Whorespawn (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards #2 ) (3 page)

Children scattered, laughing and tumbling over each other. But the woman who had thrown the bowl tripped to a halt in the door of a cottage and gazed at him—first in confusion, then in alarm.

Sebastien realized he'd been holding his breath and now he exhaled. His heart pumped with renewed vigor when he saw that autumnal burst of color—the same flame that had led him through the forest—and a surge of fresh excitement blazed quick and hot through his blood.

The fox knew she was cornered. It was plain upon her face. He expected her to take flight again, but this time she evidently decided to brazen it out.

He'd never seen a woman whose thoughts were betrayed so clearly on her face, etched upon every dimple and freckle, every glimmer of green-eyed determination. Despite the fact that she'd run from him earlier, there was no fear in her expression.

As he dismounted, she crossed her arms over her bosom. Her countenance could now be identified as that of a child who'd just been caught stealing tarts from the cookhouse. And planned to talk her way out of it.

But when he got near she spun around, dashing back into the shack.

He paused, waiting to see if she sent anyone out to deal with him. It was never wise to walk through a door not knowing what was within.

However, when a face appeared it was hers again, peeking out, looking for him, apparently annoyed that he had not followed.

Sebastian was amused. Lengthening his stride he walked forward and into the shack.

Chapter Three

"I'm thirsty, woman. What have you got for me to drink?"

She backed away into the shadows, lashes lowered, lips damp and pouty. "Nothing, sir. You'd best try one of the other cottages."

Somewhere he heard a man whistling tunelessly and a dog barked. The childrens' shouts had faded. "Oh, I think I can find what I need right here. Something to ease my parched throat after a hard day's ride in this heat." He stared at her breasts. They were large, full and perky, the material of her gown stretched to accommodate their size as if she'd grown suddenly, not even realizing herself that she was too big for her old clothes. Was she pregnant or nursing? He licked his lips, his lust just as demanding as his thirst that day.

Inside the shack all was still, the air thick and hot with the odor of wood smoke and burned meat, but he followed, watching his fox carefully, prepared for something else to be thrown. Eventually she had backed up far enough to stop with the wall at her back and then she spoke.

"Perhaps I should call for my husband, sir?"

He wanted to laugh at this sudden attempt to frighten him off.

Sebastien studied her full lips for a moment and then let his gaze wander back down to her lush breasts, slender waist and full hips. No, he didn't think she was pregnant, but she was shaped for good sport.

Slowly he smiled. "So, my little spy, here I find you, eh?"

She paled under her freckles. "I don't know what you mean."

"Did you like what you saw in the forest, little spy?"

He was close enough now to hear the gasps of her breath, to see gilt sparkles darting about in her green eyes like minnows in a sunny pond. Long, waves of copper and bronze fell over her shoulders and curled down her back—almost all the way to her hips, he noted, his arousal growing by the second. A man could wrap himself in hair like that and never need a fur in winter.

"I'll fetch my husband," she muttered.

Was that supposed to be a threat? Even she didn't sound convinced.

Sebastien raised his right hand and laid it over her breast. The material of her gown was thin and worn. She wore no shift beneath it seemed. Perhaps the weather was too warm. Even through his leather gauntlet he felt her nipple poke into his palm immediately, as he splayed his fingers over the bounty of her full breast.

There were no protests, no attempt to shove him away. Instead she put her hands between her back and the wall, slyly arching her spine as she did so, thrusting that mouthwatering parcel into his palm. He could feel her heart beat through her gown. Hard and fast.

The distant whistling had stopped, interrupted by the sound of something breaking, followed by a fulsome curse.

"He's coming," she gasped out.

"So?"

Still she did not try to remove his hand from her breast. Her wide green gaze held fast to his lips where they hovered above her. And Sebastien began to suspect that she had not run from him to escape. She had run so that he would give chase.

Interesting.

* * * *

God in heaven! Her body reacted to his mere voice as if he were her lover. It was overwhelming, powerful. Her heartbeat thudded away in her breast like war drums. Her palms were sticky, her throat dry.

Any moment now the potter would come into the cottage.

Apparently the stranger did not care. He tugged her away from the wall and slid one hand to her back. "I'm thirsty after my ride. Your tits are incredible! Very full. Are you suckling a babe?"

"No," she exclaimed, getting hotter by the second, her gown sticking to her back where his hand touched her. "I have no babe."

"Pity," he muttered. "But I can still enjoy sucking those nipples even if you have no milk to feed my thirst."

"You wouldn't dare! Did you not hear me? My husband is out there on the other side of this wall."

He smiled slowly down at her, and she felt the moisture increase between her thighs.

"I am thirsty, woman, as I told you. And I wager I can get some sweet nectar out of you somewhere, eh?"

She stared, her pulse racing.

"Or I can tell your husband that you watched me in the lake."

She groaned. Of course. Blackmail. Just like all men.

"He didn't know you were there, alone, did he, little fox?"

Aelfa frowned. "How do you know he didn't?"

"Because any woman who looks like you ought to be kept under lock and key, or men like me will steal them away." As he spoke he ran a finger down her spine, from her nape to her buttocks, and there he settled one hand over the left cheek and squeezed.

"That's not...that's not why," she murmured, trying to ignore the heaviness of his hand.

"Of course it is."

"No! It's because—" She stopped abruptly because his lips almost touched the side of her face.

"Because?"

"He doesn't trust me to behave myself."

He chuckled softly. "Oh, I think it's men like me he doesn't trust. He knows how desirable you are. Don't you?"

Desirable? She wanted to laugh. Aelfa had never thought of herself as desirable to other men, or even to her husband. Forced into marriage at thirteen, cooking and cleaning every day for the potter and his sons, she'd had no time to consider her looks and had barely given thought to the development of her body over the past five years. The potter made it clear he took her in as no more than a slave—one he occasionally used for his sexual release. He'd never once given her a compliment or a word of kindness that was not sarcastic.

"So he might like to know what you did this afternoon."

"I only looked," she protested thinly.

"And now I get my turn. To look."

Slowly, with one hand, he began loosening the leather ties that ran down the front of her gown from neck to waist. Aelfa looked at his hand in that large leather gauntlet and longed suddenly to feel it laid upon her breast again, on her body. When the potter touched her it was all she could do not to feel nausea, but it was not so with this stranger. Why? Merely because he said she was desirable? Her body had reacted to him like a cat having its ears scratched.

She heard water splashing outside again, the potter yelling at Edwyn. The two began arguing as they often did. Good. It would keep them outside a while longer. Her pulse was so fast it was almost a continuous hum, singing through her veins.

Growing impatient with his fumbling she helped him with the laces, but had only got them half undone, when he pushed her hands aside and wrenched the gown open to see her breasts.

"My turn to look at you," he reminded her, "as you looked at me."

Dear god, if her husband came in she would be whipped for this. All the fault would be hers, of course, as a daughter of Eve, the temptress.

As if he knew exactly what she wanted, the stranger removed his right gauntlet and placed his bare hand on her breast, fondling roughly, running his callused thumb over her hardened nipple. She gasped when he pinched it and then he ducked his head and took the puckered, scarlet tip in his mouth. Moisture flowed between her thighs as he nursed greedily on her breast and she moaned, breathless, sweat pooling in the small of her back. Did she enjoy this because her mother was once the village whore and it was in her blood? A woman was not supposed to find pleasure in acts like these, she knew. These things were for the contentment of men only and for the furtherance of mankind. Women simply put up with it if they knew what was good for them. If they enjoyed any part of it then they were filthy sinners.

The potter had once told her that her mother was notorious for taking on as many as ten men at once. That she had eagerly fucked the Normans when they came, consorting merrily with the enemy and betraying her own people just to win herself a few favors from the conquering bastards.

"
And now your mother, The Great Whore, is in hell where she belongs,"
the potter would tell her gleefully.

All these thoughts went through Aelfa's head, marching like determined soldiers on their way to battle. But the thought of going to hell didn't stop her pussy from tensing, or her nipples from aching with desire as the dark stranger swapped his lips from one to the other, his mouth tugging on her, his tongue flicking fiercely over the swelling buds.

Finally he lifted his head and as he jostled her breasts in his hands, fondling and weighing them he muttered that he wished she had milk to feed him. "It seems an injustice that these fine tits are not put to use as they should be."

"My husband doesn't want another child. He has three already by his first wife." Oh, why did she speak? Why tell him anything? It had blurted out of her.

The stranger frowned and shook his head. "You ought to be filled up with babes. You were made for it."

She didn't know what to say to that. The idea of having children had never occurred to her. In many ways she still thought of herself as that terrified child about to be hanged for stealing eggs. Her husband's shadow hovered over her every day like that noose.

"There's a bruise under your eye," the stranger muttered suddenly. Ah, so he did look at her face too, not just her "incredible" tits, she thought wryly. "And on your shoulder," he added.

Aelfa shrugged. In truth she had too many bruises to count and had long since given up looking at them.

"Who struck you?" he demanded.

"What does it matter?"

He moved his hand from her breast to her chin and lifted it, making her look up into his dark eyes. She felt herself sucked in to their sinister depths. "Tell me!"

There was more noise outside and the sound of scuffling in the dirt, of skin smacking skin. The potter must have struck Edwyn. One day, she mused, Edwyn would strike back. After all he was honing his skills on her already.

The stranger's eyes narrowed, as if he'd somehow read her thoughts. He said nothing more about her bruises. 

"Now lift your gown and show me your cunt," he growled.

"No," she gasped, even as excitement coursed a rapid path through her veins.

He leaned over her, a tall dark shadow, his eyes narrowed as they raked over her face. Head bent, he parted his thin, hard lips and kissed her on the mouth. Where she'd never been kissed.

It was wet, warm and tasted of mint. She was shocked to find a man with breath so pleasant. His confident, arrogant tongue swept over her cautious, startled one as he drank another murmur of protest out of her throat.

Their lips parted and he said again, his voice low, "Show me. You saw my cock. Now I must see your cunny."

It sounded entirely reasonable quite suddenly.

So Aelfa reached down and pulled up the hem of her old, worn gown. She glanced over at the door where two blackbirds pecked in the dirt. If anyone passed the cottage they could look in and see, but this man didn't seem to care. He stepped back and looked down. Then he gestured with a wave of his hand for her to raise her skirt higher still.

She could almost feel the heat of his stern gaze touching her pubic curls and her trembling thighs.

Somewhere behind her, only on the other side of that wall, the potter and his eldest son wound down their argument. Very soon they would come inside with mugs of ale. The two youngest boys would also come in after working outside in the sun all day, weary and fractious. She had work to do. So much to—

"Legs apart," the stranger commanded, licking his lips, "so I can see your dewy nether lips. For I might want to drink from those too. There at least I can get something to wet my tongue."

Heart pounding, Aelfa moved her feet a few inches apart. She felt wicked and yet every part of her was alive because of him. Alive as it had never been before. Her body quivered with anticipation. No man but the potter had ever looked at her naked and there was never admiration in his gaze, only prurient interest and the arrogance of possession—the same expression on his face when he watched his boar service a sow.

The stranger considered her for a moment, then he moved closer again and pressed his bare hand between her thighs, touching her intimately. "I like what I see and feel," he muttered. "I'll take it."