Whorespawn (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards #2 ) (6 page)

"And what is it that you are willing to offer, Baron Louvet?"

The man pushed a leather bag across the table toward him. It looked heavy, bulging with coin or gems. Perhaps both. "Mayhap this will help entice you to stay?"

Sebastien took another mouthful of wine and swilled it around his mouth. He recognized the taste and knew it was wine from Gascony, where he had spent much of his youth. It brought back memories of his father urging him to take his first sip.

"
The sooner you get accustomed to it, boy, the better. Build an immunity to the juice of the grape and know your limits
."

When discovered by his mother later, he had been more than a little tipsy, but the subsequent vomiting taught him a good lesson. Of course his mother got angry. Oh, she had a temper.
That Spanish Temper
, as their father referred to it dismissively—when he was not being entertained by causing it.

When Sebastien was born his mother had already given Guillaume d'Anzeray four bastard sons and two more came after him. For all her complaints about being taken advantage of, she didn't seem to learn from it. Sebastien couldn't understand why she continued to have babies with their father after the first was born. After all, as a boy he'd soon learned not to drink too much after that first bout of wretched sickness, but his mother seemed to forget the discomfort of child-bearing the moment each babe was put into her arms. She had railed and cursed at their father for giving her seven illegitimate boys all while he was married to a fine Norman noblewoman—with a rich, landed father. She had frequently thrown things at Guillaume and told him never to darken her door again. But despite the fact that she claimed each one was a mistake, she loved her sons and protected them with the ferocity of a lioness.

Women were strange, confusing creatures. They put up with a great deal, but seldom without complaint. Men just got on with life and what must be done. Women protested and sulked and threw tantrums,
then
did what they must anyway. Sebastien concluded they simply enjoyed complaining.

But the redhead had not complained or whined or sulked. Oh, she had run from him at first, through the forest. In the end she had participated in the fucking with great enthusiasm. And then happily pushed him and his brother out of the door without the slightest tear or whimper. Couldn't wait to see the back of them.

He scowled hard across the hall.

"D'Anzeray! You seem distracted. Perhaps you feel awed by your surroundings. I beg you not to be! I think of myself as no better man than you, despite the title."

Sebastien quickly closed the portcullis on his wandering thoughts and turned his full attention to the Baron. He was amused that this paunchy, scarlet-faced fellow thought he might be humbled in his presence. As if the glimmer of gold and this vast array of food should make him feel inferior. Of course, Sebastien knew that he and his bastard brothers were regarded only as useful killing machines, little better than dumb beasts. Most folk would be surprised to know he could read and write in three languages.

"You and I will talk as men together, d'Anzeray! Let us dispense with formality, eh?" added the Baron with a genial, gap-toothed smile. "I confess I seldom have good, honest male company with whom I can let out my breeches, burp and fart freely."

Sebastien struggled to keep his eyebrows down. "Don't hold back on my account."

"My wife," the Baron threw a sudden, peevish glance over his shoulder at the bowing willow branch beside him, "fills the place with sad-eyed minstrels who sing of unrequited love. She douses herself in a compote of dried rose petals, bathes more times a month than is healthy and turns her fine nose up at talk of war and horses. You and I, d'Anzeray, can share our bloody stories to our heart's content. Poetry be damned."

"Indeed."

The Baron's wife parted her lips to emit a slight sigh and then tightened them again securely. Clearly this odd couple was even more poorly suited than he'd thought at first glance. While there was nothing unusual in an older man with a young girl, the chasm between these two was wider than their ages.

"You have been married long, Baron?"

"Six months at least and I've not had a smile out of the wench yet."

"Well, she is young...I suppose she must miss her home and family."

The Baron looked askance. "Young? She's one and twenty. Past her prime. I only took her because her father wanted rid of her and he paid me handsomely in fifty head of good cattle."

The girl winced and turned her head away, only to see Alonso stuffing his face with meat, grease running down his chin. She clutched the hem of her wimple to her nose and briefly closed her eyes.

"I would have preferred someone younger with a bit o' meat on 'em," the Baron added, his jowls sagging further as he leaned even farther away from her and toward Sebastien. "But I can't be rid of the wench now." He lowered his voice to a coarse whisper. "She's a witch, you see."

"Oh?" He didn't believe in witches.

"She's got a...a doll of me. Stuffed with straw. She sticks it full of pins when she's angry."

Sebastien squinted, struggling again not to laugh. "Really?"

"See this?" The Baron raised his hand and spread his swollen fingers. "Some days I can barely make a fist." He glanced over at the girl again and then back to Sebastien. "Yonder wench causes it. A sharp jabbing pain right in the back of my hand."

"I see."

The Baron's wife stared straight ahead, but Sebastien thought he caught a little bit of a quirk at the corner of her mouth.

At that moment Alonso burped loudly and reached across her for a hunk of bread.

For the first time since their arrival she spoke. "Pardon
me
," she muttered.

Alonso tore off a large bite of bread with his teeth and looked at her. "You're pardoned," he replied through a full mouth, spitting crumbs.

She gave him a dark frown. "
My lady
."

Alonso looked over his shoulder, as if he thought she was talking to someone else.

"You may address me as
my lady
," she explained, her words falling like icicles, crisply shattering around them.

Sebastien watched as his brother chewed with even worse manners than usual, apparently not perturbed by the woman's frosty demeanor. After considering her statement with all due solemnity, Alonso replied, "Thank you, but I think I prefer saucy lips." He winked at her and continued his meal.

The Baron's young wife stared, her eyes widened.

Beside him, her husband whispered in Sebastien's ear, "If I were you I'd warn that brother of yours, d'Anzeray. She's one opponent he'd never win victory over. Mark my words, the things she does with those pins...and the places she sticks them..." He shook his head. "It's best not to ruffle her fine feathers, if you get my meaning."

"Oh, I do."

"Take my advice, d'Anzeray, and never marry a witch."

"I'll certainly bear that in mind."

The Baron leaned back in his chair. "Ah, to be free of nagging women. Those were the days, but one must procreate, of course. One of your brothers, I understand, recently took a wife."

"Yes. He did." Sebastien had been waiting for this subject to raise its head. People were very curious about his brother Raul's wife and with reason. The d'Anzeray kept their women under different terms to those generally accepted as "proper".

"I heard a rumor that this wife is shared among all seven of you. Is this true?"

He saw no reason to lie about it. The brothers were always open about their actions and anyone who cared to pick fault with them rarely had the guts to do so to their faces. They were intensely loyal to one another and believed in sharing all good things among them. "We do," he replied.

"And she does not complain?"

He smiled at the thought of Princesa complaining about being loved and protected by all seven brothers. She was a beautiful, generous, sweet-tempered woman, devoted to the brothers who had saved her from a life of slavery. "I have never heard her make a single complaint," he said finally. "I don't believe she has any cause to do so."

"Then she is a rare woman."

"Yes, we are fortunate indeed to have her."

Almost two years ago, their father—thinking he was on his deathbed, as he occasionally liked to imagine—had insisted they all find wives, give him healthy grandsons for the next generation and settle down in this newly conquered land. He wanted his sons to marry for riches and property, but the first wife brought home turned out to have neither and he didn't seem too upset about it. Princesa, although only a bondslave when Raul found her, had soon won over their father's fractious temper. Who could not love her?

Now she was with child. Any one of the seven brothers could be the sire, which meant the child would truly belong to all and be loved by all. Princesa was aglow with happiness, pampered by her husbands until they were in danger of spoiling her—according to their father, who was, incidentally, just as ineffectual as any of his sons when it came to refusing his new daughter-in-law anything she wanted.

Since the first wife and this arrangement turned out so well, the brothers had declared that all other wives would be shared the same way. The brothers d'Anzeray would build their own harem.

And there she was again—his sly fox—slipping back into his thoughts. She would make a fine wife for his brothers. He would be proud to take her home and show her off.

It was the first time in his life that he'd ever thought that way about a woman.

So she was another man's wife. What did that matter?

So he knew nothing about her, except she was a naturally sensual, irresistible creature.

He wanted her.

It hit him like a hammer to the gut.

He wanted her; he'd have her.

"You are contemplative again, d'Anzeray."

"I was thinking...of a woman I met today."

The Baron looked disappointed that their conversation was not of war and horses as he'd hoped. "Well we do have plenty here," he grumbled, reaching for his wine.

"A redhead. Very large green eyes. Small body, but well curved. Lovely breasts."

"Ah," came the immediate reply, "Aelfa the whorespawn. The potter's wife."

Sebastien's eyes narrowed. He no longer saw the other diners seated around the great hall. He saw only the woman standing before him, lifting her gown so he could eat her delectably soft pussy. He felt her buttocks tensing under his hands as he held her steady and thrust his tongue deep inside to claim her sweet honey. Christ, he was hard again, just thinking about her. Picturing her breasts swaying above him in that torn gown as he nibbled and sucked and licked to his heart's content and she spread her thighs wider, pushing her hips forward, no pretense of reluctance even with her husband watching.

"Tell me about her," he muttered, fidgeting in his seat, his cock expanding rapidly in his chausses.

"Her mother was the town whore when I came here and took the place in hand. I had the mother countless times myself. A splendid fuck. Ah, the things she could do with that pussy!" His eyes fogged over as he reminisced. "Generous and tireless in bed she was."

Growing impatient, Sebastien exclaimed, "But Aelfa?"

"She was a child of twelve or thirteen—quite feral. Would have been hanged for stealing hens’ eggs, but her mother pleaded with me and then the potter stepped forward and agreed to marry the girl, keep her out of trouble. So I granted clemency at the last minute."

"And her mother?"

"Dead soon after. Some putrid fever, I believe." He chuckled dourly. "A great loss to this town, I can tell you."

Slowly Sebastien nodded, thinking of his cock driving into Aelfa from behind, how she arched her back and purred, how her hair shone in the sunset. Aelfa.

"Of course, I warned the potter—a thief cannot change her ways, anymore than the daughter of a whore can escape her fate.
It is in her blood, too deep to be beaten out
, I said to him.
She will end up like her mother. On her back
." The Baron shrugged lazily. "But he vowed he would try. He was adamant he could correct her faults. So I let him have her."