Whorespawn (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards #2 )

The seven bastard sons of Guillaume d'Anzeray are on a mission to find wives -- women to breed the next generation of a dark dynasty that many wish to see extinct.

It won't be easy to find brides from among the Norman nobility, for the d'Anzeray are upstarts, their family's fortunes raised through bloodshed and violence. As one holy man and chronicler of their times has written,
"From the devil they came and to the devil they will return".
But these brothers
don't care much for holy men or for what is written about them. Now, with the future of their bloodline at stake these mercenary warriors need wives and they have no scruples when it comes to claiming the women they desire.

Sebastien d'Anzeray has found a wife, and so what if she happens to be someone else's? He'll have the wench bound in ropes and brought to him. He and his six brothers will soon have her tamed and ready to breed. But he's reckoned without this red-head's fiery temper. He might just be the one who finds himself all trussed up, and
her
prisoner.

Whorespawn

Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 2

by

Georgia Fox

M/F/M/M/M/M/M/M, GANGBANG, ANAL, SPANKING, SHAVING, CUCKHOLDING, DOUBLE PENETRATION, PUBLIC EXHIBITION, BRANDING, DUBIOUS CONSENT,

AND
FORCED SEDUCTION

Twisted Erotica Publishing, Inc.

A
TWISTED EROTICA PUBLISHING BOOK

Whorespawn

Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 2

Copyright © 201
3 by Georgia Fox

Edited by Marie Medina

First E-book Publication: August 2013

Cover design by K Designs

All cover art and logo copyright © 201
3, Twisted Erotica Publishing.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

DEDICATION

To: Ginger

"
They were ruffians, murderers and wife-stealers. They took as they desired without bowing to law or God, or conscience."

Herallt, medieval chronicler, on the deeds of the d'Anzeray family

Chapter One

England 1072

She ran between the trees at reckless speed, barely stifling the cries of excitement that bumped in her belly with every thud of her steps across the mossy earth. This was her stolen moment, her secret pleasure and like any joy in this world it was slight and hard won, but all the more precious because of it.

The late summer daylight was only just beginning to fade, and there was still time to make it to the lake and back before supper. If she was very quick no one would ever know she'd been outside the walls again. Forbidden from bathing in the forest lake, it hadn't stopped her yet. She was hardened to punishments after five years of captivity and treated this command with the same disdain as all other rules imposed upon her by her husband.

Even if she was caught and whipped later, as long as she got to enjoy the cool water first that would be enough to see her through the pain.

The hill steepened and her pace increased until she was almost flying through the trees, very nearly out of control. Flushed and breathless she ran on, arms flapping and loose hair streaking behind. The image of diving into that cool, tranquil water after a long, dusty day, almost made her close her eyes. Perhaps she did, for a split second; that was all it took for one foot to catch on a tree root and send her, head over heels, into the bracken.

She rolled a short way before coming to an abrupt halt against another tree, and there she lay a while, winded, hot and irritated. Finally she scrambled to her feet again and descended the rest of the slope with greater caution until she was in sight of the lake.

Alas, when she reached her destination, Aelfa discovered that she was not the only sticky and tired soul betaken with the desire to bathe that afternoon. As soon as she heard the splashing, she stopped and glared through the branches, not liking her plans spoiled any more than she liked her wings clipped.

Someone swam in
her
lake.

But her anger dissipated in the next instant, to be replaced with another emotion for which she had no name. Aelfa swallowed a small cry and whirled around, almost falling over her feet for the second time. One foot anxious to leave, the other keen to stay, she turned back and forth a few times, until she stopped, assuring herself she had a right to look.

It was her lake. The stranger should be the one to leave—if anyone should.

Aelfa took a deep breath and chanced another look through the trees.

The man was naked. His back was sculpted in ripples of sunlight and shadow, his wide shoulders bulky with muscle as he lifted his arms and smoothed two massive hands over a head of shoulder-length, dark, wet hair. Every solid slab moved in perfect coordination. The water came half way over his round buttocks, little waves slapping gently against his flesh.

As she watched, fascinated, she heard him exhale a low groan of contentment and she knew exactly what he felt. The cool oasis, where dappled light fell through the bower of trees to dance upon the surface, was a magical spot, a dreamy paradise.

Pity he had to come and ruin it, she thought with a frown.

Again the stranger dipped his palms in the water and lifted them over his head, washing his face, hair and neck. Slender rivulets ran down his shoulders and dripped from the damp curls of black hair that lay flat against the side of his broad neck.

The last rays of sun trickled down through the leafy canopy, painting the lake with gold and daubing him with the same brush. For a moment he was still as a statue and beautiful as a god in all his naked, unabashed glory. There was something pleasing about a man when he didn't know he was watched, she mused; when he was not full of his own importance. Well, there was something pleasing about this one. And it was only about to get better.

He turned slowly in the water and lifted himself easily onto the bank of the lake, where a large chestnut horse stood patiently waiting, cropping at the leaves and shaking its mane.

Now every inch of the man was displayed for her admiration. Although she was alone and hidden, Aelfa felt the blood heating her face, but she could not tear her eyes away. As he stretched, his stomach muscles lengthened, pulsed and then tightened, coming to rest again in a shape that might have been chiseled in stone by a master artisan. Lower her gaze traveled its naughty path to a cock that was sizeable, even in repose. Longer and thicker than her husband's. Magnificent. Terrifying.

She crossed herself as she'd seen people do when they came on pilgrimage to visit the holy relics in the chapel of St. Benedict.

It seemed like the right thing to—

Oh, he'd just run his hand from the root of his cock to the head and now it stood firmer, almost fully erect, arching slowly toward his navel.

A little knot of tension in her belly began to melt and the bones in her legs softened, becoming as useless as snapped twigs. She sank to the bracken, her eyes never leaving the man.

Like his body, his facial features were cut with hard edges, the eyes a flash of fierce darkness, stunning and terrifying even from a distance. His lips were sealed tight, head tipped back as if in deep thought, and then he scratched his chest, long, lean fingers itching at a thin lacing of healed scars. Finally he stooped, reaching for his breeches and as she saw his heavy balls sway between his legs, Aelfa exhaled a sigh, wanton, wicked and wistful.

Perhaps it was that tiny noise that alerted the man to her presence.

He swung around and stared directly up at the trees behind which she hid.

His eyes narrowed and then he sprang, still naked, into the saddle of his great, snorting warhorse.

* * * *

At first he thought the forest was on fire.

He squinted, concentrating on that small, wayward flare, a spark of red that glowed bright through the trees. He could almost smell the brittle sparking of dry sticks and bracken, but when Sebastien d'Anzeray turned his horse in the direction of that flame, he watched it dodge about in a manner most unusual for fire. In his experience a flame traveled upward or sideways, never did it dance back and forth. He decided to investigate.

Blinking as water dripped from his hair and ran down his brow, he ducked his head beneath the low branches and urged his horse forward. The flame stumbled and fluttered, but it was not long before he realized it was attached to a shapely young woman. Instantly his day improved for a little diversion was always welcome. Blood heat stirred, he quickened his pace. So did she.

Clearly, from the speed with which she tried to get away, the woman was guilty of something. She'd been spying on him, it seemed.

Sebastien spurred his horse forward and once they were out of the trees their speed increased again, the beast stretching its legs with powerful ease as they thundered across the deep grass of a meadow.

There she was, no longer sheltered by trees. A redhead with the arrogance to think she might outrun a d'Anzeray.

The anticipation of victory brought a lazy smile to his lips. He could already feel her soft body under his, all warm curves and gasps of indignation that would then turn to excitement.

But his celebration was short-lived when suddenly, much to his annoyance, the little fox vanished.

It was impossible.

One moment she was there and then she was gone.

His horse slowed to a trot, snorting and twitching its mane, just as infuriated as its master to find the prey gone from sight.  One hand resting on his bare thigh, Sebastien turned about in the field, aggravated.

There could be only one explanation—witchcraft.

But he did not believe in it. Women were fiendish enough and never needed supernatural spells and curses to cause trouble.

No, she must be there somewhere, hiding. All he need do was have a little patience and wait until she showed herself.

On that hot day, however, patience was in scant supply. He'd ridden a fair distance and he was hungry, not to mention lusty. And Sebastien d'Anzeray did not like to lose.

* * * *

Hidden amid the tall grass, Aelfa lay flat and smirked, delighting in her escape. By her brow a cricket chirped busily, singing a serenade.

"Go away, fool," she whispered to it. "Would you lead the wolf to me?"

Her giddy pulse settled to a steadier rhythm and with her cheek pressed to the earth, she peered through the waving fronds and waited, listening. She thought she heard a soft, low rumble. Lifting on her elbows, she looked across the valley. Beneath an eerie copper sunset the long grass danced, stirred by a sudden strong zephyr that came out of nowhere to dispel the thick heat of the day. And now she felt that thunder through her body where it touched the ground. It trembled through her bones, made her heartbeat race, caused her skin to prickle and shiver.

He was coming. There, over the hill he rose, like premature midnight chasing away the daylight. Apparently he didn't give up easily. Had her red hair given her away?

Scrambling to her feet she dived onward through the meadow, cursing the wicked curiosity that made her spy upon him in the first place.