Virginblood (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 4) (2 page)

* * * *

Ramon d'Anzeray was amused. So this
was what the pious little maid did when she dashed off to the
threshing barn. He hunkered down in the straw behind her and
watched, enjoying a full view of her round, pink bottom and the
pretty, ripe fruit of her sex as her small fingers worked away at
the rosy, glistening wet nether mouth. She almost sank onto her
belly as her knees spread wider, and her peach was so slick that
her fingers slipped inside now, between the folds.

Although he'd spent his load only
recently, his prick was already hard again as he watched this
unwitting performance. Innocent, prim Jeanne—she who blushed at the
tamest of saucy jokes, lectured other folk on their moral lapses,
and never looked at Ramon and his brothers with anything but
disdain—apparently enjoyed riding bareback on the one-hand
pony.

He thrust his own hand inside his
chausses and hastily straightened out his swelling cock. From where
he watched he could hear the soft, wet sound of her fingers moving
in and out, up and down. If he crept closer he would smell her
musk. But then she might become aware of his presence. Might hear
his harsh breath.

What did that matter? He shook his
head, grinning. He'd take her from behind before she could even cry
out in surprise. The wench was more than ready.

She would protest, of course, scream
curses at him. Apparently she thought herself too fine for this
place and the people in it. How many times had he caught her
scowling at him, her lips pursed—no, her entire face pursed!
Although she was only Lady Isobel's maid, she had a curious sense
of superiority, a very high opinion of herself. No one could fault
her work for she was meticulous, diligent and kept herself busy,
but she also made no friends and created a distance between herself
and the other servants.

The little maid was something of a
puzzle to Ramon, who had never met a woman so determined to avoid
him. A woman who would sooner pray than fuck.

But suddenly here she was, on all
fours in the straw, slapping her pussy with quick, light pats that
made it grow even pinker. Her bottom quivered and her breath hissed
like raindrops falling on hot stone.

Ramon curled his long fingers around
the root of his cock, feeling the hard pulse of his desire. He
stared at that juicy, ripe fruit as it blossomed under her slapping
fingers, the small, delicate pink flesh luring him in.

He couldn't wait another minute.
Launching forward with the full force of his muscular legs, he
grabbed her by the back of her trembling thighs and as she shrieked
in alarm, he opened his mouth on her hot, wet cunt, pushing his
face into her so that she lost her balance and almost rolled head
over heels.

* * * *

Jeanne screamed as he came at her like
a bull from behind. She didn't know which of them it was, but
undoubtedly it was one of those fiends her mistress had wed. Who
else would assault a young maiden this way? They had no conscience,
no scruples, no sense of morality.

The unseen mouth closed over her pussy
and forced a tongue into her, even as she scrambled to get away,
straw sliding under her, knees bruised on the hard earthen floor of
the barn. His fingers dug into her thighs, trying to drag her back
and hold her down. It seemed as if the more she struggled and
writhed, the more greedily he sucked and licked at her. The tip of
his serpent-like tongue flicked inside her pussy, prying open her
tight cleft and pushing her over the edge of her peak. To her
intense shame she could not stop it from happening, could not
prevent her body from reacting like a wanton. He finished with his
tongue what she had started with her fingers. And it was a climax
so hard and wet that she could not breathe. Her belly tightened,
her breasts ached and her hips jerked wildly as the sensations took
possession of her body.

God help her, but she didn't want it
to stop and yet she didn't even know who it was behind her. With
horror she realized it might not be one of the d'Anzeray. What if
it was that old man from the forge, or that disgusting, pimply boy
who turned the spit in the cookhouse? They both looked at her with
lust whenever she passed, and the boy liked to make crude gestures
with his tongue as if he'd just learned how to use it.

But the mouth sucking up her come as
it flooded out of her was experienced, clever. It knew exactly how
to drive her forward again into another peak even before she was
fully down from the first.

Her limbs felt weak. She could not
fight him off. "Please don't rape me," she gasped out, still
shuddering from the last climax. "I'm a...a virgin.
Please."

The mouth lifted off her,
his fingers loosened from around her thighs and he laughed.
"
Rape
you? I've
never raped in my life."

Jeanne wriggled over, taking advantage
of the moment.

It was the one they called Ram—one of
the youngest brothers. She was relieved that it was not the spit
boy or the old blacksmith. Then, having thought that, she laughed
scornfully at her sad situation. How dreadful, that she should find
a d'Anzeray enjoying the taste of her pussy and feel relief that it
was no worse?

Shoving him off her, she pulled her
gown back into place and sat up. Somehow she gathered enough
outrage to shout, "I was praying, you foul letch. Can a woman have
no privacy here?"

He laughed huskily. "Praying to your
imaginary deity again, eh? It didn't look like any prayers I've
ever seen or heard. Mayhap I was too hasty in my opinion of your
religion." He was still lacing his leather chausses and had not
even replaced his tunic after copulating with her mistress earlier.
The broad, lean planes of his tanned chest loomed over her, and she
could not help but admire his physique, although it was
sinful.

"Go away," she snapped. "Is there
nowhere I can go to be alone in this wretched place?"

"If you're such a good girl your god
will hear you whether I'm here or not." His hand stretched over the
sizeable lump in his breeches as he adjusted himself. "Don't let me
stop you, little one."

He always called her that. She found
it annoying—not the words themselves but the arrogant tone he used.
"Oh, you could not stop me praying, even if you tried," she
replied, pert, lifting her hands again, palms pressed together.
"But while I commune with the lord, I would prefer not to hear you
or see you. Or smell you."

"Why not? If I am to
believe you, your
lord
made me too, did he not? Uncouth and wicked as I
am."

"No. The devil made you. And your
brothers. Everyone knows the d'Anzeray are descended from Satan's
daughter."

He laughed, his strong white teeth
gleaming through the shifting layers of light and shadow. With
leisurely fingers he scratched his bare chest. "Well, I suppose if
there was no bad there would be no good. Without me, you would have
nothing to compare yourself to. Nothing to make you feel superior,
eh?"

People there were always accusing her
of acting haughty, just because she did not laugh at their dirty
jests, or copulate all over the place like a bitch in
heat.

Jeanne closed her eyes, deciding to
ignore him, but she heard the rustle and crackle of straw as he
stood and then his big feet moved around, circling her.

"So what does your god do for you?
Does he answer your prayers?"

She did not reply, but tried to resume
the prayer in her mind. Unfortunately the image of her mistress,
lying naked under those brothers, would not leave her head free for
holy thoughts. She saw again their full erections, plowing in and
out, the Lady Isobel moaning with pleasure, her elegant hand pale
as snow against their hard, darker bodies. And she saw this one
—Ram—sliding his hand up and down that thick length of cock jutting
from his groin.

Now she knew why they
called him
Ram
.

Mortified by the sudden urge to
giggle, Jeanne had immediately chastised herself for this wicked
thought.

Oh, but he had put his lips between
Lady Isobel's thighs, just as he had done to her moments ago, and
now she knew why her mistress had purred like a wild cat while Ram
d'Anzeray's head was betwixt her legs. No wonder her mistress never
needed Jeanne's tongue anymore to soothe her aches and help her
sleep.

Pulse racing, she felt sobs of
frustration and confusion welling up inside her. Oh, why did he not
leave her alone?

"I could answer your prayers," he
said, laughing down at her.

Suddenly another voice interrupted.
"Leave the girl be, Ram. She's entitled to pray."

Jeanne opened her eyes and saw
Dominigo, one of his elder brothers, standing in the open doorway
of the barn. He strode toward them. "A man who does not like to be
told his own business, should never think to tell another theirs.
We do not pray because it is our choice. The maid prays because it
is hers. If you don't want your choices taken away then you have no
right to take choices from another."

She was surprised to be defended by
anyone in this place, but that Dominigo—so large and fearsome in
his appearance—should come gallantly to the aid of her prayers and
her religion was even more shocking.

Ram folded his arms and protested that
he was not doing anything to her. "I was curious, that's
all."

"Of course you were." Dominigo
snorted. "You're always curious when there's a woman you haven't
had yet."

"I'm not the only one. She's curious
too. I know she watched us in the hall today."

Jeanne felt her face grow hot, and she
stared at the straw, not daring to look up at either man. Her heart
thumped hard in her bosom.

Dominigo chuckled. "Did she, indeed?"
His huge hand swooped down before her and lifted her chin, forcing
her gaze up to meet his startling, silver-grey eyes. "The little
kitten knows curiosity? I thought her religion had all the answers.
I thought it was created in the first place to end curiosity, to
keep humble folk fearful and in their place, to make sure they
obeyed their 'betters' without question."

She held her lips together, but they
trembled. He stroked the pad of his thumb across her mouth, and she
tasted a hint of rust as well as warm leather. Although his skin
was work-roughened and tough, his touch was shockingly
tender.

"So sweet. So pretty. So pure. Little
kitten." Then he straightened up quickly. "Come, Ram, leave her to
her wrathful, vengeful god and we will go celebrate Mother Nature
with the crushed fruit of her vine."

Jeanne watched them leave the barn and
then, finally, she allowed a breath of relief to escape her lips.
Slowly her shoulders relaxed.

Dominigo thought her pure because she
was so dedicated to her prayers. But she was not pure at all. No.
Perhaps that was why she felt the need to prostrate herself to the
lord so often.

It was possible to be a
virgin
and
a
murderess. These men did not know that, it seemed.

Chapter Two

Ramon was restless. He took his horse
out for a ride despite the rain that fell that day. Although most
of his brothers found this grim weather hard on their spirits, he'd
grown to appreciate it. Especially the refreshing showers that came
suddenly out of an otherwise still, dispassionate sky. He liked to
feel the warm drops roll down his hair, down his neck and under his
tunic and chainmail. He smiled at the peppering of rain on his
face, wetting his lips and his eyelashes.

More cleansing than a bath, he always
thought.

Turning his face up to feel the direct
hit of pinpricks, he opened his mouth and rolled out his tongue to
capture a sweet drop. It slipped over the curve of his hot tongue
and down his throat, soothing, gentle, no more than a whisper. Just
like the essence of Jeanne.

He sat bolt upright on his horse,
mouth closed. Into the distance he squinted hard, as if something
there would give him a clue to the cause of his fascination for
that pious wench.

That afternoon, as he and his brothers
mated with Isobel, their newest wife, he'd felt Jeanne's solemn
gaze across his shoulders like a cool breeze. He knew what and who
it was because he'd felt it before, disapproving and prim. And when
he turned his head, there —sure enough—was her small face, staring
through a gap where the door was left ajar. Her pale blue eyes,
innocent and wide, were unblinking. She'd blushed scarlet, but
licked her lips and when she caught his eye, she did not
immediately close the door.

So he'd shown off for her, rubbing his
cock, letting her see the full length before it entered her
mistress.

Now she claimed to be a virgin.
Shocking. He'd suspected it before, because of her squeamish
manners, but never really imagined it could be true. Not at her age
and with a shape made for sin.

He wondered how old she was. Eighteen
or nineteen, perhaps—not that it mattered. She was ripe for
plucking, full-breasted and well curved at the hips. Apparently she
was an orphan and had led a sheltered life as Lady Isobel's maid
for most of her years. The two women were close, mutually
respectful of each other in a way one seldom witnessed between maid
and mistress. Ram suspected they had their secrets. Women usually
did, so their father said.