Warprize (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 5)(MFMMMMMM) (15 page)

Between the two strong men, she let
herself fall into the part of their pet.

"She feels like hot silk," Salvador
grunted as he fucked her slowly, and Alonso, already coming behind
her, agreed with a shout of pleasure.

Then came Nino, entering her bottom as
soon as his brother had left it empty. She stroked Salvador's
shoulders and he kissed her, his tongue slipping over hers. Nino
pulled her hips back as he mounted her with the impatience of
youth. She wondered idly at his age for she knew he was the
youngest and Salvador the eldest. There must be ten or fifteen
years between them.

Oh, their skin was hot, their scent so
masculine, filling her nostrils like fine, rich spice from the
orient. And it surrounded her.

She looked up and saw Dom watching as
he worked his massive cock with one hand, his eyes dark with lust.
But also with love. She licked her lips and smiled up at him as his
elder brother's cum spurted deep inside her and was joined
immediately by that of Nino's in her bottom. She clenched her
muscles hard, pulling them both in as they jerked and shuddered on
either side of her.

Ram and Raul, she knew, were already
kneeling in readiness on the fleece, awaiting their turn with her.
Raul wanted to spend in her mouth, but he lay over her to return
the favor at the same time, licking her creamy pussy with such a
long, expert tongue that she would have screamed the walls down, if
not for the hearty sucking she was giving his sturdy
shaft.

But always there was Dom, standing
over her, handling his balls and his cock, possessing her with his
eyes.

And he lay down with her last of all,
slipping his cock into her wet pussy again and riding her while his
brothers looked on, cheering and toasting to their new bride, the
latest for these seven handsome bastards.

She knew they were impressed, but they
had yet to see her real talents. That she would awe them with
later, on horseback, when she out-rode and out-shot them all in the
hunt. There would be no letting anyone win this time.

Except perhaps for Dominigo, she mused
happily. She would never mind giving up her victory to
him.

* * * *

It was said that Guillaume d'Anzeray
had a favorite among his son's brides. Not that he would ever admit
it. Nor could he ever admit there was anything to admire in a bold
woman who rode and fought and hunted like a man. One who, very
occasionally, when she felt the need to lay down a few commands of
her own, wore breeches.

The End

While you wait for Georgia’s
next Seven Brides for Seven Bastard’s title … check out the first
chapter of
The Studfinder
General
, the first book of her
For the Manor Bred
Victorian series.

Prologue

March 1888

She marveled at how each of the three
penises were different and how they matched their owners in
looks.

The first— she called him "Tom" for the sake
of discretion—was thick, heavily veined and with a broad, prominent
cap. Tom was a plodder, a steady, reliable worker with wonderful
attention to detail. The second, "Harry" was long and lean with a
curious left-leaning quirk. He was always in somewhat of a rush and
usually the first to finish a job, if a trifle sloppily. The
third—"Dick", naturally— was the prettiest. Like his owner, "Dick"
was a jolly fellow, blush pink, stout and eager with a sprouting
thatch of sandy curls at its root. Dick possessed a great deal of
energy, was adventurous and slightly mischievous.

These cocks belonged to her three studs, and
they had served her proudly so far. Today would be their third
mission, and they were primed in readiness.

Satisfied the room was ready, Rowena opened
the door and ushered in a short, nervously fidgeting creature who
immediately opened her mouth to speak. But Rowena pressed a finger
to her lips and glared. As usual black blindfolds were secured
around the eyes of the young men before their client came into the
room, for they were never to know the identity of the aristocratic
women they serviced. And voices could always give people away. It
was best for everyone concerned to keep the anonymity.

Rowena gestured to the bed.

Silenced, her eyes indignantly protesting
the fact, the other woman climbed onto the bed and lay on her back,
plump hands clasping at the pleats of the bed cover.

Outside the window a sparrow chirped
merrily, innocently, and turned a small, wondering eye to the scene
within.

Rowena quickly closed the lace curtains,
muting the daylight and shrouding the room in sensuous, gently
swaying shadow. Despite the cold—for there could be no fire lit in
the hob-grate, which would produce smoke from the chimney—a sultry,
expectant aura hung palpable in the small room. It would soon warm
up.

The three naked, blindfolded young men,
moved closer to the bed, feeling their way to the woman laid upon
it.

Chapter One

The week before

"I have been married seven years, Lady
Rowena, as you know. All is well but for one thing. The one thing
my husband has not been able to give me." The woman in the veil
spoke softly, her words halting and fearful, her gloved hands
clasped tightly around the jet-beaded reticule in her lap. "So I
come here in hope, risking all for this last chance. Can you help
us?"

The light in the parlor was dim, the drapes
half drawn. Dusk still fell early at that time of year, for spring
was slow in coming to the Yorkshire moors and what slight, listless
sun had visited that day was now a distant memory, leaving the sky
sour and bereft of cheer. Since the outside temperature failed to
garner any warmth worth speaking of, no windows had been opened for
weeks and the air in the parlor was stale, thick and unmoving.

A solitary oil lamp on the table between
them cast only a muted glow upon the two figures present, but since
this conversation must be conducted in absolute secrecy it seemed
fitting that no other light be cast upon them. In this still,
quiet, brooding air, in this place of only pensive light and
encroaching darkness, a bargain would be struck, a scheme set in
motion. One that held dangers for both women. The menacing shadows,
therefore, were appropriate.

But despite the gravity of the situation,
Lady Rowena Collingwood currently struggled with a burst of
laughter that churned unseen within. Sitting very straight in her
chair, her shoulders rigid under the dark plum silk of her gown,
she ruthlessly thwarted the urge to exhale that wayward chuckle. If
she let it out, the sinister mood would be ruined, and she was
rather enjoying the funeral-like solemnity.

And the cause of her amusement?

That ridiculously theatrical veil.

It wasn't as if she didn't know the identity
of the woman hiding behind it. Apparently Lady Wynton —the woman
who appealed to her for help—was carried away by the drama, or else
she wanted to believe the veil made her anonymous, despite the fact
that they'd known one another for more than a decade. Warts and
all. Today they met under formal circumstances, and what they
discussed was a matter of extreme delicacy. So delicate that Rowena
and the woman with whom she'd often hunted for tadpoles in her
father's lake, the woman she once pushed headfirst into a dung heap
for calling her "Freckles", pretended they barely knew one
another.

"I put myself in your hands, Lady Rowena,
and if you are able to help me you will have my undying gratitude."
Oh, how demure and polite Lady Maria Wynton - nee Maria "Porky"
Ashworth - was today, in her moment of desperation.

"You have consulted a physician, madam?"

Rowena heard her friend swallow. "I have,
but he tells me there is nothing to be done. Simply that we must
let nature takes its course. I fear, however, that the issue lies
with my husband's age and infirmity. In which case, time will work
against us and against nature."

"Indeed."

Nature, Rowena mused, was often a harsh
mistress and could alter a person's circumstances as easily as it
changed the weather on a capricious whim. Turning her head
slightly, she looked out on the bleak, wind-buffeted landscape of
the moor, parts of it still visible in the dying light through the
half drawn curtains. Here, she had lived for twenty-four years and
yet the ominous beauty of that stark view never became commonplace
and dull, never ceased to thrill her. Always there was something
new to find in the rugged, savage beauty.

"When you first suggested it to me," Maria
added, twisting her gloved hands in her lap, "I did not think I
could ever...I would never have imagined...I mean to say, the
sanctity of marriage, and all that. I thought, if we are meant to
have a child the good lord will provide."

"The
good lord
provides for no one, Lady
Wynton. We are responsible for making the most of our
opportunities. He doesn't harvest the fields for us, or drop
pennies from the sky, does he? Men—and especially women—must be
resourceful and help themselves. If we sat about doing nothing,
waiting for god to provide for us, we would simply keel over and
die."

She knew Maria would be squinting behind her
veil, gathering her courage to step outside the carefully trimmed
hedges that bordered her narrow path. There might be abundant wild
plants on the other side, lavish, exuberant, new colors with fat
rain drops gleaming and jostling like diamond chips scattered amid
the petals, but as much as Maria's eye was drawn to the lure of the
forbidden, she feared leaving the tidy, safe confines of what was
"proper".

Rowena could never understand why most
people wanted their gardens neatly cultivated and organized, kept
in order like their dreary lives. Birth, marriage, children, death.
That was a woman's lot in life and she was supposed to be grateful
for it, never to stray from that order. Unlike Rowena, her
childhood playmate Maria "Porky" Ashworth had gone happily along
with the conventional plot laid out for them as young women of the
aristocracy and had, before her twentieth birthday, become Lady
Wynton. She had devoted her life to duty, to the upkeep of her
appearance and an ever-tightening corset, foregoing genuine
pleasures and any chance of expressing her own opinion. Yet she
looked down on Rowena, her former childhood friend, condescending
to visit when she had time and never staying more than the
requisite half hour, her manner smug as only one saved from the
ignominy of spinsterhood could be.

Now, ironically, the good sheep came to the
independent— and by most estimations, eccentric —stray wolf for
assistance.

"Can you help me, Lady
Rowena?" she repeated. "Can you help
us
? I know with your father so ill
it may not be the best time. I had not realized until I arrived
here that he was so very sick. Your sister told me," she blew a
tremulous gust of air against her veil, "that the physician has not
given him long."

Rowena replied briskly, "Life must go on.
When one dies another must be born. It is the way the world remains
populated." There was no point getting emotional, she thought. That
was where other people too often made mistakes. Death happened
frequently and was an inevitable end for all. The only surprise
should come from still being alive. "Does your husband know you
came here to me?"

"Good gracious, no. It would break his heart
if he thought I was reduced to this."

Rowena knew, without seeing proof, that
"Porky" was blushing beneath her heavy veil. Maria was twenty–six,
and her husband was almost forty years her senior. His first wife
had died giving birth to a stillborn son; therefore, Maria was most
likely his last chance to beget a male heir for his estate. The
disparity in their ages was not, by any means, a rare situation in
that society. The only thing different on this occasion was that
Maria seemed genuinely to like her aged husband. She wanted a
child, not just to prove herself and complete her duty, but to
bring pleasure to a man who apparently cared for her tenderly.
Probably, Rowena mused grimly, as a grandfather would care for
her.

But whatever their relationship, that did
not interest her. "Did you bring the fee?"

"Oh...oh yes." Fumbling, Maria opened her
reticule and extracted a diamond necklace. "Will this be
enough?"

"For my arrangements, yes. If success is
achieved, there will be another fee, of course. A stud fee."

"Yes. Certainly." Maria hesitated, quick,
shallow breaths blowing the pleats of her veil in an agitated sway.
"Then it can be done?"

"I am merely the facilitator. I make no
guarantees, but you have a very good chance." Rowena stood,
signaling the end of their conversation. "If the physician has
found no problem on your side, you will soon have good news for
your husband. And he can remain blissfully ignorant of the methods
used to achieve it."

Maria adjusted her kidskin gloves. "Has
it...have you..." She rubbed her small, plump hands against her
knees. "I mean to say, has it been done many times before?"

"You are my third client, and yes, the
previous two were successful. I cannot, of course, divulge their
names."

"Oh, no, of course not." Maria then giggled
stupidly. "It's not the sort of job for which one can request
references." When Rowena did not crack a smile, she added in a more
pensive tone, "My pulse races quite fearfully at the prospect. I
have never...never been with any other man but my husband. What if
I don't know what to do?"