons. The
children born of these women could be sired by any of the brothers,
and thus they were all fathers, all responsible for the offspring.
Their bonds would never be broken by doubt, suspicion or
envy.

But even as he thought all
this, Sal knew what Princesa was telling him
. But your brothers have all found love.
Against their father's wishes and intentions, they had
singled out their own favorites.

Sal had observed the tide turning. His
younger brothers had all found their special wife among the six and
spent more time with her than any other. It was dangerous and he'd
warned them against those feelings, done his best to discourage it.
The damned fools had succumbed.

"You have been the elder brother all
these years, caring for the younger, overseeing the family,"
Princesa whispered again. "Now let us do something for you and find
you a bride. We cannot have you left out."

Left
alone
, she meant, of course. Again, her
way of thinking was against his father's idea. No one was alone in
his father's plan for the seven brothers and their brides were
meant to be an impenetrable force, standing together,
inseparable.

"I am content the way we are now," he
grunted.

Isobel and Jeanne swapped places and
he closed his eyes again. "Let us meet your milkmaid," whispered
Princesa, gently licking his ear.

He knew they were trying with all
their might to make him purr like a cat and acquiesce to their
demands. The wives were quite a ruthless force of their own, he
mused.

"No."

"Why?" Jeanne sucked his
nipple.

"She's not wife material."