The Virgin Proxy(26)

He rolled onto his side and lifted her shift. She didn’t move, but lay like a dead thing for his perusal. Her breasts were pale and full, her waist narrow, the curls on her mound were perhaps a few shades lighter than Deorwynn’s. Sliding a hand between her thighs he touched her dry, hot flesh and noticed that she did not flinch, but parted her legs a little more, allowing his finger to explore. He was only semi-stirred. Again he felt frustration.

The curse of course! The Saxon wench had cursed his manhood.

He did not want this woman lying in his bed; he wanted Deorwynn again. It was perturbing for a man who seldom bothered to remember a woman’s name, let alone want her two nights in a row. Usually any woman would do to relieve the pent up energy. Not tonight.

He felt Sybilia’s inner walls tighten on his probing finger, but there was no maidenhead in his way. She’d been had already, just as he suspected, and not by him. He’d been sold used stock, by the noble, pompous Baron Senclere. He pressed his finger further to be sure.

Her eyes widened, lashes fluttered. “You broke me in well on our wedding night, my husband,” she purred.

“Hmm.” He slid his finger out.

“My lord?” She stared with sly, watchful brown eyes, reminding Guy of a coney, reared up on its back feet, sniffing at the approach of hunters.

“Go to sleep,” he grumbled, turning over and away from her.



He should have had her, just to get the other one out of his mind, but he couldn’t. His cock was limp. It was sulking.



This wasn’t good for his health, his sanity, or his reputation.





Chapter Eight





A loud rap almost rattled the door off its hinges. The woman nearest clambered to her feet, shouting through the door, “What is it?”

“The new wench. The Saxon girl. He wants to see her.”

In a shaft of pale moonlight through the arrow slit, Deorwynn sat up, confused, drowsy. Hands tugged on the sleeve of her shift.

“Make haste. He wants you.”

She was pushed to her feet and prodded through the door, not even a moment to put on her shoes. The guard scowled at her. “Name?”

“Deorwynn.” She yawned.

“Aye. That’s the one.” He grabbed her by the shoulder of her nightshift and escorted her down the torch-lit passage. Her first thought was that he’d decided to throw her into his dungeon after all. But they were going up, not down. The stone was ice-cold under her bare feet and drafts blew around her ankles. They came to another door where a second guard waited. He tapped on the wood lightly.

“Come,” Guy Devaux called out grumpily.

The guard winked at her. “Do your best wench. He’s not in a good mood.”

Shoved forward into the chamber, she stood a moment, blinking sleepily, taking in her surroundings. It was a small chamber warmed by a fire pit. Additional light came from a low table set with candles, wine and little cakes. The Norman sprawled on a fur covered couch beside it. Naked. Waiting for her. The edges of the room were in darkness, neither firelight nor candlelight reaching far beyond where he sat, but around him the air glowed golden.

“I couldn’t sleep,” were the first words out of his down-turned mouth. “And I couldn’t rouse my cock for my wife. Undo that curse you put upon me wench.”

She yawned, looked at his groin and saw the object in question already hardening, lengthening. “It seems healthy enough now,” she remarked dryly.

He glanced down his body, then back to her. His eyes warmed subtly as he took her in from bare feet to rumpled hair. “Entertain me,” he said. “Woman.”

“Can your wife not entertain you?”



“No. She sleeps.”



She sighed and yawned again. “I too was asleep.”



“Now you are not,” he observed with a half smile. “And the sight of you awakening, warm and ruffled from your bed, pleases me very much.”

His smile may be dangerous; it was also infectious. She fought the fever, determined not to be drawn in. “How do you expect me to entertain you?” she asked warily, quite certain she was not yet recovered enough from the previous night.

“My lord,” he reminded her calmly.

“My lord.”

“I see we still need to practice your manners, Deorwynn.” He waved her closer. “Come. You look cold. I have something here to warm you.”

Again her gaze wandered down his body.

He laughed. “I have wine and blankets. Come, sit with me.”

“Sit with you?” She was astonished. One moment he treated her like a serf; then he sought her company as if they were on equal footing.

“I would talk with you.”

“Talk with me?” The incredulity continued to grow.