Lord Grim's Witch (a medieval romance novelette) (3 page)

“Mistress,” the sheriff drawled, “do you live on Grimoult lands?”

Her stomach dropped. Was he aiding his lordship to bed her? “I do, but I already provide a valuable service for that privilege.”

The sheriff’s smile widened. “You now shall have the greater privilege of serving his lordship directly.”

Lord Grim sat still, his hooded gaze never blinking. His mouth set in a straight line.

She bit back her instant protest, wishing she could discern his thinking. One hint might give her the inspiration to extricate herself from this coil. She didn’t have any power here—no say in her own fate. She should never have come. “I beg permission to find the garderobe.”

“Personally, I’d deny her,” the steward said. “She’ll only sneak away from the keep as soon as she leaves this room.”

“What do you suggest?” Lord Grim asked, his gaze slipping down her body again as though mapping his conquest.

She didn’t want to hear any suggestion offered by the toadying steward, knowing it would only involve more humiliation. “My need is not as urgent as I first thought,” she said quickly. “I will wait.” If she had to cross her legs until the morning, she would not ask again!

“Come sit beside me. I’m almost done here, and you may accompany me into the hall for dinner.”

She bit her lip to remind herself to be civil. “Can I not await your convenience
in the hall
, milord?”

“You have a great many friends there to keep you company?” he asked softly.

She hadn’t even one. And damnation, by the sparkle in his eyes, he knew it. How was she to put space between them long enough to flee? “I could tend injuries—”

He held up his hand to halt any further arguments. “Sit.”

She bristled at the way he commanded her—like a dog. Not even a well-favored dog. However, she’d show him. She would never come to heel. Then she gazed once again at his broad shoulders and shiny black hair and amended her vow.

She’d never come to heel—without giving him a bit of bother first.

Amusement filled Geoffrey
as the woman’s reluctance to come near him had her dragging her feet like a recalcitrant child. She drew back a chair from the table and flopped onto it, crossing her arms over her chest to make sure he understood she wasn’t at all pleased by his attentions.

If he hadn’t seen signs of her interest in her sideways glances, he might have taken offense to her obvious disgruntlement. The woman protested too much. Wooing her might prove the most interesting occupation he’d undertaken since receiving the reins of this small keep.

Tibor’s grinning amusement only goaded him further. His newly appointed sheriff and foster brother had come ahead of Geoffrey’s entourage to assess the keep and its promise.

Besides the odd wolf sighting, there had been nothing in Tibor’s missives to alarm or particularly interest him. Geoffrey sighed. Years of warfare and the tournament circuit had seemingly spoiled him for the bucolic life. Perhaps he should leave Tibor in charge here and return where he belonged—Grimoult could certainly use the funds from more tournament purses.

Grimoult. Geoffrey of Grimoult.
Lord Grim
. He’d laughed the first time he’d heard the shortened version of his title. Now, he thought it a useful weapon. His name appeared to strike fear. Even in the slim, fey creature seated beside him, who was doing her best not to be caught staring. But he could feel her glance, and her interest stirred his loins.

He hadn’t felt any particular need to seek a bed companion for the night, but the witch’s appearance intrigued him—her manner challenged him. Had she come with her request and stated it calmly, he likely wouldn’t have paid her any mind at all. She was hardly the comeliest woman within his demesne. One of the servant girls might lay claim to that boast with her lush, womanly curves and ink-dark hair and eyes.

The witch with her wild auburn hair and green eyes was reed-thin. Her carriage, when she wasn’t tripping over her feet, put him to mind of a supple willow. Her hands were small, her fingers slender. When he’d spied them clutching the folds of her gown, he’d imagined them closing around his cock while her wide, mobile mouth took him to heaven.

Yes, her seduction would be immensely satisfying.

“Milord,” Tibor said, his inflection anything but respectful. Dark amusement glinted in his eyes as his gaze went from the girl back to him. “Tonight is another full moon. Our quarry will be stalking fresh game.”

As would he. The woman’s shapeless dress was little more than a plain sack without shape, but her fidgeting pulled the fabric close to her small breasts. Without a lady’s stays they remained high and firm. He shifted in his seat and wondered if Tibor would smirk if he reached down to adjust himself. Rather than risk any more of Tibor’s mirth at his expense, Geoffrey decided to embrace the bite of his chausses around his quickening cock. “Our quarry? Yes, a full moon should aid you in finding him. Perhaps you should set a trap—with better bait this time.”

“A fresh lamb for slaughter?”

Geoffrey gave him a quelling glance, attuned to his double meanings. Everything that spouted from Tibor’s mouth was laced with sensual connotation. Likely he hoped for a generous sampling to be shared between them. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d taken bites of the same sweet meat. Or had the bastard already tasted?

“Find the beast first,” he drawled. He wasn’t at all sure the girl could be brought around to the idea of sharing her favors among friends. He stood a far better chance of seducing her alone. Casting a glance over his shoulder at the steward, he said, “Have a tray prepared and delivered to my room.”

The steward’s bow was stiff, his mouth pressed into a thin line of disapproval. When he quit the room, he let the door close with a sharp crack behind him.

Tibor grinned. “He’s certain you’ll be lying with a demon.”

Geoffrey turned to the woman whose mutinous mien and flashing eyes would cause lesser men to quail. He smiled and lifted her clenched hand from her lap. “Come, mistress. I find myself quite fatigued. Let’s retire to my quarters.”

Her eyes widened, and she tried to pull back her hand, but he stroked his thumb across her palm and noted the swift intake of her breath.

“So early, sire?” she said breathlessly. “The sun’s barely set.”

“Your name?”

“Wh-what?”

“I would have something to call you other than mistress for the rest of the evening.”

She cleared her throat while her pulse throbbed fast and heavy beneath his fingers. This would be an easy taming. A stabbing disappointment had him gripping her wrist tighter. He wanted the fire to flash in her eyes again—not this timorous, wide-eyed dismay.

“Gisele,” she whispered, still trying to wrest away her hand. “But I must protest, milord.”

“You wish to refuse me?”

“Of course not, sire. But I’m only thinking of you. I have no great experience at…at…”

“Bedsport?”

“Yes! I’ll bore you.”

Tibor snorted beside him, and the woman’s eyes flashed with fury. “I’m sure there are others who would serve better.”

“If you see any as we pass them in the hall,” he drawled, “be sure to point them out. I will invite them to join us.”

Her mouth gaped then closed with a snap. Fire blazed in her jade eyes.

Encouraged by her renewed anger, he couldn’t resist taunting her. “You wished to say something?”

“Never! Jackanapes!” she muttered under her breath.

Tibor’s brows rose at the insult, but Geoffrey’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. She could protest all she liked. Her arousal studded the front of her shapeless dress and scented the air. She was no unwilling maid—rather a fractious filly to be tamed.

*

Gisele fumed as
Lord Grim pulled her through the hall where everyone gathered for the evening meal. Surprised horror registered on more than one face.

As if she was some sort of succubus come to drain the master of his virility!

Whispers of “witch” and “hag” followed them through the room, and she tried to keep her head held high. She even resisted struggling against his hold, just because she didn’t want the rest of them to know she’d been well and truly trapped by their wily overlord.

Pride reared its head and kept her gaze on his broad shoulders as she followed him, managing not to trip once on the long trek through the hall. Too soon, they climbed the steps to the private rooms. Once they were beyond the curious gazes of the castle folk, she tugged her hand free.

A single questioning glance over his shoulder seemed to assure him she wouldn’t turn tail and run. The humiliation would have been too much to bear. Instead, she’d suffer his attentions this night and escape in the early hours.

Only she knew she wouldn’t suffer any pain other than the sensual thrill of the bite of his large cock. She’d spied the evidence of his arousal when he’d risen from the table, outlined against the dark chausses that hugged his manhood as closely as a lover’s palm might.

The man was hung like a horse!

The thought should have caused her alarm. Instead, warmth flooded her body, readying her to accept his generous size. Her eagerness to gaze on Lord Grim’s cock would cause her many nights of dismay, she was sure, but right this very moment she could scarcely wait.

Once she’d resigned herself to the fact he would not let her slip his noose, her body and her mind had leapt ahead to his bedchamber. She only hoped the slow drawl of his voice and the lazy rub of his thumb over her wrist and palm were indications of a truly sensual nature. Last night’s taste of passion had only whetted her appetite. For so many years, she’d wanted to learn what the women who sought her potions were talking about. The thrilling ecstasy they moaned over was a total mystery. Her previous encounters had left her feeling…disappointed.

Somehow, she knew this time,
just as last night
, it would be very different. Not that she was going to surrender easily. Nothing gained without a bit of hard work was ever truly treasured. She was no loose scullery maid eager to lift her skirts to any man. The daughter of a knight and a lesser noblewoman, she’d arrived at her station through no fault of her own. War and the revision of fiefdoms had stripped her of any rank in society. Not one to bemoan her losses, she’d used the skills her mother had bequeathed to her and made a place for herself.

Lord Grim would soon learn she was no easy conquest.

If
she could manage to control the lush heat melting her woman’s parts long enough to prove her strength of will.

They stopped in front of a thick plank door, and he pushed it open. A fire had been lit in a brazier in the far corner of the chamber, taking away any chill and moisture from the thick stone walls. A single torch on the wall and the candles burning in a sturdy candelabra added to the golden light flooding his large room.

A thick fur of indeterminate origin graced the floor at the end of the bed, and she stared at it for a long moment before raising her gaze to the bed itself. It was a very large bed with a mattress that looked as though it was stuffed with down rather than straw. The wide, fluffy expanse of brightly colored bedding seemed a decadent luxury when a bed was simply a place to sleep—at least to her. At least, before last night.

But if a man wished to practice seduction, one glimpse of that soft mattress was indeed a powerful lure.

The scent of fresh potted pies drew her to a small table beside the bed. A hassock and chair flanked the table. Two flagons filled with ale sat beside the pies. How the steward had managed to deliver this so quickly left her reeling.

“Shall we eat first?”

Gisele looked up to find that damnable smirk curving his lips and tossed back her hair. “I’m starving,” she said baldly, knowing her tone held a rebellious edge.

“The room is rather warm,” he murmured and drew his tunic over his head.

Gisele stole another glance at his heavy loins as his garment passed his head. The temperature in the room rose as did the heat in her cheeks.

The linen shirt he wore next to his skin was rumpled, and the dark cloud of hair that covered his chest was visible through the thin fabric. He tugged down the hem. Cutting off her view once more.

“If you are overwarm…” His expression held more than a hint of challenge, but she held onto her wits and shook her head.

Soon enough. Perhaps it would be best to see him well into his cups before she stripped to the skin. Beer had a way of enhancing one’s ill looks, or so she’d often heard. She would have preferred ink-black darkness to accomplish the task.

When he indicated they should take seats, she stepped next to the hassock and waited for him to sit.

“We’ll not stand on ceremony when we’re alone, Gisele.”

She shivered at the sound of her name coming in his rich baritone and settled onto the hassock as he took his chair. She immediately grabbed a spoon and stabbed a potted pie—anything to turn her attention from his massive body and the musky scent of his warm skin. The ale beside her pie was almost too much temptation. She feared she’d down the goblet quickly to ease her nerves, and then he’d have his way with her and she’d never remember whether she’d enjoyed the experience or not. Worse, she might act like a fool and launch herself at his body.