Warprize (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 5)(MFMMMMMM) (3 page)

"You are welcome here, sir," she said,
her gaze on his belt at first and then down to his boots, before
wandering up his great height, over those thick, muscular thighs
clad in muddy, weatherworn leather. And on the way up she sneakily
checked the very evident size of his bulge. Oh, if only she had one
of those. Even half that size and she might be content. "We've been
preparing... a large feast."

The man still seemed wary. "Have you
now?" he muttered gruffly.

She wondered whether he
was not accustomed to a welcome greeting, for his manner and
posture was that of a man who expected a fight wherever he went.
Slowly she raised her eyes to the brooch that fastened his cape and
then to his face. He was frowning hard as he studied her.
"You
are
Rufus
Barberousse?" she asked carefully, thinking perhaps she ought to
make certain. "You have brought my bride?"

"What?" He seemed
irritated about something. "
Your
bride?"

Of course, she had not even introduced
herself! Like a burbling fool she'd let herself be pushed out of
the cookhouse before she was even thinking sensibly. "I should have
said, sir. Forgive me." Wiping her hands on her woolen tunic, she
bowed smartly. "I am Cedney Bloodwynne."

* * * *

Dominigo couldn't believe his eyes.
This boy—this pretty-faced boy— was Cedney Bloodwynne, the Saxon
who had held onto his father's manor longer than many of his kin
had succeeded in keeping theirs? The tough-headed Saxon fighter who
was said to have impressed King William to such a degree that he
had railed at many of his own nobles for having less gumption, less
bravery?

Suddenly Dom's plans came to a halt
and almost unseated his posterior. Like a racing horse confronted
by a fence to tall for leaping.

The letter he'd found on his victim,
Rufus Redbeard, had revealed that the arrogant fool was on his way
to Bloodwynne's manor, under the king's orders, to deliver a bride
for the Saxon earl. Dominigo's idea had been to intercept
Redbeard's charge on her journey and then either steal her and her
fat dowry, or a ransom purse, for himself. But having met the girl
and suffered almost a full day in her company, he erased both
previous plans. She was not suitable wife material to take home for
the d'Anzeray harem. Rich or not, the wench would never fit in. And
keeping her in his custody until her family paid a ransom was not
an acceptable idea. He had no patience for whiners and she'd
already given him a headache.

He'd thought briefly of dumping the
moaning wench in a field and riding off, but however irritating she
was, Dom's conscience wouldn't allow him to leave her and the old
woman unprotected in the wild marshes. Finally, his third plan had
come into being. He'd decided to complete his assumed task and
deliver her to the man for whom she was intended. Let another poor
fellow deal with the ill-tempered girl from then on.

But now here before him stood Cedney
Bloodwynne.

And all plans were
forgotten.

The bloody knife had caused Dom a
moment of apprehension, as had the red speckles liberally coating
the front of the young man's garments, but that passed when his
gaze traveled upward to the face. Very delicate features for a man.
Warm blue eyes, smooth cheek, soft full lips. His shoulders were
not very broad. There was something...off.

Dom couldn't put his finger on it. He
stared. His tongue could not seem to produce any words, not even to
introduce Lady Rosamund. He'd almost forgotten anyone else was even
there.

Bloodwynne was no better. He too
seemed oblivious to the other guest and had not taken his wide eyes
off Dominigo's face ever since his shifty, wandering gaze finally
landed there.

"Thank you, sir, for delivering my
bride," the boy was saying, his voice slightly hoarse. "Now you
will join us for supper? And stay the night at least."

It hadn't been Dom's intention to do
so. He'd meant to depart with all haste before anyone realized he
wasn't Rufus Redbeard. At least he had a warm cloak and a new horse
out of the adventure, and he'd find a bride elsewhere. But suddenly
he couldn't see any sensible cause to make an exit until morning.
The weather was grim and it would soon be dark. It might even snow
tonight for there was a taste of it in the air. Why not fill his
belly with good food, spiced wine, and sleep somewhere warm for a
few hours?

Cedney Bloodwynne was looking up at
him with large, sensual, otherworldly, blue eyes and smiling, and
Dominigo d'Anzeray suffered an unexpected stirring in his
loins.

Christ Almighty, that was
one good-looking lad
.

Not a boy, he reminded himself, but a
young man of age to marry. And a young man who had protected his
manor with a skilled sword for the past few years, until he was
eventually forced to concede defeat and pledge fealty to King
William. Cedney Bloodwynne was a name held in high esteem, even by
the Normans. He was known to have led a devoted army of soldiers
and to fight fearlessly beside them.

With everything Dominigo had heard of
this young man, he'd expected something quite different.

Suddenly Lady Rosamund pushed herself
forward. "My Lord Bloodwynne. At last I am here after a journey of
terror. No thanks to those who were charged with my safety along
the way." She threw a sideways scowl at Dom. "My escorts have been
ungracious to say the least. I shall most certainly complain to the
king if you will not do so for me."

Bloodwynne appeared to understand some
French. At least he understood enough to know she was complaining.
"I am sorry to hear you had trouble," the boy replied in his own
tongue, finally looking at his bride-to-be.

"
Je ne parle pas votre langue de la
peasents
," she snapped, wrinkling her
nose. Naturally, she had made no attempt to learn how to speak to
her husband. Dom had known her only a short time and already saw
how she expected the world to serve her needs before anyone
else's.

"He said welcome to the manor," Dom
translated for her.

There was an awkward moment of silence
as they all looked at one another and at least one of them waited
for something polite from Lady Rosamund. When it didn't come, the
young Saxon earl added slowly and carefully, in stumbling French,
"I hope our hospitality here will make amends for your harsh
journey, Lady Rosamund."

Dom muttered under his breath in the
Saxon tongue, "I wouldn't make wager on it."

He knew Cedney had heard, for those
clear, summer-blue eyes slanted briefly, but Lady Rosamund did not
know what he'd said, of course. Bloodwynne's attempts to speak
French, however, must have improved her opinion of him for she was
now—hard as it was to believe—smiling, as she took the young lord's
arm and let him lead her into the great hall for supper.

Dom walked behind the couple. The
Saxon was tall, he noted, with much longer legs than
Rosamund—evident in those hide breeches the lad wore. Dom found
himself wishing that worsted tunic was shorter so he could get a
look at the lad's arse. He had a feeling it was firm and round and
sweet as a peach.

He halted, shook his head and then
walked onward, following the couple. What the devil was wrong with
him tonight? He'd given up a rich bride just because she had a
temper that didn't suit him and now he was eyeing up a young man's
figure. His damnable cock was semi-hard already, just from letting
himself imagine...

Oh, this would not do at all. He'd
have to get these thoughts out of his head. And quickly. Not that
he had anything against a man finding his pleasure wherever he may.
Dom believed strongly in all men being free to love, worship and
fight according to their own desires and beliefs—after all the
d'Anzeray lived with their own set of rules, which is why most folk
condemned their way of life—but he just happened to prefer pussy.
Always had and always would.

However, even he could appreciate a
good-looking man. He could also, so he now discovered, feel
attracted to one.

Chapter Three

Cedney feared he'd seen through her
disguise. When he looked at her there was nowhere to hide. His gaze
was intense, thorough, merciless.

It was overpowering even to be seated
near his great size, to feel his body heat. She feared the struggle
to remain calm and impervious to his masculine allure had revealed
itself upon her face. Surely he would know what she was. He must.
Her entire body was afire. She could barely breathe let alone
speak. From the frenzied excitement taking hold of her reluctant
female parts and seizing them in a fiery, throbbing grip, anyone
might think she'd never had a man about the place
before.

Certainly no man like this
one.

Torvig would be envious, she mused,
for he was accustomed to being the handsomest man about the place,
the charmer no female could resist. Or so he liked to
think.

The first rush of alarm
had now given way to a steady trickle of trepidation, waiting for
Rufus Barberousse to make an accusation. To stand up and say, "Why,
you're a woman! How could you think to fool
me?
"

But seated on her right he tucked into
the food with relish, laying quick waste to a leg of pheasant
before moving on to another and another, his fingers and lips
shining with grease. On Cedney's left, Lady Rosamund talked
continually, her voice a monotonous drone, spewing nonsense
complaints in her own tongue. At least it was noise to cover the
fact that Cedney had fallen shy, so she nodded and smiled
periodically to encourage the woman in her endless list of
grievances.

Meanwhile every one of her senses was
preoccupied with the uncle of her bride-to-be. There was a lusty
energy in everything he did, as if there was too much to be
contained, even within his massive frame. He ate and drank as if he
had a never-ending belly to fill and yet his stomach was not fat.
His dark hair shone like coal in the light of the fire and the
torches around the room.

Odd that, she realized
suddenly. Now that she was thinking with greater clarity, it
occurred to her that he was entirely the wrong color. She looked at
him with narrowed eyes. "Tell me, sir, why do they call you Rufus
Barberousse? Does that not mean
Redbeard
?"

He rubbed his unshaven chin where dark
hairs, as black as those on his head, were in plain sight.
"Ah...because I am so dark." He laughed sheepishly and shrugged.
"'Tis a joke. Of sorts."

Not a very amusing one, she
thought.

"We have an odd sense of humor where I
come from, my lord," he muttered, apparently noting her doubtful
expression.

"So it would seem." She watched him
cleaning up another plate of food and looked at the ring on his
finger. "You have the seal, I see. And the king's
letter?"

He wiped his fingers down his tunic,
reached into the purse at his belt and handed her the document that
had secured his safe passage across the country and proved his
identity. Yes, according to these things he was indeed the bride's
uncle, Rufus Barberousse. Lady Rosamund had not said anything to
suggest he was an imposter either. But still something was amiss.
Perhaps she should not dig too hard, Cedney mused dourly. Her own
situation was not one that would withstand too much
scrutiny.

As she watched Rufus drain his cup,
she wondered suddenly what he would do if he knew the truth of her
sex. Would he arrest her and take her to the king? Would he rape
and slaughter her on the spot?

Earlier, when Lady Rosamund's old
nurse had stumbled on the slick cobbles of the yard, Cedney
witnessed Rufus offer a helping hand to keep the poor, haggard lady
upright. This act suggested he had kindness in his soul, as well as
respect for the aged. Although only a small gesture, Cedney took
note of it, for in this time of war and cruelty a man who showed
patience and tolerance toward an elderly woman— one beyond the age
of any sexual interest to him— was a very rare thing.

But would he take the same pity on a
woman who masqueraded as a man? Surely he would not want his niece
wed to someone incapable of sowing seed. Lady Rosamund must have
other prospects for a husband and it was every man and woman's holy
duty to produce offspring.

"I understand you are a deeply
religious man," she said to Rufus finally.

His brows wriggled. "I am? Who told
you that?"

Cedney was quite sure someone had, but
she couldn't recall who. "Perhaps I confuse you with your
brother."

He snorted with amusement. "I doubt
it," he muttered through a mouth crammed full of juicy
meat.

"Do you not have a brother who is a
monk and respected chronicler?"

"Last time I checked none of them had
been thus afflicted with Holy orders."

She frowned. "None of
them? You have
more
brothers?"

The man stopped then, wiped his lips
on his sleeve and gulped down a full goblet of ale. His gaze darted
from side to side. "I use the term 'brother' for all the men I have
fought alongside, of course."