The Virgin Proxy (2 page)

“Of course.” She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t for want of trying, but few opportunities had come her way to amend the situation and the best she could own up to was a quick fumble with the fishmonger who trundled his cart into the yard once a week.

“Good.” Sybilia took a deep breath. “Then you will be my proxy on the wedding night.”

“Your
what?
”

“My husband expects a virgin bride. If he finds me amiss in any way he will beat me, possibly kill me. They say he is a man without mercy.”

Deorwynn stared. “You’re not….”

“I am not a maid. I am in love with another. I gave myself to him last year when I went home to visit my sick mother. My family will not allow us to marry. He is poor. A groom. A Saxon peasant.” Tears dampened her lashes. “I am trapped now, you see, in this other marriage that is arranged for me.”

There was another lengthy pause while Deorwynn straightened her thoughts. It was hard to imagine prim and proper Sybilia succumbing to lust with a groom, and a Saxon at that, when she was so proud of her Norman heritage. It was indeed an enlightening discovery, even gratifying for Deorwynn to know she was not the only bad girl in the world. In fact, she was positively saintly compared to Sybilia, even if it was simply due to the dearth of available men.

“I need a virgin to take my place on the wedding night,” the young woman clarified, probably assuming her silence meant she didn’t understand. “It will only be once.”

Abruptly Deorwynn laughed. “You don’t think he will know the difference between us? Then what will happen to us at the hands of this man who has no mercy?”

Sybilia had a ready answer. “You will wear a heavy veil in bed. I will say it is traditional in my family to wear such a veil on the wedding night.”

Sybilia smiled stiffly. “We are of the same height and build, both fair headed with brown eyes. People have said many times how alike we are in looks. Have you not heard them?”

But Sybilia was beautiful. How could she look like her? Deorwynn had never thought herself remotely pretty, although she stopped searching for her reflection in shiny surfaces long ago. Despite her determination to remain skeptical, she couldn’t prevent the little flutter of hopeful vanity suddenly warming her unhappy, lonely heart. She even felt the customary frown melting away from her brow.

“And we both know how little attention men pay to our faces,” Sybilia added. “Do this for me, Deorwynn and I will ask my new husband to recommend a pardon for your brother. He is still imprisoned by the king is he not?”

Oh, it was too cruel. Sybilia knew exactly how to work under her hardened skin—first with flattery and now a tug on her seldom played heart strings. Her brother, Raedwulf! How she would love to see him again, safe and sound. She’d almost given up hope, although she’d never admit that to another living soul.

She nodded slowly, thinking it through. This was a chance of escape and must be considered. Whatever Sybilia was up to, times were desperate, opportunities scarce.

What did she fear? That the Norman would hurt her? She’d been hurt before, many times. She could tolerate pain more than most women, and if she stayed here it would be far worse, with no end in sight. She chewed frantically on a jagged fingernail.

There was more than pain to consider. There was the possibility of death at the hands of an angry Norman warrior. Well, as the Mother Superior had said, they all faced death eventually. She was one and twenty and still a maid. Did she want to die a virgin and take her last breath in this cold, heartless place that tried to suck the very soul out of her? To never feel the sun on her face again? Then hope would truly be lost.

If there was a chance, however slim, that this ruse would work, she should try it for Raedwulf’s sake. Even if, to do so, she must put herself into the dirty hands of a Norman pig.

It was a sad state of affairs indeed when bedding the enemy was the only preferable option, but as Sybilia said, it was for one night only.

Mother Superior had warned smugly that the only way to freedom for Deorwynn would be laid out dead in a freshly dug grave. But it wouldn’t be like that after all. Her way out would be laid in a Norman’s bed.

Chapter Two

Guy Devaux sat with his legs spread wide, head back, eyes closed. The only sounds in the room were the putter of candles, the crackle of burning wood in the fire pit and the regular sucking of the woman kneeling between his thighs. Weary after a day’s hunting, he’d almost fallen asleep, when a log tumbled in the fire and shot sizzling sparks across the flagstones. He sat up straight, opening his eyes.

Glancing down at the bobbing head in his lap, he sighed, frustrated. He’d forgotten the woman was there. She could have sucked all night and he wouldn’t be close to spending. Annoyed, he grabbed a handful of her long hair and eased her away. “You’re not milking a cow, woman.”

The serving wench gazed at his manhood, her eyes half-lidded with desire. Her large nipples poked through her gown and he knew that if he slid a hand under her skirt she’d be wet for him. He’d fucked this one before and remembered her as an easy, placid mount, the sort one could ride without thinking about. The swing of her broad, sensual hips had caught his attention that evening when he rode into the yard with the sweat, blood and dirt of the hunt on his skin. He’d called her to his private chamber, intent on releasing a pent up load. But now, looking down into her blank, ignorant, unquestioning face he found there was nothing here he wanted. Nothing at all.

“Let me try again, my lord. You are tense this eve.”

He waved a hand impatiently. “Get out. Leave me alone.”

She left quickly, at least having enough common sense to see his foul mood building. He was still refastening his breeches when Thierry, his right hand man and closest friend, entered the chamber.

“Just because we’ve shared women before, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t knock.” He slumped back into his chair. “When my bride arrives this chamber will finally become private.
I hope.”

It was almost four years since they arrived here to oversee construction of a castle fortress, but Guy Devaux and his men were still not quite adjusted to life in one place. They were more familiar with battle than with peace; accustomed to rowdy campgrounds, close quarters and long months on the road. The concept of privacy was still an odd, unnecessary thing to these soldiers. Guy tried hard to adjust to it, because apparently privacy—time alone with one’s thoughts—was much prized amongst men with great minds. And he yearned, one day, to be considered as such. He was even learning to read and write. In the meantime he worked on transforming himself from battle-hardened mercenary, flying by the seat of his breeches, to a man of property and responsibility. It was no easy change to make, especially when his best friend continued to forget they were no longer young men unfettered and free to enjoy life. Well, one of them was not.

“Yes, of course.” Thierry bowed his head, but lifted it quickly again. “In fact, I came to let you know your bride has arrived. Shall I send her up?”

“Hmm.” He stared into his wine. It seemed the Senclere wench was eager to become his brood mare and chatelaine, since she was half a day early. His turbulent mood was not soothed by the thought. This ‘pedigree bitch’, as the king had jovially called her, would provide him with a fine litter of males and the beginning of his own dynasty, but thinking of the next generation only reminded him that his own would soon be gone. It was almost as if the king had put him out to grass like a warhorse past its prime. In a few short years he would be thirty, an old man.

Thierry waited patiently.

“Not in the mood for her tonight,” Guy snapped finally. “Too damned tired.” It was the thought of marriage. A wife. Getting old. Getting fat and grey. This setting down of roots and turning respectable was the hardest mission he’d ever undertaken. He’d sooner face an unruly mob of cut-throat Saxon rebels than a wife. Wedlock—even the word had a grim finality to it.

“You’re still worrying over the soothsayer’s predictions?” Thierry exclaimed, his tone bemused.

Guy glowered into his cup. “Hmm.” In truth, he’d considered little else over the last few hours. The old woman who came to his gates earlier looking for alms, had offered to tell fortunes for a small fee and Thierry had brought her to Guy for a reading.

“Your life is about to change, young man,” she’d told him. “You come to the end of one path and turn down another.” This was no surprise. The locals knew about his forthcoming marriage and no doubt the old woman had heard the gossip. But then she said, “What is lost will be found again.”

And that stuck in his mind, pierced it like an arrowhead.

He opened his palm and looked at the stone he carried. The crude but recognizable figure of a horse had been scratched into the surface by a determined hand. It fascinated him, ever since he found the pebble when he came here to clear the rubble of an old Saxon village and lay the stone for his castle’s foundation. He kept it with him at all times, wondering about the person who made the etching. They must have spent a great deal of time on it and then they lost it there, probably when the villagers were routed by the Norman army and their homes burned to the ground. Wexford, as it was called then by the Saxons, had been a nest of rebels. Now it was his, granted to him by the king, along with two other small parcels of adjoining land. The soul who lost the little stone was gone. But he had found it. The soothsayer’s words gave it new significance.

What is lost will be found again.

She had also warned him that fate would bring a rare kind of warrior to breach his fortress. He’d sneered at that. His castle, even unfinished as yet, was impenetrable, the outer walls thick, high and well guarded. Still…perhaps he should post additional men in the forest around his property.

Thierry interrupted his thoughts. “I don’t know why you took the old crone’s predictions so to heart. I wager she says the same to everyone.”

“But this marriage
will
change my life. It
is
a new path. A wife marks the beginning of decrepitude. She’ll make demands on my time and attention. She’ll fill this castle with other women and sickly sweet smells.”

“Dark blonde hair, delicate features, big brown doe-eyes and lovely…” Hands raised to cup the air, Thierry stopped just short of finishing his sentence. He grinned broadly. “Ripe as two plums about to fall before they’re plucked.”

Guy gave a small grunt of dour amusement and swigged the rest of his wine.

“Oh and the lady has requested a bath. It seems the dirt of her journey must be scraped off before she feels presentable for her new lord and master, although I couldn’t see anything wrong myself.” Thierry paused, grinning. “That’s what I came to tell you.”

* * * *

By the time Sybilia was done, the bathwater was cold, but Deorwynn threw an extra hunk of dry wood on the fire beside it and stepped into the vacated tub with a sigh of contentment. For once she would bathe without a grave-faced nun standing by to be sure she wasn’t tempted to touch herself under the water. Furthermore, tonight she would bathe naked, without the under-shift the convent girls were forced to wear. Another step on the path to freedom, she thought merrily, sinking down into the water.

Sybilia had gone grumpily to bed, insulted that her future husband had no time for her tonight. Relying on her “handmaiden” to empty the bathwater and fold up her clothes, she’d left the cookhouse with one sour warning. “Don’t wake me with your cold feet in my back when you come to bed. It seems we must share as they haven’t readied a proper lady’s chamber for me yet.”

For now Deorwynn was blissfully alone. The cookhouse was silent, warm and empty, the doors bolted, a guard posted outside. No one would interrupt her. A rare, precious treat indeed. Eyes closed, she hummed softly, lathering herself with the little cake of waxy herbal soap that Sybilia left behind. Now to conjure her dream lover, the fantasy she’d created to help stave off the boredom of life in the convent.

Slowly she slid her hands down her belly, arching her back with a deep sigh of delight.

* * * *

Guy Devaux put his eye to the peephole and couldn’t believe what he saw. His innocent, virginal bride touched herself intimately, her knees spread, eyes closed. Although her honey streaked hair was tied up out of the water, waving locks tumbled down to her shoulders, the ends dampened in the cloudy water, sticking to her pale skin. The song she hummed was no church music, but a popular country ballad with saucy words. He’d heard it sung before—usually by drunken peasants on feast days.