The Virgin Proxy(12)

“As soon as you have done this service for me, I will mention your brother to him. Now get on his bed and arrange yourself. I’ll blow out the candles. If he complains, tell him you’re bashful. Burst into tears or something.”

That might work for some women, thought Deorwynn with a sigh, but her tears did not flow on command. She climbed nude onto the bed, the veil her only covering, and lay back against the pile of pillows.

Sybilia snuffed all the candles, except one by the door. Then, raising the hood of her cloak, left the chamber with no further words of advice.

Deorwynn lay very still, listening to the low crackle of the meager fire and the stomp of her heart beat, amazed it could be so regular under the circumstances. Unlike her heart, her mind churned with scattered thoughts, pulling in two different directions. She was about to give herself to the wretched enemy and yet a small, naughty part of her was very glad to be the one waiting for him in that bed.

He was late. Damn him.

Men like this one had killed her other brothers in battle and stolen away her family’s land, taking it as their own, despoiling it with their filthy, decadent Norman ways. She wanted to spit again, but her tongue was too dry.

Through it all her heart thumped onward, brave and steadfast in the enemy’s path.





Chapter Four





Footsteps approached at last. There were voices outside and then the door opened. Sitting up, she wished for something more than that voluminous netted veil to hide behind. Earlier it looked ridiculously thick, now it felt too transparent.

He stood just inside the door, gazing across the chamber at her. The solitary candle flame wavered in the draft, gilding the side of his face with fragile gold leaf. His eyes pierced her through that veil, picking out his prey again as he did last night.

Suddenly losing her infamous warrior courage, Deorwynn grabbed a pillow and held it before her naked body.



He came all the way in, closing the door. “Why are there no candles? I ordered them all lit.”



“There is one,” she pointed out feebly, clutching the pillow.



“Not enough. I can’t see a blessed thing.” He took the lit candle from its sconce—not, she noted, made of a human skull, but of iron—and moved to relight the others.

“No,” she shrieked. “Please. I…I’m…” What was she? What was the word? Only now did her heart let her down. It beat so hard and fast that it filled her throat and she couldn’t exhale another word.

Surprisingly he stopped, her stark cry being enough to make him relent and leave the other wicks unlit. She was mystified. This man, a ruthless ogre who trampled dead and dying Saxons under his feet like ants, apparently took pity on her.

He prowled around the smoldering fire-pit and into the shadows. Soon she heard the rustle of clothing being removed, the chink of his belt buckle and scabbard hitting the stone floor. Evidently he was used to having someone tidy up after him, she thought, or else he didn’t care if his clothes laid on the floor all night. She certainly wouldn’t pick them up for him. That was Sybilia’s job.

It occurred to her with a sudden mischievous spark that she had the better duty. How glad she was not to be his everyday wife and just his lover.

His lover. She shivered, but not with maidenly fear.

Even wreathed in folds of shadow, she could make out his large shape as he came toward the bed. A glimmer of weak firelight caressed the muscle in his chest and shoulder as he raised his arm, raking the fingers of one hand through his hair. “You have been told what to expect?” he mumbled.

She nodded and then, remembering he might not see, murmured a quiet, “Yes.”

He stilled at the foot of the bed, his tall shadow looming over her. “Yes…my lord,” he corrected sharply.

Deorwynn felt one of her scowls coming on, but she banked it. He wouldn’t see it beneath her veil and in the semi-dark, so it was wasted. She was supposed to be that idiot Sybilia, she reminded herself—the woman who was ready to forget her previous lover the first moment she laid eyes on this great hunk of blue-eyed manhood. Had Sybilia been the all-important virgin, she would gladly have tumbled in that bed tonight, but since she was a faithless trollop instead of the pure maiden her new husband demanded, Deorwynn had the dubious pleasure instead. Thus, playing her part, she replied with all sickly sweetness, “Yes, my lord. Whatever you say, my lord.”

He lowered over the bed, a hand on either side of her. And sniffed.



She backed away. “Is something amiss?”



“Thought I scented the faint odor of sarcasm. Surely not. If my lady knows my temper is not to be trifled with.”



“But I—"