Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7) (4 page)

Sal thought of his first sexual
experience at the hands of a much older, highly-paid whore when he
was fifteen. It was a present from his father. How nervous he'd
been, fumbling and impatient. But the whore had taught him well—
not only how to get his pleasure, but how to make a woman squeal
with delight too. Their father believed that a land could be won
only when its women were conquered too, so he insisted upon all his
sons learning these arts.

Over the sixteen years since then, Sal
had pleasured a great many women on his travels—left none
dissatisfied. But the younger ones were easier, less demanding
and—

Now he had indigestion from bolting
his food and drink too quickly.

Glaring into his fire, Sal reassured
himself that his rampant cock must be the result of not having
mated lately with any of the wives. The widow was probably not the
cause of this erection at all. If he felt this way because of her —
all this strange indecision and frustration—it made no sense.
None.

If he wanted a woman, whatever she was
and to whomever she belonged, he had her.

Therefore, since he had not had this
one yet, he could only assume it meant that he really didn't want
her. His thoughts were merely passing curiosity. He hadn't tupped
Helene de Leon because he didn't think it would be safe, or
satisfying, or worth his time.

It couldn't possibly be because she
scared the Beelzebub out of him.

* * * *

Helene stepped out of her bath,
wrapped herself in a sheep's fleece blanket and stared into the
cookhouse fire. The heat touched her face just as his dark eyes did
whenever he gazed down at her from his horse, trying to frighten
her into submission. She must stop thinking about that man. It was
not productive, not sensible. Since when had she felt shivers when
a man looked at her? She was no girlish, naive fool to get all
sweaty and moon-eyed in the presence of virile manhood.

But the image would not leave her— of
his broad thighs astride that horse, his large hands holding the
reins with powerful ease, his wide shoulders...

Helene shook her head, and wet strands
of hair slapped her face.

Stop it! Stop thinking of him as a
man.

Yes, that was where she was going
wrong, she decided, for she'd begun to think of him as flesh and
blood. Very masculine flesh and blood. When she really ought to be
viewing him just as she always had— simply as a large, irritating
obstacle.

It was a mistake to think of the
strong life surging within his body. The warmth of his skin. The
bulging of his muscles. How those rough bristles on his cheek would
feel against her tongue. How he would taste.

She closed her eyes and swore under
her breath.

Every time he came home lately she'd
caught herself looking with more and more curiosity at Salvador
d'Anzeray. An impossible oaf who thought that women should be "seen
and fucked but not heard." Oh yes, he'd told her that not too long
ago, used those exact words when he came to her gate, accusing her
of stealing...oh, what was it that time....chickens? She couldn't
even remember what her crime had been on that occasion, there were
so many of them. Occasionally she thought he made them up, some of
them anyway, just for an excuse to ride across the fields and shout
at her.

With his damn muscles bulging all over
the place, his big hands gesturing and his dark, dark gaze searing
through her gown as if he meant to brand her skin, she supposed he
meant to frighten her.

Little did he know— Helene de Leon may
look to him like a small, insignificant pair of tits, but she never
felt fear. And she never wept tears. Both were a waste of
energy.

Hmm...D'Anzeray had very thick, strong
wrists.

Now why, for the love of Saint Pete,
would she think about his wrists, of all things?

Her maid stepped forward with a clean,
mended gown and Helene let the fleece fall as the garment was
lowered over her head and shoulders. She felt the soft kiss of fine
wool skip downward over her erect nipples, waist, hips. It stroked
her skin in the same way that Salvador's hands would. Well, almost.
He would be less gentle, no doubt.

Robert had been a timid, careful
lover. Just occasionally though she'd wished he might take the
initiative, might have made their love making just a little
more....

Oh, how could she have told him what
she wanted? He would have been shocked, horrified. Helene was
infamous for her devout ways; she was above reproach. Oh, but
sometimes that halo was an unholy burden, she mused. Just
occasionally she wished she might set it down a while and rest her
neck and shoulders from the weight.

Poor Robert. It was not fair to think
now of what she should have asked of him in the marriage bed. It
was too late. They were both very young when they consummated their
marriage, both virgins. Helene suspected she knew more than Robert,
for she at least had hidden in a cupboard and watched her uncle
mount one of the maids. Before she was caught and spanked for her
spying, of course.

Oddly enough whenever she thought of
that spanking she could not seem to separate it from the flushed
heat of arousal she'd felt as she watched the rough coupling
through the knothole in that cupboard door. She had prayed over and
over again to remove the memory and rise above those strange,
wicked feelings it nurtured in her loins.

But even prayer had not helped her be
rid of her mischievous curiosity about the act of sex.

In any case, on their wedding night
she'd had to show Robert where things went and she had only that
small experience to go by. Together they'd struggled along. Robert
was always very considerate and got things over with as quickly as
possible.

A lover like Salvador d'Anzeray would
doubtless be very different. He would know exactly where things
went, but he was crude, rude and dangerous and he knew nothing of
consideration for others. Nothing of prayer or of the importance of
self-sacrifice to cleanse the soul.

"My lady, you are cold?" asked the
maid. "You're shivering!"

"No, no. Just...someone must have
walked over my grave."

She waited while the maid braided her
hair and then tied her widow's wimple around her head. "'Tis such a
shame, my lady, that your pretty hair remains covered, all its
shine hidden."

"I am a widow, and this is how it must
be, Elyce."

The wimple served a purpose. It kept
her from being noticed and admired, for Helene knew her hair had a
tendency to distract men; it was her one pretty thing. Vanity was a
sin, of course. Something else to pray hard about on her knees at
night. If she was truly as good as people thought her she would
have shaved her head bald so there could be no vanity, but she
couldn't bear that thought.

"My lady, will they send you a new
husband soon?"

Her heart skipped several thumps, and
for a moment she could not catch her breath. "A new husband? What
for? I've had one already. And I manage well enough without one."
Indeed, she thought, she had enough to do without another man to
look after.

The maid had turned away to gather
Helene's dirty garments for the laundry and was too busy muttering
about the state of them and how her mistress worked too hard. As
she straightened up again with the clothes bundled in her arms, she
said, "Only I heard some soldiers discussing it today in the yard.
They said you could not be expected to maintain the place all alone
and that surely the king will find another match for you before the
harvest must be brought in."

Helene swallowed hard and replied
carefully, "I have heard nothing from my family, not for a long
time." She'd hoped they'd forgotten about her, to be frank. If they
asked her, she would assure them that she did not need another
husband.

But they wouldn't ask her if she
wanted another husband, would they?

A woman was not asked; she was
told.

The maid patted her hand, and
apparently mistaking the cause of Helene's worried face, exclaimed,
"You must not fret, my lady. They will send someone to you soon.
You must be tired of struggling alone. Every woman needs a
man."

She said nothing to her well-meaning
but misguided— and clearly slightly deaf— maid. Instead, Helene
stared into the fire and thought of what they might send to her
this time. Whoever he was, she would be expected to accommodate him
in her life and in her bed, without protest. This one might outlive
her and then she would never again know the sweet delight of waking
in the mornings and doing as she pleased without first seeking
permission from a man.

Her blessed freedom, therefore, was
now only borrowed, only temporary.

Horrified that she had not realized
this before, her heart sank into a dark depression and wallowed
there for the rest of the night.

But she woke in the darkness with a
new idea churning in her mind.

All this talk of another husband was
mere speculation. Until she received formal notification, she would
deny it. She would continue on as her own woman, in charge of her
own destiny, let no one get in her way.

Not even that sexually alluring,
sinful brute across the valley.

Helene de Leon decided that since the
sands in her hourglass were running out, she would not be timid or
squeamish when it came to taking what she wanted now. While she
still could.

Chapter
Four

Sal was in that top field, moving the
fence posts back where they should be— she hadn't even bothered
filling in the previous holes to try to cover her crime, he mused.
Anyone might think she wanted to be caught and punished. Again,
quite suddenly, he thought of that prime piece of arse flesh and
how he would like to spank it.

He swung his mallet harder, taking out
his energy on the fence posts.

As the morning sun beat down upon his
bared back he worked on steadily without pause, not looking up even
when he heard some of his workers muttering in surprise.

The only noise that stopped him was
her voice.

Clear, calm and self-assured, she
exclaimed, "I thought I'd find you up here."

He almost dropped the mallet on his
foot. Flicking sweat from his hair, he looked up, eyeing her
cautiously. "Why the Devil have you come up here?" She usually
preferred there to be a gate or wall between them when they
indulged in one of their arguments. Sal was always grateful for a
barrier too, because sometimes he'd wondered what he might do to
the woman if he had her within arm's reach.

Today, for some reason,
she came out into the open. She looked smaller and, oddly enough,
less dangerous
without
a barrier. But he was not deceived. She must have done
something different to herself, he thought, staring. What was it?
What had she done?

Clutching the mallet to his bare chest
he straightened up, spat upon the ground and faced her. "What do
you want? Come to argue about the bloody fence, eh?" He glanced at
her hands to be sure she carried no weapon and then he looked over
her head, checking for riders with bows and arrows. There were
none.

Apparently she'd come out alone.
Defenseless.

He took a step closer to the woman.
"Well? Cat got your tongue?"

She blinked. "I came to
negotiate."

"
What
?"

"As two sensible adults, we ought to
be able to reach a compromise."

"You're a woman," he pointed out.
"There's only one sensible adult here."

He heard his men snicker.

Helene de Leon remained unmoved. She
smiled icily. "May we talk alone? Just you and I? Or do you need an
audience to perform?"

He considered this for a moment. What
harm could she do to him? He suddenly realized what was different
about her today.

She wore a clean gown, possibly her
best— looked like costly material, soft woven cloth that would
probably feel like butter. There was no stain or patched tear in
sight.

Mayhap she was finally desperate and
tired enough to concede some defeat. Good. If she was ready to put
down her weapons, then he would too.

With one signal of his hand, he sent
his men off and then they were alone on the grassy slope, with the
soft summer breeze pulling at her gown and her wimple. Now that he
stood still under the bright sun, the perspiration dried on his
head and shoulders.

"Well, out with it then, wo— Lady de
Leon."

She took a step toward him. "I want my
two feet of field back."

"
My
field."

"Mine. But I will give you something
in return."

"Give me what?"
Never negotiate with a woman, never.
He could hear his father warning him, but today
he wasn't particularly listening. He'd just got a sniff of violets
and noticed that her eyes were a very unique color. Sal had never
noticed before that they were almost mauve. A royal color,
worn—according to law— only by the noblest of the land. Yet it was
hers naturally. He let his eyes wander downward and saw her
naughty, pointy nipples again through that thin, fine gown. Quickly
he looked back at her face, remembering how she'd accused him of
always talking to her breasts.