The Virgin Proxy(31)
She came.
Crying out she almost lost her balance, but two hands came under her arms to catch her from behind, grabbing her bared breasts.
Another man was there?
Confused, she was still trembling with orgasm, her juices wetting her own fingers, as she looked down at the anonymous hands cupping her hot breasts and squeezing.
Suddenly Guy released in an exultant gush, spewing his seed across her stomach. “Did I not tell you she was a beauty, Thierry?” he gasped, half-laughing. “What say you?”
Thierry? Astonished, she fought those clasping hands and spun around to find his friend behind her.
“You were right, Devaux,” he chuckled. “Juicy as a mid-summer peach.”
She was horrified. The other man had been there the entire time and seen all.
“It seems I won the wager.” Guy grinned. “Didn’t need to touch you did I?”
She fought for breath, cursing and spitting. Finally she remembered to drop her shift and cover her lower half, the linen sticking to the thick, wet streaks of semen on her skin.
“Come back to the couch, my sweet. We’re not done. My friend and I have a hankering to share your ripe fruit and harvest all night long. You’ll be well entertained, just as you’ve entertained us.”
That was all she was to Guy Devaux – entertainment. Like a minstrel or a gypsy dancer. Or a whore to share with his friend.
“Never! Villain! Filthy, rotten, no-good Norman pig.”
“Yes?”
She ran for the door. Although she fully expected to be chased down, they let her go. She could hear Devaux laughing as she stumbled shakily down the corridor back to the women’s chamber.
* * * *
“It seems she dislikes the idea of sharing,” said Thierry, pouring himself some wine.
Guy pulled on a fleece-lined robe and belted it. “She will come around to the idea. In time.” He and Thierry had always shared women and there should be nothing special about this one to prevent it. But he would not force her. “She’s skittish. A wild pony.”
“So I see. A virgin?”
Guy did not answer that. He hadn’t told Thierry how the Saxon woman took his wife’s place in the bridal bed. She had yet to confess the truth and he needed to hear it from her lips before he spoke of it to anyone.
“Are you sure you want to share?” Thierry asked.
He turned his head, surprised. “Of course. She’s just a Saxon peasant.”
His friend nodded, but kept his gaze averted.
Guy sensed, for the first time in twenty years, that they both nursed a secret. He remembered Thierry had sat close to the woman at supper twice now and showed a lively interest in her conversation, not just her titties. He cleared his throat and walked back to his couch. “Are you certain you want to share, Bonnenfant?”
“Of course. As you say, she is just another Saxon peasant girl.”
Still no eye contact.
He felt a quick spur of annoyance. If Thierry had deeper feelings for this difficult and challenging woman then he was a fool. One wench was much the same as any other; he kept telling himself that, as he poked at the fire and drank his wine.
So she was angry with him now. What of it? He’d make amends tomorrow.
Chapter Nine
“She said you can have it back, my lord,” the guard muttered nervously, placing the filigree cuff in Guy’s palm. “She said she wants nothing from you, my lord.”
His jaw tightened as he glared down at the refused gift.
“She’d sooner eat cow dung than wear anything you gave her, my lord. Those were her exact words.”
“Yes,” he snapped. “I understood without the detail.”
Eyes downcast, the guard backed away.
His first thought was to chase her down and demand an explanation. Second thought was to let her boil away in her own anger. Let her worry. Let her wonder what he would do to her for this disrespectful behavior.
Because he had no idea yet how to handle this woman. Or his unbridled need for her.
Best go for a ride and clear his head.
Marching out to the stables, he greeted the grooms with his usual curt welcome. And stopped dead.
His anger—already vast that day, at everyone and everything—suddenly over-flowed. Thierry was there with the Saxon wench, chatting again in an easy, familiar manner. She had forgiven his friend it seemed, for last night’s incident. No doubt she blamed it all on him, even though Thierry was complicit in the scheme. The two stood by a dappled grey mare, the wench feeding it carrots while Thierry rubbed its muzzle. Their hands had almost touched again.
“Woman, what are you doing here?” It seemed as if the very thing he’d feared had come to pass; the acquisition of a wife had brought other women here to invade his male dominated space. Particularly this woman who tricked him, cursed him, aroused him with one sultry glance and made him feel a fool.