Warprize (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 5)(MFMMMMMM) (4 page)

"Well, I was speaking of your blood
brother, Herallt, sir," she said carefully. "He is a pious monk and
chronicler for the King, is he not?"

Cedney waited, watching his expression
change. An uneasy frown creased his brow.

"Herallt?" he muttered. "Yes. My
brother, Herallt."

Then he stuffed more food into his
mouth and chewed violently. Apparently there was nothing more to be
said on the subject of his brother.

She struggled for more conversation.
It wasn't that she couldn't think of any, but more a case of having
too many to ask and all at the same time. Trouble was, she had
little experience with polite conversation. Cedney had never hosted
an important guest at the manor and her skills were all on
horseback, with a sword or bow in her hand. In truth, there were
few folk with whom she could talk comfortably. Ordwyn was likely to
fall asleep at the table — in part due to his advanced age, but
also because of his fondness for wine— and most other men she knew,
like Torvig, preferred to speak only of themselves. This made any
conversation one-sided, requiring nothing from her to keep it
rolling along.

Tonight however, she must make an
effort.

"How...how tall are you?" She bit her
tongue and her eyes watered. Now why the devil would she ask him
that? He would think her addled.

Rufus looked askance, pausing his
rapid chewing. "I know not. As tall as I need be, with perhaps some
extra."

Despite the need to remain solemn,
Cedney found herself charmed by this answer and she very nearly
smiled. "Have you been here long in England?"

"Long enough."

"Do you have children?"

"Not yet."

"A wife?"

He turned his head to study her again,
his eyes darkened from silver to iron grey. "Why do you ask me all
this? If you know about my brother the monk, don't you know the
rest too?" His tone was defensive, wary. "Perhaps you test me, eh,
Bloodwynne?"

Rufus had just touched her hip with
his strong thigh and his arm was mere inches from hers. She could
smell the heat of his skin and the perspiration trapped in the dark
curls of his head, released each time he moved. It was a good,
manly scent. Sometimes when she passed a soldier she would catch a
breath of a similar smell, but it was fleeting and she always
closed her thoughts to the ideas that followed.

Not tonight however. Her thoughts
remained open, raw and exposed, surely making her cheeks flame. She
licked her lips. "I know very little about you, sir. I was curious
to know more. I confess, I did not know where to start with my
questions."

"Curious about me?" He
stared at her, unblinking. Now his gaze went to her mouth. He
reached one hand to his lap and adjusted himself through his
leather chausses. "Shouldn't you be curious about Lady Rosamund?" A
half grin lifted one side of his lips. Almost, Cedney thought,
a
guilty
grin.

"I have heard all about Lady Rosamund
already," she replied drily. "From her own angry lips."

His smile gained confidence and
developed into a dour chuckle. "Can you understand the
language?"

"More than I wish to," she admitted
with a sigh. "I think it would be a very good thing for a marriage
if neither man nor woman speaks the other's tongue. Much less
chance of a disagreement."

Rufus laughed loudly, leaning back in
his chair to look at her.

Suddenly, without thinking, Cedney
reached for the ale jug and poured for him. He paused again, in the
process of licking his fingers. Rufus stared at his cup and then at
her hands around the jug.

Cedney realized what she'd done— taken
a woman's role as if it was natural. She hastily sought to cover
her mistake. Looking around, she summoned one of the serving girls
and angrily chided her for not keeping their guest's cup filled.
The girl looked surprised to be shouted at, but Cedney quickly
grabbed a leg of pheasant for herself and bit into it, resting her
elbows on the table. After a few moments she managed a burp
too.

Something warned her it wasn't
enough.

The man at her side was too quiet.
Thinking. That was never a good thing in a man.

Further, he was a stranger, an
outsider. He might look at her differently and see through her
disguise.

But as Cedney chewed her meat and saw
him fidgeting and restless in her side vision, she realized that
she had cause to be just as doubtful about him, since he was not at
all as he'd been described to her. And he didn't seem to know how
many brothers he had, what they did or who they
worshipped.

Chapter Four

"So now it is my turn to ask
questions," he said suddenly.

"If you wish." The young man kept his
gaze focused across the hall. "I'm sure you have much to ask, on
your niece's behalf."

"How long have you led these
men?"

"Since my father died, seven winters
gone."

"You must have been no more than a
child then."

A shrug lifted the lad's nearest
shoulder. "Some might think so. I must say I never felt much like a
child. As my father's only heir I knew I had large boots to fill
one day. I was prepared."

Dom stared hard at Cedney Bloodwynne's
profile and then looked again at those hands, which had moved to
pour his ale before they stopped abruptly and summoned a servant
instead. They were long, narrow hands, not soft or lazy. There was
a slight upward tilt to his nose and the eyelashes were of
considerable length. The hair was crudely chopped, kissed by the
sun. Not much attempt had been made to tidy it before he greeted
his bride. In fact, the unkempt appearance might almost
be...deliberate.

"Do you look forward to marriage,
Bloodwynne?"

"Of course. It is a duty I must
undertake." But this was said wearily, eyelids lowered, chin
down.

"You will treat Lady Rosamund well? As
her uncle, I must ask these things, you understand."

"Yes." Cedney hesitated, blinked and
then, apparently, thought better of saying anything
more.

"Perhaps I will stay a day or two, to
be sure she settles in."

The young man turned to look at him.
"As you wish."

"You might welcome the advice I can
give." He paused, looked at Cedney's hands again and added, "Since
you have no male relative here to help you."

"I have counselors."

"I meant, to help you...with a bride.
To school you in what needs to be done."

A very slight blush colored the young
lord's cheeks and Dom felt his cock stir again. Anyone might think
it had been too long without action from the way that eager organ
behaved tonight.

Cedney lowered his innocent blue gaze
once more and Dom watched white teeth clamp down on the full lower
lip. His heartbeat changed from a steady canter to a reckless
gallop. What the hell was happening to him?

"I think I know what must be done with
a bride," the young man muttered, his tone sullen.

"I did not mean to insult you,
Bloodwynne. I merely thought—"

"I am quite capable of managing a
bride. But thank you. Your concern for your niece is
admirable."

Suddenly the musicians began to play
and Dom tore his gaze away from the person at his side, pretending
to pay heed to the entertainment. A lot of trouble had been taken
to prepare a good welcome for Lady Rosamund and her escort, it
seemed. Perhaps they were hoping all the noise, food, ale and
excitement would keep "Rufus Redbeard" from noticing the obvious—
that Cedney Bloodwynne was a very feminine young man and quite
possibly, from the way he looked at Dom, had a preference for male
company in his bed.

He wouldn't be the first such man to
take a wife for the sake of appearances and to beget offspring. For
someone in his position, as Bloodwynne himself had said, it was a
duty to marry. No doubt he planned to go through with it because
this was expected of him, despite where his true desires
lay.

Dom felt sorry for the lad. It could
not be very enjoyable to fuck as a duty. But he could still take
male lovers on the side, of course, as the need arose.

Speaking of needs
arising...

He reached down to adjust himself
again and let his eyes casually sweep over the crowded tables.
There had to be a woman here tonight with whom he could slake this
raw lust. The girl who had been summoned to fill his goblet was
plump, cheerful, bosomy. A likely candidate for a quick, hard,
satisfying fuck. Yes, he could enjoy a good rutting with her. She'd
just flashed her brown eyes toward him and smiled. He could see her
large nipples pressing against the front of her wool gown and her
rounded hips undulated as she stood with her back to the wall. Very
nice. He could be buried up to his balls in wet pussy in a very few
minutes.

* * * *

Cedney saw him slip away from the
festivities. She'd also seen the playful widow, Alaya, disappear
through the same door a few moments before.

The musicians were still playing, she
thought angrily, couldn't he even wait until the performance was
over? Apparently not.

Biting savagely into her honey cake,
she tried to ignore the hot, writhing beast newly awoken in her
belly. What was wrong with her that she should become so
distracted? Her father would be furious that she let these
forbidden womanly feelings creep in. Yes, Cedney knew what they
were. She was not ignorant of her own desires, despite every effort
to bury them. She had a terrible need to be touched, the way a
woman should be touched. It had first come upon her when she was
fifteen, watching soldiers bathe nude in the stream that ran
through her property. Tonight it was a sensation stronger than
ever— entirely the fault of Rufus Redbeard and his
proximity.

She wished he hadn't announced an
intention to stay longer. But on the other hand her heart had
soared when he suggested it. Her palms were moist with sweat, her
head spinning with confusion. Duty battled with desire. Oh, the
scent of him had almost undone her. Even now he was gone from her
side— supposedly to relieve himself in the yard— her pulse danced
like wind chimes left to rattle after a passing breeze.

Lady Rosamund yawned suddenly and that
was excuse enough for Cedney to send her bride off to
bed.

"I will see you before the day's hunt
tomorrow, my lady," she said, kissing Rosamund's hand and bowing.
"It is tradition here for the bride to wave her groom off and bless
the hunt on the day before their wedding. We will bring home the
meat for the celebration feast."

The Norman lady looked at her blankly,
so she gestured as if riding a horse and then firing an arrow,
followed by an eating motion.

Whether this was understood she had no
idea. Cedney could probably have hammered together a few awkward
words in French to get her point across, but she was in too much
hurry at that moment to try. As soon as Rosamund and her elderly
nurse had left the hall, Cedney backed away from the crowd, quietly
and discretely, until she could slide out through the door and into
the cool night air without being noticed.

She told herself that she was not
following Rufus Barberousse. No, indeed. She was simply desirous of
fresh, cooling air after the smoke, heat and noise of the
hall.

Her feet, however, carried her around
the yard and the animal pens in a stroll that was anything but
casual. Her eyes and ears were on high alert and it was not long
before she heard the grunting, groaning sounds for which she
sought.

Cedney dived behind a large water
barrel, resting her shoulder against the side of the storage shed.
Peering through the gap, she could just make out the moonlit
figures of Alaya and Rufus copulating like beasts in the dirt. She
held her breath and it burned in her throat, cruel and
savage.

His cock was no less than she'd
expected from the size of the man. It plowed deeply from behind
into the writhing, gasping woman bent over on her hands and knees.
Alaya's gown was tossed up over her back, her large, dimpled
buttocks kissed by the silver moonlight. Her knees must be scraping
on the ground, but she did not seem to mind it. Each time Rufus
impaled her again on his sword, she gasped out in excitement and
her entire body shook, heavy breasts bouncing and jiggling as they
hung beneath, nipples almost in the dirt.

Watching from her hiding place, Cedney
finally closed her mouth, desperately fighting back her own breathy
moans.

She watched how the man's large hands
grabbed at Alaya's swaying breasts. He had torn the front of her
gown, not waiting to slip it down off the woman's shoulders. Cedney
stared as his rough fingers pulled and tweaked at those big brown
nipples, and his palms slapped at the swelling flesh. She saw how
his buttocks flexed, his strong thighs moving back and forth,
tireless, forceful, thrusting. His balls were like ripe fruit,
visible between forward parries as he bent over his partner and
fucked her hard. It was almost as if he was angry about something,
thought Cedney. His head was back, his eyes fixed on the stars and
moon above, his lips tight and turned down at the corners. His
profile was strong, rough-hewn but handsome. It was a
heart-wrenching sight for a woman—particularly one not entitled to
think of herself as female. A woman never to know the thrill of
that particular sensation, never to be filled by cock, ravaged
heartily and serviced by ball sacks as mighty as those of a prize
bull, overflowing with seed.