The Wagered Wench (9 page)

She picked up her wine goblet and took a fortifying gulp. He was right, she thought with a sigh, the wine was bloody awful.

What if she was equally bad at other things? Sometimes it seemed to Elsinora as if everything she tried to do was a miserable failure.

Again her gaze searched through the crowd and beyond to where that tapestry bed curtain swayed slightly in a rush of air caused by the stampeding dancers. She took another gulp of wine, wincing at the bitter taste, in need of something to wet her throat.

“My lady wife, you seem anxious to get to bed,” he muttered wryly beside her. “I see you looking at it constantly.”

Elsinora took a breath and set down her goblet. “We may as well get it over with.”

She felt his gaze on her face, searching. “You are ready for me?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you prepared?”

A shiver of fear slipped through her body. Ready? Prepared? What did she need to be ready for? He made it sound like a pagan sacrifice. “Of course,” she exclaimed, her eyes watching that tapestry curtain across the hall and the bowers of evergreens wound around the thick oaken bed posts. “Are you ready for me, Norman?”

He gave a funny little snort. “Oh yes.” Suddenly he reached for her hand, where it rested around the foot of her goblet and drew it down beneath the table to his lap.

Elsinora almost jumped out of her seat when she felt the ridge pushing hard at his breeches, under his tunic. That was supposed to fit inside her? Dominic held her hand, pressing it slowly up and down, letting her palm and fingers explore the shape. She glanced sideways, her face hot. Fortunately her father was half-asleep in his chair already and hadn’t noticed.

Dominic raised his free hand and signaled to the minstrels. The music halted while he announced that he would now take his wife to bed.

Chapter Seven

She snatched her hand away, her heartbeat tumbling over itself. Her father stumbled to his feet and blessed her forehead, then Dominic’s, with loud, sloppy kisses in the manner of a boisterous hound. A cheer rose up from the crowd and in the next instant they were converged upon, both lifted out of their seats and carried down the hall. The tapestry curtain loomed closer, as did the thing that lay in wait behind it. Elsinora did not know what to think or feel, while the wedding guests heaved them along, bellowing well-wishes and various bawdy remarks about the begetting of Gudderth’s first grandson and Lyndower’s next heir.

Eager hands jerked aside the curtain and the newlyweds were carried to the bed. The Norman submitted without complaint, and only a slightly bewildered smile, to an immediate stripping, as was the custom in Lyndower. It was important the groom’s “equipment” be assessed and found adequate. Elsinora watched grimly as his breeches were tossed aside and several tipsy women dared get a little too close with their hands, until their men folk called them to order. A hush then descended. The candle flames stretched tall while no breath and no activity tried their balance, and her new husband was bathed in gold light, every muscle gleaming, carved by a master craftsman.

Dominic Coeur-du-Loup was anything but lacking in equipment. There was nothing to be joked about or mocked in the traditional, good-natured way. His penis was solidly erect, stretching to heaven like a knight’s jousting lance. His heavy balls—the size of goose eggs— nestled in a pelt of dark curls, like those that grew on his head and across the upper slabs of his wide chest.

Rather than look at the other women’s awestruck expressions, Elsinora scrambled quickly under the covers, still fully dressed.

“You may leave us now,” she commanded shrilly.

Dominic signaled with a nod and they all backed out, stumbling over one another, grinning and twittering. Finally the curtain was drawn across and the minstrels resumed their playing.

He too knelt on the straw-stuffed mattress to help her, but the moment she felt his fingers on her spine she yelped and jumped off the bed. “I can’t,” she gasped. “Go away. I don’t want to do it. I changed my mind. I don’t think I’ll be any good at it. I feel sick. I think I ate something bad.” She backed up to the bed post, stopping only when it banged the back of her head. “I’m not ready.”

Dominic sank to his buttocks on the bed. “You’re not ready?” With one hand he casually stroked his manhood and she saw it grow another half inch in length and width. “So what am I to do with this?”

“Put a poultice on it.”

He laughed easily, his eyes warm.

She bit her lip. Why was she being such a coward? It was shameful. What would her proud, seafaring, adventuring ascendants think of her acting this way? Now that she was married, even her mother would tell her she must submit to it, as long as she got no enjoyment from it and chastised herself later for causing the sin.

Lay on your back, Elsinora, shut your eyes and think of Lyndower.

“Why should I trust anything you tell me?” He was a man and they were notorious fibbers. They were known to say anything when they wanted a tupping.

But it was not fear of him, she realized abruptly; it was fear of herself, of what she was capable, of the wicked desires burning inside her. All those things her devout, pious mother had warned her against.

He got up. She backed around the bed, pulse pounding.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered, striding after her, his cock bobbing and arching. “Woman, stand still!”

She had nowhere to go. She couldn’t run out through the curtain, or the villagers would all see. They would laugh at her again. Her only option was to keep circling the bed, staying an arm’s reach from the tall naked man intent on having her.

Elsinora feared she would never be able to pray long and hard and genuinely enough to save her soul from this lust that tormented her. The moment he touched her it would all be over. She didn’t want to go to hell, so she began to walk faster until it was almost a run.

* * * *

He picked up speed as she did, but realized he was just getting dizzy. The damn woman was leading him on a chase around the bed and he hadn’t caught more than a stray hair from her head. Finally giving up, a chuckle bubbling out of him, he fell on his back across the bed, fingers laced behind his head.

“I give up. You mean to wear me out, wench, before I can do what I must to consummate this marriage?”

She stopped running, apparently surprised he gave up. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair disheveled, some broken wilted flowers still caught in the golden flow of thick, wavy locks. With one hand she gripped the bedpost. “I’m afraid,” she admitted finally, guiltily, eyelashes limp and wet.

He watched her for a moment, his breath taken away, not by the chase, but by her luminescent beauty. His wife. His woman. His wager won.

It was true, as he’d told her, that when the men in his family took a wife it was forever. That was one reason why he’d always avoided the burden. One reason. Now, here he was, a married man. And his young wife resisted her duty in his bed. Well, they’d have to get around their problems somehow, because it was done now, the vows were said and he’d cut himself off from other wenches. He must have his sexual needs fulfilled, and he had to hope this woman would do it for the rest of their lives together. It was a slightly panic-inducing thought.

But although he chose her, she, of course, had not chosen him. Did she run away because of his ugliness, his vicious scar? Would she freeze with disgust at his touch? Before, in the yard, she had let him use his fingers. However, he remembered, she had also slapped his face and hurled dung at him not long after. The woman was a riddle and, as he’d told her, he was not good at riddles.

His new bride wasn’t the only one with anxiety this evening.

“I know,” he said gently, “that you are afraid. But you need not be. I will make certain you are well pleased. Now,” he moved one arm toward her, “come.” He thought she might not, that she would resist again. But she released the bed post and came closer, timid as a mouse. His anxiety softened. A jab of heated pleasure hit him solidly in the gut.

The wench’s haughty pride was not in evidence at this moment. He almost wished it was and then he wouldn’t feel so much warmth toward her. It would be better if she stuck her nose in the air and insulted him again.

But surely it was impossible to break a heart twice. He should be safe.

Slowly she pulled up her gown and raised it over her head. Aha! The laces were an excuse. She could get in and out of it without undoing them. Now she wore only her thin shift. The rain had dampened it, made it translucent in places. He could see her pale pink areolas through the cloth as it swayed over her breasts and when his gaze swept lower, he thought he could see a hint of pubic hair—golden like the hair on her head. His cock pulse quickened, but he resisted the urge to touch himself.

She glanced down at the organ twitching and stretching up from his lap. He let her look.

“It’s not going to fit,” she murmured, eyes widened, reflecting the flames of the candles in the iron stand beside the bed.

“We’ll see,” he replied, amused. “Let me look at you.”

Her saw her shoulders square as she took another, deeper breath, and then she lifted her shift over her head, dropping it to the floor.

Somehow he kept breathing. She was not so skinny as she appeared when clothed. In fact she was quite pleasingly rounded. Could still use a few heartier meals though. Her skin was not so pale as he’d imagined, but lightly tinted, like a peach not yet ripened. He held out his hand again. This time she finally accepted it and he pulled her closer until her knees touched the edge of the bed.

After a moment she did as he suggested, a knee on either side of his waist. Dominic felt his excitement mounting with every breath. She was exquisite, more finely made than any woman he’d ever seen naked. Her breasts were not large, but shapely, crested with delicate pink nipples that looked almost too fragile for his mouth and fingers. At the apex of her thighs, a nest of soft, downy hairs covered her mound.

“Closer,” he whispered, beckoning her further up the bed.

She shuffled forward on her knees, inch by inch, straddling his chest. He could see the sweetly blushing lips of her cunny and his seed responded to the sight until his balls grew uncomfortably heavy. He parted his legs, drawing his knees up. Again he beckoned her further.

“But then I will be…” She was flustered.

“Over my face,” he finished for her. “That’s where I want you.” His voice sounded strange in his own ears. There was a dangerous amount of need in him. He had not realized, until then, how much he was looking forward to his wedding night. He should tell her to close her eyes, he thought, so she did not look down at his scarred face. A shudder of anxiety rendered him powerless suddenly to move or speak again. No wonder she was so reticent now. The poor creature was curious about the act of coupling and clearly had needs of her own, but if she had a choice, she would have chosen any man but him—any man but the scarred, ugly monster in her bed.

Apparently she overcame her doubts enough to move again, resting her knees on the bolster, on either side of his head. Now he looked up at her and exhaled, trying to steady his pulse. He had to take his time or she might bolt.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured.

She frowned slightly. “No.”

Aha, defiant creature! Feigning bravery now after her initial display of timidity. She stared boldly down at his face, evidently determined not to flinch at his scar. So that was how she wanted it, he mused darkly. How far could he make her go before her squeamishness set in and she recoiled from his touch again?

“Reach down and open yourself so I can see if my cock will fit inside that lovely, tight, little cunt of yours.”

* * * *

It was too late now, she thought, to be prudish. The man was staring up at her quinny, nothing hidden from his view. He was deliberately crude with his words and yet, strangely, this excited her. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw his erect cock bent toward his navel, his thick fingers clasped around the root. She didn’t think her own fingers would reach around the width. And he was going to try putting that inside her?

“Elzinora,” he purred. “Open yourself.”

Daringly she got on with it, doing as he asked, holding her labia apart. It seemed as if he held his breath for several moments. His eyes became glassy. Aware of the bed moving under her, she knew he was rubbing his cock as he examined her intimately.

But suddenly his hands came up to hold her bottom and then he urged her down onto his mouth. To steady herself she reached out for the carved headboard, her knees spread wider until she was sitting on him, his tongue pushing up inside her, his lips firmly pressed to her flesh, trying to devour it. His hands squeezed her bottom, moving her back and forth over his mouth while he kissed, licked and sucked. Soon she was moving herself, her hips taking over the rhythm, and then she knew his hands returned to his rampant organ, working it slowly while he grunted into her pussy, his tongue flicking up into her. She felt the ridge of his scar against her inner thigh.