The Virgin Proxy(19)

“Oh yes. She was thirsty.”



He smirked. “From the screams I heard all night long ‘tis no wonder.”



Deorwynn rolled her eyes. “Your master is fast asleep. My mistress wore him out.”



That wiped the smirk off his face. “Not my master. No single woman ever wore him out. He can take a hundred wenches to his bed and never tire.”

She snorted. “That was before he met my mistress. She tells me he begged her to stop before his prick fell off. Now she waits for your poor master to regain consciousness so she can go at it again. She’s like a bitch in heat.” She sighed gustily. “I don’t envy the wretched man. She has shriveled his balls to walnuts.”

With that she walked away down the passage, head high, leaving the guard with his mouth hanging open. Thank goodness he wouldn’t see the sticky sperm winding a trail down her inner thighs.





* * * *



Already he missed the Saxon girl’s bodily warmth. When Guy felt the bed dip he knew the other one had come to take her place at his side.

So horrible she did not wish to talk of it, eh? Liar.

When she spoke so passionately of her Saxon pride and her hatred for him, it occurred to Guy that she came to his bed that night intent on murdering him while he slept. She’d almost confessed it, little fool. But there was nowhere to conceal a weapon about her person. Did she have some unique method of murder, he wondered? He wouldn’t be surprised. These Saxon’s were determined, brave, cunning creatures. He’d like to think his skill as a lover kept her distracted from her purpose.

As for the woman now beside him…with her he was far angrier. She’d let her servant take her place in his bed and not, he suspected, out of any sense of generosity. He’d like to think his bedmate that evening was a gift from a thoughtful and inventive bride, but he’d never yet met a woman who turned down the chance of a fuck from Guy Devaux without a very, very good reason. Or a bad one.

What had kept this woman from his bed that evening and put the other one in it?

Fortunately for both he was too pleasantly weary and sated just then to open his eyes much wider than a sleepy squint. It was supposed to be the other way about, but that damnable Saxon hussy had fair fucked him senseless.





Chapter Six





Dressed early the following morning, she hurried to the herb garden, selected the herbs she needed and slipped into the cookhouse to prepare a potion. Sister Adela had told her the recipe once, and Deorwynn did her best to remember all the directions. The servants were already at work on the day’s meals, but no one asked her what she was doing there and, in fact, they barely noticed her presence, too busy to care. Devaux’s manor was extensive, his household sizeable. Keeping them all well fed and happy was a task of some magnitude, requiring many hands. Although hard at work, they still found time to gossip about their master and his new bride—how they’d kept everyone awake all night with their noise.

“He’s got his hands full with the one, by the sound of it,” the cook exclaimed, laughing heartily.



“The wild kitten he called her this morning,” said another. “I heard she wouldn’t let him sleep.”



“Kitten eh? More like a leopard or a tiger by the growls coming out of that bedchamber last night.”



They all laughed uproariously. Deorwynn’s cheeks grew hot. She had not realized how the whole castle would hear them.



“She’ll need to be wild to keep his interest and take him on regularly,” the cook added, chopping the head from a dead goose with one swing of her knife.

“Why? What do you mean?” asked a young, wide-eyed maid.



The spit boy shouted above the clanging of pots and pans, “Why do you think they call him the Bear of Brittany?”



“For his bravery, of course,” the girl answered.



“Aye, but also for his appetite, his claws, his bite and the size of his tackle. He could tear a little thing like you, limb from bloody limb. He’d split you in two with his big cock.”

The little girl screamed, while the spit boy laughed and teased.

Pouring her foul-smelling concoction into a wooden cup, Deorwynn took it outside into the fresh, cold air.

On her way across the yard, she witnessed a group of children fighting together. One of them, a small boy, was being picked on and her heart went out to him. He reminded her very much of Raedwulf. Prepared to run over and scold the other children, she stopped when she saw the Bear of Brittany himself descend angrily on the group and pluck the worst miscreant up by his collar.

Not expecting to see him again so soon, she was frozen to the spot, unable to look away. Those same long arms had held her last night. She’d straddled those thick thighs when he entered her for the first time and claimed her virgin blood. That mouth had sought hers through the veil and his big, rough-skinned hands had stroked her, fondled her intimately, cupped her sex possessively. It had all happened only a few short hours ago. Her legs wilted at the memory.