Purebred (4 page)

"Think of this as another mission. Get
my wife with child and I will pay you handsomely, d'Anzeray. A stud
fee for a strong, male child."

Of all the things he'd expected from
the Baron this was not it. "I see," he murmured, scratching his
unshaven cheek. So much for being relieved, he mused. Already his
sac was tight again and the heaviness of lust returned. Was he
dreaming? Moments ago he'd imagined filling this man's wife with
his cum, making her frosty manners melt under him as he planted
himself deep in her slender, clean, sweet-scented body. "You want
me to make love to your wife? To Lady Isobel," he clarified
carefully.

"No, d'Anzeray. I don't want you to
make love to her. I want you to fuck the skin-and-bones bitch. Fuck
her hard and often until her womb bears fruit."

Again he scratched his cheek while
waiting for his pulse to steady and his breath to calm. "Why
me?"

"Because you are just what
I would want in a son. Exactly what I need. I can trust you to get
the job done with no risk of any deep attachment forming on either
side. I know about you ruthless, rapacious mercenaries, and you
didn't earn the name
Blackheart
without reason." The Baron chuckled. "Besides,
there will be no chance of my wife developing affection for you.
She despises your very name."

"Yes," he murmured, "that much is
obvious."

"But don't let that trouble you. She
will submit to my wishes in this matter, and you may do with her as
you please with only a little guidance from me."

"Guidance?" No one could give him
guidance when it came to bed sport, he thought."There must be
rules, if I am to lend my wife's body to you for rutting,
d'Anzeray," the other man explained. "I will be there, naturally,
to watch that all goes as planned. It might inspire me, eh? To see
her subdued might free me of that curse and help lift my prick into
action again."

So the man meant to watch while he did
the deed? Interesting. Alonso was not one to baulk at an audience,
but he sensed Lady Isobel might. "Does she know of your idea, Baron
Louvet?"

"She knows she is to be serviced
tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"I can't wait much longer for a son
and heir."

Alonso scraped his fingers back
through his hair. "But this is...soon."

"You don't need time to woo,
d'Anzeray. This is a fucking such as I'm sure you've had many
times. 'Tis not a seduction. 'Tis a claiming. A job to be done.
Nothing more. Now, don't spill anymore until tomorrow night. I want
you to fill my wife up, eh?" Patting him jauntily on the shoulder,
the Baron slouched off to his bed, leaving Alonso to consider
exactly what he was getting himself into.

Could he do it for a stud fee? It
wasn't something he'd ever been offered before, but he found the
idea arousing. Very much so.

He watched the Baron disappearing up a
flight of steps, weaving uncertainly, his feet almost missing the
stone slabs. The aging fool was in his cups, of course. Would he
even remember this idea by morning when he woke with an aching head
and sour stomach? Oh he'd better remember it, because Alonso would
not forget.

She will submit to my
wishes in this matter, and you may do with her as you
please
.

He wasn't so sure about the first part
of that sentence, but about the latter he was certain.

The prim Lady Isobel was about to be
broken in, and he would spill her virgin blood on his lance. Oh
yes, he would do with her as he pleased.

Her submission was optional, but not
necessary.

Chapter Three

The clouds were grey and heavy,
hanging low over the treetops that morning when she looked out.
Lady Isobel had woken early and after one quick perusal of the sky,
decided she would go for a ride on her favorite mare. Her husband,
she knew, would be sleeping off the previous night's excesses and
would likely not be up before noon, but he never objected to her
riding outside the gates in daylight hours, as long as she took
Jeanne and two guards with her for protection. It was one of the
marriage terms she'd negotiated with the Baron. Since he only rode
out of necessity he never took pleasure in a simple gallop and did
not even like to hunt on horseback, but if it kept color in her
face and helped her expend considerable restlessness, he was
content to let her go out occasionally.

"Better that than see your grim face
moping about the manor," he would say.

Jeanne had not mentioned the events of
the previous night, and Isobel saw no reason to raise the matter.
Although it was not the first time her maid had brought her comfort
in such a fashion, it was the first time she had done so at the
Baron's command. Isobel still couldn't be sure that he knew of the
other times when Jeanne brought her relief by kissing and touching
her in tender ways when her spirits were low. Perhaps it was merely
an idea that had come to him on the spur of the moment when he was
frustrated with her. Whatever his reason there was nothing to say
of it this morning. The two women never needed many words between
them. Mistress and maid had been together for ten years, grown up
side by side, and if not for Jeanne, Isobel feared she would have
never known affection of any kind.

Her life was a lonely one at her
husband's manor, and Jeanne was her only friend; for that she was
greatly valued.

As the two women entered the stables,
dressed to ride, they found Alonso d'Anzeray grooming his stallion
in one of the stalls.

Usually they would have ignored each
other, but this morning he paused his work and greeted her. "Good
morning, my Lady Isobel."

There was a definite
emphasis on the "
my
". She turned her head to look at him as she passed. He wore
no tunic, just his leather breeches and laced boots. The skin of
his chest and shoulders was sun-browned, taut with muscle. Today he
wore his hair tied back in a tail with a thin leather strip. Most
Norman soldiers wore their hair very short, but many these days
grew it longer. His had more length than most. A sheen of sweat
dampened his bulging shoulders and the thick slabs of muscle across
his chest, proving he'd been at work for a while. She muttered a
"good morning" in reply, but then he came out of the stall and
propped one bulky shoulder against the wall.

"You go riding, my lady?"

She frowned. "Yes. Not that this is
any business of yours."

He tapped a brush in the palm of his
hand. "I should come with you." He added, "Two guards is not
enough."

"I am hardly likely to run away," she
snapped impatiently. "Where would I go?" Not that she hadn't
thought of it, many times, of course. But it was a fantasy, like
other ideas that sometimes traveled through her mind. A woman could
go nowhere alone.

"I did not suggest the guards were
needed to keep you from running away, my ill-tempered
lady."

"Then what are you muttering about,
fool?"

"I refer to the fact that there are
Saxon rebels out there who would gladly capture you and hold you
for ransom. At least four men should ride out with you and your
maid. The Baron is lax to send only two."

"Well, you raise the matter to him
then, if it bothers you, insolent creature."

His dark eyes narrowed. "I shall. But
as for today, I should come."

"For the last time, d'Anzeray..." she
slowed down her speech and addressed him as she would a child,
"You. Are. Not. Needed."

A slow grin bent his lips. "On the
contrary. I am very much needed, so I hear."

His eyes widened again and became a
deep, rich shade of brown, reminding her of chestnuts warmed in the
glow of a hearth. The sudden idea startled her, but Isobel was
pulled in by his gaze. Almost trapped by it, she faltered,
stumbled, but then straightened her spine. She remembered that she
was a noble-born lady, a daughter of the Duc de Bressange, and he
was only a by-blow, a half-breed who lived his life by the sword
and apparently without scruples. "Have you no peasants to slaughter
today? No stags to hunt? No rebels to round up and houses to
burn?"

"I'm sure I can spare time for you,
Lady Isobel. Since your husband cannot."

Her pulse beat was too rapid suddenly.
She walked on, but he followed. Today it seemed he was intent on
gaining her attention. The grooms had readied her horse and one for
Jeanne too.

"It seems likely to rain, my lady,"
her husband's hired mercenary exclaimed. "Perhaps you should delay
your ride and wait for the storm clouds to pass."

Isobel did not reply, but took the
reins and led her horse out into the yard. Again she heard his
steps close behind.

"Unless, of course, you can keep the
rain away with your witching spells."

She whirled around. "I like the rain,
d'Anzeray. I welcome it."

"I suppose life has been too dry for
you here." He smiled, showing off a gleam of straight, white teeth.
"But no more. Not after tonight."

Suddenly she realized he was trying to
tell her something. He did not merely follow her because he knew it
pulled on her nerves.

There was a pause while the breeze
ruffled that tail of his long dark hair and pushed the wool of her
gown against her legs. His gaze, heated and languid, swept down
over her figure, and it was as if his hands had caressed her
breasts and the curve of her hip. The sensation lingered, even
after he turned away to help Jeanne up into her saddle. Isobel
quickly used the help of a groom and a block to mount her own
horse. This clearly disappointed d'Anzeray, for when he turned back
to assist her and found he was not needed, he scowled fiercely. She
was reminded of one of her brothers sulking whenever she beat them
at some silly game.

"You must wait for me to come with
you," he said.

She looked down at him
from her horse and replied tersely, "There is
nothing
I must do for you,
d'Anzeray. It seems you forget yourself. You are the Baron's hired
hand, his tamed barbarian and—from what I hear— a bastard son of a
whore. Just because my husband relies upon you and finds you so
very amusing, does not mean I need ever do the same."

To her surprise he banked his
irritation, smoothed his frown and merely smiled. "Ah, of course. A
noble woman such as yourself needs nothing from a humble soldier.
What could I ever do for you? What service could you ever want from
me?"

"Exactly."

But there was that warm glimmer again,
a knowing, self-complacent lilt to his smile. She felt her pulse
somehow beating in the soles of her feet and she was dizzy
suddenly, the air too thin.

What service could you
ever want from me?
The question sank in,
descending with as great a thud as her heartbeat had
previously.

He rubbed a hand down over his face,
apparently making an effort to quell his smug grin.

"Is there something you meant to say
to me, d'Anzeray?" she demanded, breathless.

"It can wait. Go, enjoy this ride.
Later will be time enough for you and I."

Isobel gathered the reins and prepared
to move on, but he stopped her by patting the mare's neck. His
gesture was gentle, his hand almost elegant in its movement, with
the long fingers trailing through the horse's mane. His fingernails
were kept trimmed and squared off. They were clean, she noted with
a jolt of surprise.

"A fine beast. A pedigree Arabian,
eh?"

"Yes," she snapped
reluctantly.

"The Bedouin's say that Allah created
the Arabian horse from the south wind."

"I would not know about that." She
waved a hand dismissively. "This horse was bred by my father, the
Duc de Bressange, and gifted to me on my marriage." Really she
should have pushed him aside and ridden away, but pride was a
terrible sin — one of her worst.

"A purebred for another purebred," he
muttered thoughtfully. While moving his hand from the horse's neck,
he touched her knee. Briefly. It might have been a mistake, but
with the jump of her pulse she knew it was intentional. "And you
too must be bred, my lady."

She kept her lips pressed tight, but a
shiver of part fear, part anticipation raced through her
veins.

"Bred by your husband's hired
barbarian bastard."

Oh, dear god no.
No
. Her pulse had raced
ahead of her, leaving her body frozen stiff, her mind stalled. She
knew how a doe must feel when it spied hunters in the forest,
aiming their arrows to bring her down.

His smile widened. "Yes,
all those things you said of me are true. All but one, my Lady
Isobel." He leaned closer and whispered, "Don't think there's
anything about me that will ever be
tamed."

She kicked out with her foot. He
stepped aside smartly, and she steered her horse forward at a fast
trot, anxious to leave him behind. The guards and Jeanne followed
her, the horses' hooves clattering over the stones of the yard.
Isobel put her shocked face into the wind and did not look
back.