Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7) (19 page)

"Well, Hellion, you got your way. One
man for one woman. Content now?"

She arched an eyebrow.
"Almost."

Ah, of course, she wanted him on his
knees. He looked around and saw his brothers grinning, the wives
cheering him on.

All this brought about because of one
wretched, haughty wench.

He should never have given her those
few extra feet of field. Now look what she'd ended up
taking.

His heart.

Slowly he dropped to his knee and
grimaced. "Marry me, Hellion."

"Just you?"

"Just me."

Helene lowered her bow. "Very well. I
suppose I must. I don't know why you couldn't have asked me six
months ago and saved a great deal of time."

But he knew why of course. Because she
scared the Beelzebub out of him.

She probably always would.

* * * *

Thus the two manors of Salvador
d'Anzeray and Helene de Leon were joined to make one. The
long-missing deeds that could never be found when Robert Calledaux
needed evidence to back up his claim and get the demon d'Anzeray
chased off the land were suddenly discovered, hidden under a board
in Helene's bed. She declared herself innocent of any deception and
since she was known to be such a pious, good woman no one doubted
her. Why would she not have used them to rid herself of Salvador
d'Anzeray long before, if she knew where those deeds
were?

Helene did not have everything her
way, however. She was still obliged to submit to the ritual public
branding that marked her as a member of the d'Anzeray family.
Comforted by a cup of special wine, she was laid out in the yard of
his father's castellany, her legs spread, her shaved pussy
exhibited for the eyes of all those who watched the ceremony. There
Sal seared her flesh, just to the left of her vulva, with the small
mark of a rampant lion. She heard the distant shouts and cheers as
he pressed that brand to her skin and even as a sharp pain reached
through the fog of Jessamyn's herbal potion, she felt her pussy
squeezing and she came in a burst, her naughty dew trickling down,
much to the delight of her new husband, who quickly bent to soothe
her with his mouth.

In the years that followed, Helene
helped her husband to write his own family's history. It was the
best they could do to refute the claims of that bitter monk Herallt
and his chronicle.

* * * *

Oh, and Herallt? What became of him,
you ask? He was found one summer evening, dead at his writing desk.
It was, in fact, the same night that Guillaume d'Anzeray took his
last breath on earth; the same summer that Salvador married
Helene.

Although it was never known how the
monk met his end, it was said that a strange powder of crushed
seeds was found on his desk, under his fingernails and on his lips
where he —or some unknown intruder—seemed to have smeared it in a
strange frenzy.

All around his small chamber candle
flames fluttered and spun and stretched. The wax had burned down
almost to the nub by the time his corpse was found, but despite the
wild breeze that blew powdered seeds across his parchment, those
candles continued to burn.

Perhaps it was merely coincidence that
there were seven.

"From the devil they came
and to the devil they will return"

- Herallt, a medieval chronicler,
describes the house of d'Anzeray.

Yes, he bore a grudge.

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ABOUT THE
AUTHOR

Georgia Fox
has lived in many different places, including a canal boat, but
sadly never in a windmill or a lighthouse. Maybe that's next! She
loves good company, spicy food, thought-provoking erotica and
excellent brandy. She also enjoys pushing the
boundaries.

In her life
she’s done a little bit of everything and somehow lived to tell the
tales.  Except those she's legally bound not to spill - for
now.
She doesn’t believe in
fairies, ghosts, flying saucers or conspiracy
theories.

But she still
believes in love.

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