The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) (18 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Five days had passed since the initial attack on his keep. After finishing the inspection of his earldom, Spur wiped a filthy hand over his weary face and blew out a gusty breath of relief.

Despite the fierce battling, Nettlewood remained intact—for the most part. The wooden gate would need to be repaired, but the stone walls had held firm. True, the thorns surrounding the barricades were all but gone, the vines torched repeatedly until there was naught left of them save ashes, but the briars would grow back thicker and stronger than before. What mattered was, thanks to his brother’s timely arrival, they had put the mercenaries down and the sortie against his keep was over, with minimal loss of life amongst his men-at-arms and no casualties at all amongst his populace.

Spur raised a muscled arm and sniffed the air. “Lord, but I stink.”

Talon, walking along beside him, fell back on his heels and waved a gauntlet before his nose. “Phew. An understatement if ever I did hear one. With body aroma as pungent as that, I am surprised no flies follow you.”

“You are not as fragrant as a rose yourself, brother.”

Talon thumbed his handsome jaw. “We best bathe in that hot pool of yours before celebrating with Lambkin, eh? Better yet, bring that courageous demoiselle with you and we shall begin the festivities early.”

The suggestion took Spur aback. Not the context of the statement—after a military victory, they always reveled together with a woman or two—but the assumption that the celebration would include his whore. True, he had told Lambkin he would share her with his brother, but that was mostly talk, to gauge her reaction.

After witnessing the searing kiss between those two, Spur castigated himself. Never should he have brought up the whole sharing issue. He deeply regretted now that he had made mention of sharing at all, as the bad idea might just come back to bite him on the posterior.

Disappointed, Spur examined his boots. “Lambkin? You mean to include her in our victory celebration?”

“I have thought of little else. I swear, I fought harder during the siege knowing your consort awaited us at the end. Your taste in females has certainly improved. Lambkin is not only comely, but lionhearted as well.”

Was that envy in his Talon’s voice? Did his brother actually
covet
Spur’s whore?

’Twas. After all these years of competing with one another, with Spur always getting the short end of the stick, Talon wanted something Spur possessed. Talon actually envied him.

A first. Jealousy of any sort was not his brother’s way. There was never any need. What his brother desired, his brother took. As to women—no need for him to take there. Females threw themselves at Talon’s feet.

“Where did you meet her?” his charming elder brother asked.

“Wandering around Lord Harold’s manor. Initially I mistook her for a traitor to the crown, the murderess whore of the mercenary who torched the settlement.”

Talon looked at him askance. “That woman is honorable to the bone. How could you have thought something like that of her?”

“Certain circumstances led me to believe she had some involvement. Only later, I learned of my mistake.”

“That demoiselle is true. Such is her honor, I was surprised to learn she whored for you.”

“Well, she does,” Spur replied, his back going up at his brother’s barely cloaked accusation. “And is a good one too.” Regret was out of place. He had done naught wrong! Lambkin had set the terms of their agreement herself. He had merely agreed.

But why?

Why had she set the terms that she had? Why had she given her body to him in exchange for so little?

Her sister. She had been driven to do what she had done because of her sister.

Still, she might have explained. To this day, he did not quite grasp why she had feared for her sister’s well-being…

And if she had explained back then, would he have listened, understood?

Nay. He had been looking for someone to retaliate against that day, and he only had Lambkin.

Too late now to undo the damage he had done. She was a whore. He had made her so. And as it turned out, she was a most obliging one. Where was the reason for guilt? She’d had a choice and the means to leave. ’Twas her own decision to stay. He would not have detained her had she elected to go. Her hot nature kept her with him. She
liked
what he did to her. And she would like what Talon did to her too.

Spur frowned. But would he?

Territoriality when it came to land was rooted in his gut, taught to him at his father’s knee and reinforced through each kill done by his sword. But territoriality toward females was new to him. He had never kept one before, not even briefly. His possessiveness of Lambkin took him aback. But, he supposed, ’twas only natural to want to keep that which had belonged to him first.

But from his own brother?

Spur shook his head in exasperation. This was unlike him. He would give Talon his finest steed, his best suit of armor. He would divide up his holdings with him, all his wealth as well. Why this sudden reluctance of his to share a cunt?

Talon stopped walking. “You seem hesitant about us celebrating together. Have you feelings for Lambkin?”

“Aye. Feelings aplenty, all of them lustful. The wench can do things with her mouth you would not believe. And her shapely arse is the stuff of nocturnal dreams.”

“Ejaculate into your tick at night for her, do you?”

“You would know more about that than would I.”

“’Tis true. During periods of abstinence, I have been known to spurt into the furs for want of a woman.” Talon grabbed his stones and roared with laughter. “Right now, I have a hankering for some merrymaking, and one comely face monopolizes all my visions.”

Spur swallowed hard. “What is mine is yours, brother.”

“Then we agree—we share her, same as we have always done.”

But what if Lambkin enjoyed Talon more than she enjoyed him?

Spur dismissed the notion. What of it if she did?

This was only slaking of lust. ’Twas not as though he loved her. ’Twas not as though he would ever make her his wife. Mirti was a hot-blooded peasant wench good for a rough tumble, and that was all she was to him.

Everything decided, Spur playfully punched his brother’s muscled arm. “Naturally we share her. I would have it no other way.”

* * *

Since the mercenary attack on the stronghold, Mitri had not lain in the solar’s sumptuous bed, her limbs entwined with those of her master. Sporadic fighting had provided little enough opportunity to sleep, never mind couple. And now that the mercenary attack had been suppressed, she had returned to the small storage chamber assigned to her when the overlord had considered her his prisoner, not his whore. Though the accommodations were nowhere as luxurious as the overlord’s suite, she would make do.

What choice did she have but to make do?

She might be a worthless nobody, but she had pride. And her pride prevented her from going anywhere she had not been invited. Assuming her master would welcome her return to his private solar would have been presumptuous, a transgression he had already chided her on once already. That was one mistake she would not repeat.

She understood his thoughts. Whores, like slaves, must not get beyond themselves. The overlord was a stickler for such details. A person’s station in life mattered very much to him. She could easily forget the difference between them, but he never would. That difference prevented him from holding her in high esteem, from valuing and respecting her—despite his glowing words to the contrary.

As there was naught she could do about his narrow-mindedness, she just got on with it. Life marched ahead, and she marched with it. Looking beyond today was the only way to survive.

At a dented metal basin, she bathed away the soot and ash of her participation in the battle and then gowned herself in another gift from her master—a gold bliaut that laced up the front. Afterward she took a long nap in her narrow cot, atop the lumpy straw mattress. Despite the harrowing warfare of the days prior, she awakened so refreshed she immediately began to straighten the spartan chamber. Though she was only a mere peasant and a common whore, neatness was a quality she prized.

When the portal opened without benefit of a knock—slaves and whores must expect such intrusions upon their privacy—and then slammed just as abruptly shut, Mitri looked up from the chore.

Her master came to stand before her.

And it struck her all over again how handsome and strong and virile he was, and how much she longed to be with him again, to stay with him for as long as he would have her.

Virgin Mary, but she was weak!

“I thought to find you where last I left you,” he said. “I went to my solar first. Upon finding the bed empty, I came immediately here.”

She let that go without comment. “Are you fit?”

“Like my keep, I am no worse for the fight we waged.” He cupped her jaw. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

The overlord’s tone, though robust, contained something else, something raw and tight and strained. Carnal want, perchance?

Her want mimicked his. When her master dropped his hand from her face, she felt the loss in her loins.

Virgin Mary! Weak. And lusty. She answered to both.

“Come join us in the hot pool,” he said.

Her brows arched to the rafters. “Us?”

“Me, naturally. And Talon.”

“I have bathed already,” she replied and quickly returned to her straightening—lest he read longing in her expression.

A frolic in the communal baths sounded like the very thing she needed. But self-preservation prevented her from accepting the invitation. Nudity before two extremely handsome warriors like the royal brothers would put her at a distinct disadvantage. At best, she was plain. At worst, she was homely. Their male beauty would only show up her brown-wren ordinariness. Why voluntarily remind her master that she was a simple peasant, not the sort of highborn lady he would eventually wed?

Damn him anyway.

She was dim-witted. His offer was about more than some innocent play in the water. He had decided to share her with Lord Talon, a decision that showed her once again that he could not possibly love her, would never love her. A man in love does not share the object of his affections with another man, not even a brother.

“Soak then,” he offered at her refusal. “You fought hard. The healing properties of the hot waters will do you good. Then we celebrate.”

Although she already suspected the manner that celebration would take, still, she needed to hear him speak the words that would break her heart. “What form will this celebration take?”

A wickedly attractive gleam came into his silvery eyes, and her loins moistened at the sight.

Weak. Lusty. And wholly susceptible to the devil’s unquestionable allure. Verily she found both brothers appealing. Though she only loved one.

Lord Spur. The Devil of Nettlewood. Her lover. Her owner. Her master. A man with eyes of metal, a cold gaze as defensive as chain mail.

Then, as she had known he would, he said the words to shatter her faith in love, in its power to will out in the end, despite all trials and obstacles placed in its way.

“The celebration will take the form of a randy bout of coupling.”

Surprised that she could still speak now that her heart was broken, she asked for clarification. “A randy bout of coupling—between the three of us?”

“Who else? And kindly cease looking at me like a lambkin heading for the slaughter. Two rams pleasuring you will double your own enjoyment. You will have no cause for complaint. My brother is a courtly knight with the ladies.”

Her brooding resentment rose to the surface. “But I am not a lady.”

“Agreed. You are not a lady. By your own agreement, you are my paid whore. All the more reason to join us.”

If she had entertained any lingering doubts about her master’s view of her, he had just stamped out those doubts. Say what she would about his narrow-minded arrogance, she could not fault his honesty. The Devil was forthright in what he would give and what he expected to receive in return.

And how should she react?

Since her world had turned upside down, she had thought to look to the future as a means of survival, but now she reconsidered that notion. Looking ahead to a future none of them might have seemed like pure folly. They lived in chaotic times, when only anarchy ruled. They had only narrowly escaped death at a mercenary sortie. For all anyone knew, a new band of mercenaries might attack them again on the morrow. What she wanted from Lord Spur was the present. And in that here and now, she longed for his love. Not forever. That was too much to ask. But whilst they were together, she hungered for his love.

A hunger that not been appeased.

Mitri drew back her shoulders. “My thanks, but joining you and Lord Talon is not what I wish.”

“’Tis not a question of what you wish, Lambkin, but of what I demand of you. You will show my brother the hospitality of this keep. Tonight. Without his assistance, we would not be standing here having this argument. The mercenaries have retreated, cowardly bastards that they are, and now ’tis time to celebrate our victory.”

“You would have me pleasure Lord Talon?”

“Of course,” he said brusquely. “Naturally. And rest assured, he will return the favor. My brother admires you greatly. And do not pretend you have not given him a second glance. I saw you two jesting together in the breaks between battles.”

Dared she believe her master was jealous?

Lord Talon was a lovely man, strong and brave. He had fought heroically to keep the mercenaries from destroying his brother’s holdings. He was also incredibly easy on the eyes. But she had committed her heart elsewhere. With that admitted, her master’s jealousy had to mean he cared.

A renewed sense of hope for gaining his love engulfing her, she sought to reassure him. “Aye, I flirted with Lord Talon, but ’tis you I love, my lord. You are the only man I have ever loved.”

“So you say, yet you balk at pleasing me.”

“How might I please you?”