Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7) (3 page)

"You're barely keeping your head above
water," he muttered, his horse fidgeting under him again. "Give the
land to me and go back to your family, wo—." He stopped and to her
surprise managed a very tight and resentful, "Lady de
Leon."

"I did not think you knew I had a head
to keep above water, d'Anzeray."

He squinted at her. "What?"

She smirked. "You address most of your
insults directly at my breasts."

His stormy gaze finally found its way
upward to her lips. "What?"

Helene groaned softly and shook her
head. "No matter, brainless fool. What else might I expect of a
brute beast?"

He remained there outside her gate,
waiting for something. As if she might ever invite him in.
Ha!

Yet she did not move away either.
Sometimes, much to her irritation, his presence there had the pull
of a magnet. That was why she tried never to get too close, tried
to keep a safe distance from the strongest force. But she still
felt it tugging slightly.

"Have you considered my latest offer,
madam?" he managed after a long moment's pause.

"Yes."

"And?"

"No."

Every few weeks he came to her with an
offer for her land, and every few weeks she turned him down with a
few, well-aimed insults. But he didn't give up. He was like a dog
with a juicy bone.

Which was exactly how he was looking
at her in her torn gown. She shivered and folded her arms over her
bosom. "I'm not going anywhere, d'Anzeray."

He looked away, grinding his jaw. An
even darker frown creased his brow, sweat glistening in the ridges.
Still he did not leave.

"How is your father?" she asked,
genuinely curious to know, since Guillaume had been supposedly
dying for years.

"Improved," he snapped, as if it
brought him no cheer that his father survived.

Helene sighed as she thought of poor
Robert. "Only the good and the innocent die young."

His eyes came back to her through the
bars of the gate, stinging her face with their stern perusal. "You
and I ought to outlive everyone else then, eh?"

She raised her chin. "I beg your
pardon?"

"Goodness has naught to do with it,
and innocence is over-rated. The slow and the weak die first, Lady
de Leon. That's why you and I will live to fight
forever."

And thus he turned his horse and
galloped home again, leaving her to think about his
words.

Had he just, in his own odd way, paid
her a compliment of sorts?

Oh, he had better not start doing
that. While they were insulting one another she knew where she
stood; it was comfortable and predictable. God help her if he ever
changed his mode of attack.

Because she had a feeling that he very
rarely— if ever— gave a woman a compliment. And she, very rarely,
if ever, received one. Or sought one.

Damn men. They were all mostly useless
and pig-headed. At least Robert was harmless and had been content
to let her take charge, even if he did insist on taking the credit
for whatever she achieved. Robert, really, had been a decorative,
handsome, painted wooden screen, behind which Helene could do all
the important work, unnoticed and unperturbed.

Which was exactly the way she liked
it.

Robert never threw strange compliments
at her and then rode off all mysterious and sulky. In fact he had
never done anything unpredictable. She'd not had to think too much
around him, or even listen really because he would never say
anything surprising or earth-crumbling.

She wasn't about to start listening to
a man in case he said something interesting. Certainly, Salvador
d'Anzeray would be better off if he kept his mouth shut and didn't
talk at all. But then the same could be said of most
men.

Chapter
Three

He ate supper by his fire, relieved he
could do so tonight without the accompaniment of minstrels. His
fortress might be quieter in the evenings, but he liked it that
way. Perhaps it had something to do with being the eldest of seven
brothers, but he liked his solitude when he could get any. He had a
memory of being the only one in his mother's life; the only one she
need have time for. It was a sweet, sunny, very brief memory of
sitting on her lap while she sang to him in Spanish. Ah, the peace
and tranquility before his brothers came along and after that he
seldom heard her singing anymore. Nor was there ever enough room
for him on her lap. He'd soon grown too big for it
anyway.

Since then the only time
he could be sure of a woman's full attention, so he'd found, was
when he shouted at her or when he fucked her. Perhaps he couldn't
complain about that, since the only time he
gave
a woman his notice was when she
was misbehaving, or when she was ready for fucking. Often, so he'd
found, the two came together.

Then there was the de Leon wench, who
misbehaved frequently, but who he had not fucked.

Yet she had his attention. She had it
and she kept it. Even when she was not standing before
him.

Even now, as he should be enjoying his
supper, she crept into his mind.

He wondered if she liked her solitude
too.

It was six months, two weeks and three
days since her sapling husband went to his maker. Sal always kept
track of important dates, and he remembered that as the day he'd
expected to double the size of his property. Only to run headfirst
into that stubborn wench who had her own ideas about keeping the
land for herself.

So she'd been alone that long. Was it
normal for a woman to go that distance without needing a man's
cock? Sal knew he couldn't go that long without pussy, but perhaps
women were different.

Or else she made use of one of her
husband's soldiers.

He scowled and dropped the
half-shredded leg of pheasant, suddenly finding the meat too dry
and tasteless.

Aye, the villainess must be getting
her purse filled somewhere.

On the other hand, perhaps she didn't
enjoy tupping. Some wenches were like that, or so he'd heard, and
Lady Helene de Leon had a reputation for piety, charity and
goodness.

As far as Sal had seen, her husband
had been a wilting milksop, so mayhap the woman didn't even know
what she was missing in her bed.

Her bed. Hmm. Those two words sent a
sudden heat through his blood, made his muscles tense, as he
pictured what that piece of furniture might look like. With her in
it. Naked. Her skin dampened by perspiration.

He picked up the leg of meat again,
dipped it in his wine and brought it back to his lips. Her skin
would glisten in the candlelight, he thought. Christ, he could
picture her laid across a wolf-skin, her legs spread. She would cry
out as he put his mouth on her. Oh, he'd make certain she was
trembling with need by the time he did.

Salvador sucked wine and grease from
the leg of meat. Sucked hard. And then ripped into it savagely,
greedily.

It wasn't quite enough. Tonight his
appetite was insatiable and roasted meat a poor substitute for a
woman.

Did the mouthy, stubborn woman lie
alone in her bed?

Reaching for the wine jug, he drank
from it directly and some ran down his chin. Hadn't realized how
thirsty he was.

He sniffed, wiping his mouth on his
tunic sleeve. Wench probably slept with a knife under her damned
pillow in case of intruders. Probably wore an iron chastity belt.
Or had a pussy that would bite his cock off. That could, of course,
explain why her husband couldn't manage her either. She was always
running her mouth, even when Calledaux was alive and should have
corrected her.

No, that woman must surely sleep
alone.

Piety, Charity and
Goodness
. Hmph.

He reached under the table and
straightened his cock, which had become uncomfortably constricted
in his chausses.

She slept alone. She must
do.

She'd better, he thought with a sudden
flare of anger.

He'd write to the king if he found out
the supposedly prim and proper widow was fornicating with some
opportunist little fucker.

Now his head was aching. Was he
drunk?

Sal soothed his temper by thinking of
her lying on that bed again, spread for him. Or bent over for him,
on her knees, begging for him to fill her wet cunt. He could well
imagine the shape of her bare arse for he'd seen her walking away
from him enough times to know the curve and the sway. And the
little jiggle. She must have no idea how that angry walk of hers
got his seed racing, his balls hard. That insolent, sharp-tongued
woman had the type of arse that called out for a man's hand to
spank it. To spank it until it was red and glowing, and then she'd
need him to soothe it for her, after he'd made her
beg...

Yes, indeed. He might not like to
admit it, but his neighbor was comely— if one got beyond the
snappish temper and her sly, cheating ways. Nice pair of succulent
titties too. His expert eyes could see their lush shape despite the
disguise with which she burdened them— a procession of ugly, dirty
gowns. She had curvy hips, long legs, and full, proud
tits.

More than all this, she was braver
than most men he encountered. She faced him without qualm, spoke
without fear or hesitancy, was never afraid to look him in the
eye.

That made her a rarity.

Being in her bed, he knew
instinctively, would be different. Even dangerous.

Now he had to adjust his erection
again. He was marble hard.

It had not escaped his notice today
that she referred to herself by the name de Leon and not Calledaux.
Clearly she identified with her own name, rather than her
husband's.

Sal's thoughts wound about that woman
like a snake, hissing and spitting. He couldn't help it. He was
undeniably curious.

So, apparently, was his cock, and
worse so tonight than ever before.

He blamed it on the sight of that
little bit of soft, damp skin earlier when she came to her gate and
he saw the tear in her gown.

That was another thing— the bloody
woman wore no under-shift to preserve her modesty. If she had a
husband she wouldn't dare walk around like that. There was no one
to control her and keep her in her place, that was the
trouble.

It offended his eyes, he decided, to
see her walking about like a whore, with her nipples poking through
her wool gown, no demure under-garments to hide those pointy
nubs.

How was a man supposed to go about his
business when he had that to look at?

Indeed, Sal's eyes were so offended
that they still hadn't recovered from the teasing glimpse of her
breast. Just the under-curve. Like a ripe peach hanging almost
within sight. Almost within nibbling distance. He just wasn't
capable of looking away.

Salvador acknowledged reluctantly that
sometimes a teasing glimpse of skin on a haughty, quarrelsome wench
was more exciting than a stark naked whore on her back with her
feet over her head. At least, it was in this case. Even when the
wench insulted him in the presence of others and got away with more
than any woman ever had, he was aroused.

He could, quite easily, burn her manor
down, slaughter her beasts and send her to join her needle-necked
husband in the afterlife. But for some reason he let her go on
living there, arguing with him, thumbing her nose at him. Pointing
her nipples at him.

His brothers had openly
expressed their puzzlement about this, but then they had not met
Lady de Leon. Sal might not actually have
told
them she was an ancient,
wrinkled, saggy-tittied, toothless hag— not in so many words— but
if they got that impression from his heavily inferred hints, he
couldn't help that.

The last thing he needed was any of
his brothers laying eyes upon his widowed neighbor. That would only
complicate the entire issue. And now that they all spent more time
at his father's manor, they had more opportunity to catch a glimpse
of her. Even though she stayed well away from that side of the
valley because of the d'Anzeray reputation, a few of his brothers
had taken to riding over and visiting Sal lately. He was never a
very genial host and got rid of them again as soon as possible, but
there was always a chance that one of his brothers might notice her
in the fields one day, close enough to see through her muddied
garments.

The time of keeping them fooled about
his neighbor was, he felt certain, running out.

He ran splayed fingers through his
hair, scratching his head wherein all these strange thoughts lurked
to cause him agony and confusion.

Why was he spending so much time
thinking about that damnable wench?

She had to be near five and twenty,
for pity's sake! He preferred his women younger, more timid,
looking up to him with awe, gratitude and admiration. A female of
her age knew too much, saw too much, probably wouldn't appreciate
all his wondrous attributes and talents. Even if she did, she'd
pretend she didn't. The older a woman, the more trouble she was to
keep satisfied. Unless, of course, she was paid for her
services.