The Modest and the Bold

A
romantically erotic tale of the Medieval era.

By

Leelou Cervant

Copyright © by Leelou Cervant 2014

Cover and interior design
by Leelou Cervant

Smashwords
Edition

No part of this book may
be reproduced in any form, by photocopying or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval
systems, without in writing from both the copyright owner and the
publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction.
With the exception of real historical figures and events that may
be referred to, all names, characters, places, and occurrences are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
similarity to actual events, locales, organizations or persons,
living or dead, are entirely consequential.

Since I have more than 100 stories to get out of my head and
onto paper, or rather, into my computer (ha ha ha), I decided to
turn some of those initially intended to be full length historical
romances into short erotic tales. And so a series of erotic
anthologies was born.
Surprising
is the first volume of this series.
The Modest and the Bold
is a story included in this first volume, and for or a
limited time I am offering it
for
free.

So far there are six
volumes, but that is not a set number. And because I never follow a
set of rules when it comes to chapter or story length, the tales
within these volumes will vary in length—in my opinion, a story or
chapter is over when it is over and not a single word before or
after. There will be, however, some uniform aspects to this series:
All volumes will contain three tales, all covers will feature a
flower that figures in each tale within that particular volume, and
all tales will be erotic romances set in various eras (history
inspires stories, erotic scenes make them that much more fun to
read, but love is what makes the whole thing worth writing
about).

Unlike my usual works,
which comprise many scenes portrayed through more than a single
character’s perspective at a time, this new series will not follow
this trend. Chapters and scene breaks within each tale are rendered
through a single character’s viewpoint—not my writing preference,
but, as I wrote one story in this manner I figured I had to write
the rest like that, too.

On a final note I will
leave you with a reminder that, as with all erotic tales I write, I
have striven to keep politics out as much as possible (I save all
that for my major historical works) without spoiling the historical
facet of the story.

Happy reading!

Leelou Cervant

A Diamond for a
Baronet
(The Quiescent Heart: Book
I)

The Surprise of
Love
(The Quiescent Heart: Book
II)

The
Masqueraders

Surprising

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEAR READER

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

Leicestershire, England 1280

Constance de Molineaux,
inspecting a stool amidst the collection of items stored in the old
manor house, rose from her crouched position at the creaking of the
door. The second she spied the kissing couple across the hall her
bottom lip dropped. Sinking behind an ancient settle she prayed
that the pair of lovers had not seen her. Soon the telling sounds
of lovemaking floated into the vicinity of her hiding
spot.

Constance’s cheeks
tingled.

Raising her hands to cover
her ears one of the pair spoke, halting Constance in mid-action.
She recognized the sultry feminine voice. It belonged to Adele, the
all-around-serving maid.

“
My, my, Sir Fulke. You
are
indeed
eager
this day!”

Sir Fulke’s voice came
forth in his usual deep, even tenor. “Is that so surprising, after
your teasing the day?”

As it was wont to do, Sir
Fulke’s resonant voice sent a shiver of desire through Constance’s
entire body. Clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle the moan that
threatened to expose her presence, she closed her eyes against the
enthralling image her mind conjured of the tall, broad knight with
eyes and hair as dark as rich earth.

Sir Fulke of Norcaston had
accompanied her brother, Richard, home following the king’s last
war with the Welsh Prince Llywelyn to take-up a prominent position
in their household. One look at the swarthy, reserved knight and
Constance had been lost.

Adele’s cries of rapture
were now echoing up to the rafters. Unable to help herself,
Constance peeked around the settle. What she saw generated waves of
lust within—held bent over an old trestle table, the lovely Adele
was being taken in a fervent fashion by the virile Sir
Fulke.

Constance was a widow, and
no stranger to the intimacies to be shared between a man and woman.
But much time had passed since her last coupling with her late
husband, Gilbert FitzHugh (one of her brother’s former household
knights). The dark Sir Fulke’s advent had only occasioned her
yearning to be that much more acute.

Heart hammering,
Constance’s nether region grew swollen and moist. She noted how Sir
Fulke’s large left hand kneaded Adele’s exposed breasts as they
swung just above the surface of the table.

A bead of her juices
glided down Constance’s inner thigh. She shuddered.

Without thinking, she
gripped the side of the settle with her left hand and delved
beneath her skirts with her right. Slipping a finger between the
folds of her enflamed sex she sank deep. Rhapsody unfolded. The
vocal evidence of her climbing ecstasy filled her throat,
compelling her to bite the back of her left hand to stifle it. As
Sir Fulke’s thrusts grew fiercer, Adele’s moans louder, Constance’s
playing finger stroked faster.

Suddenly, Adele twisted
her face in her direction.

Constance’s reason shouted
for her to retreat from view, sinful yearning fixed her as she was:
breathing hard, finger fidgeting ever quicker.

Then Adele saw
her.

Gasping, Constance shifted
back behind the settle. Panting, cheeks burning, she understood the
significance of having been seen. To her shock, Adele did not
expose her. Instead, she continued on with her lover, wailing till
they attained the pinnacle of their pleasure together.

The sound of ecstasy
fading the former quietude reclaimed the hall. Constance wiped her
glistening finger on the inside of her fine, linen chemise. Tossing
down her skirts, she waited to see what would happen next, her
flesh prickling with fear.

“
Can you really not
linger, Sir Fulke?” probed Adele in a pouting tone.

There was the sound of
rustling clothes.

“
I have guard duty this
eve—I cannot.”

Adele sighed, “Very well.
Midday next?”

“
Midday next.”

Heavy footsteps sounded
upon the stone floor. The door creaked opened and
closed.

Silence.

Constance deliberated if
Adele had not seen her after all when the young woman’s distinct
voice rang out, amused.

“
No need to go on hiding,
love—I spied you earlier, I did.”

Mortified, Constance
froze. She would have stayed like that for an eternity had it meant
retaining her dignity. As it happened, the all-around-serving maid
was ready to take the matter into her own hands.

There was the indicative
sound of Adele’s advance, her tone persuasive. “Oh, come now. Don’t
be shy.”

Homespun wool skirts swept
into Constance’s hiding place. At Adele’s gasp, she finally peered
up. The maid was a pretty thing with an abundance of red hair,
bright blue eyes, a svelte figure, and refined features for one so
common. With Constance’s own lack of beauty—dull brown hair and
eyes, a plump countenance to match a plump form—none would have
deemed it surprising if she’d taken it upon herself to despise the
girl for her fortunate attributes. However, Constance had not one
unkind bone in her body. If anything she was rather
too
kind, which had led
her down a road of mistreatment two and twenty years in the
making.

Countenance flaming,
Constance got to her feet. It was not necessary that she gaze upon
Adele’s visage to discern her shock—it was evident in every
syllable of her next utterance.

“
My Lady
Constance!”

True to her modest nature,
Constance began, “Pray forgive me, Adele. I did not mean for this
to transpire. I…I came to the hall ahead of you and…and Sir Fulke.
I—” She stopped when the girl burst into laughter.

“
I think it
me
who should be doin’
the beggin’, milady! Sir Fulke and I carryin’ on as we
were…”

The girl halted in her
lively speech, her smiling eyes widened. Dread poured over
Constance.

Eyes narrowing, Adele
crossed her arms over her pretty bosom. “Milady, were you watchin’
us?”

Her cheeks flaming deeper
Constance shook her head as Adele took a step closer.

“
You were, weren’t you?”
the maid accused softly.

Discomfited by the young
woman’s suggestion, no matter that it was true, Constance made a
run for it. Gaining the door, Adel stumbled into her path, throwing
a hand across the width of the doorframe. Her bosom bumped into
that arm. Odd hunger sparked in Adele’s eyes as she glanced down at
her breasts. Brow knitting, lips parting, Constance took a step
back.

“
Mayhap your ladyship
would like to join us next time?” Adele proposed
huskily.

Backing up further,
Constance turned away. “Why are you doing this?” Adele followed
her. Next thing she knew her sultry voice was near her ear, her
trim form pressing into her arm.

“
Why deny yourself,
milady?” whispered the maid. “A widow can still burn even after her
husband has gone. Besides,”—Adele raised her hands and cupped her
lady’s breasts—“I fancy Sir Fulke would indeed appreciate
your
ample
gifts
.”

At the conception of Sir
Fulke touching her the way he had Adele—taking her in the same
manner—Constance’s sex twitched. Mortified by both her body’s
reaction to her thoughts and the maid’s behavior, she gasped and
stepped to escape those gentle, fondling hands. She raced to the
door, the young woman’s laughter trailing her.

“
Deny it if you will, my
lady. You know you want what I offer.”

Adele’s voice grew louder
as Constance hastened farther from the old Norman manor
house.

“
Midday
next
, milady.
I
shall wait for you!”

When Constance returned to the castle, she claimed fatigue,
repairing to her private quarters in the Lady’s Tower. A tray from
that eve’s meal duly arrived, but she could eat not a morsel.
Dismay and longing gnawed at her belly. She wanted so badly to
accept Adele’s bold proposition. Gilbert had died two years past,
and she’d suffered his absence dreadfully. Theirs had not been a
marriage based on love, at least not on her side (she’d accepted
his proposal because she’d thought never to have another). He’d
been kind and passionate, though, despite his being a bulky,
rough-speaking fellow, which had gone a long way in making up for
the gentler characteristics he’d lacked. She craved the burning
passion they’d shared in the late hours of the night with someone
again. And why not with the very man she was in love
with?