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

She began using two fingertips,
massaging her core while she stared at him with those strange
lavender eyes. Her eyelids drooped and he could see her breasts
jostling in the moonlight, her entire body trembling as the
sensations stole through her nerves.

Sal quickened his own hand, up and
down the rigid, pulsing staff that strained upward in a fruitless
quest to find her. A bead of clear liquid already came out of his
cock head, and the surging of his seed was too strong to hold back
much longer. It was bestial tonight, raw and savage.

Everything Lady de Leon thought of
him.

But there she was working her own
pussy frantically, hips lifted an inch off the ground, heels
pressing in the dirt, slowly spreading wider. He saw her face, her
eyes closed now, lips held tight to keep her cries silenced. Her
cheeks were colored by a very charming flush. He would wager they
were hot. If he put the tip of his wet tongue to her face, he would
feel the heat of her pleasure. And her shame.

Yes, surely part of that blush was
caused by shame because of what she was doing for him. She, a
noblewoman of fine pedigree blood— woman renown for her diligent
prayers and God-fearing life, spreading herself in the dirt for the
eyes of an "uncivilized, loutish brute", as she called him only
yesterday. Spreading herself, pumping her hips at the night air.
Her pale thighs trembling. Nipples jutting at the moon— just
waiting for his mouth to suckle them.

And all this she gave him for four
extra feet of land.

A half hour ago he could not have
anticipated the pleasure he would get from seeing her this way. He
would have said that watching a woman finger her pussy was nothing
new or interesting.

But watching this woman do it was
indeed fair payment. More than fair, in fact. She was being
extremely generous, and he suspected the reason for that was partly
due to her own sexual frustration.

What would she do if he gave her an
entire field?

Would she let him plow her for it, he
mused?

Her fingertips were wet now too. She
must have a lot of pent up need.

Sal wanted to tear those bars aside
and grind his face into that dripping cunt. He'd make her scream so
damn loud.

Ah, there! There she went, over her
peak, shaking wildly, but still managing to hold back her cries and
moans. Her fingers must be sticky. Yes, he saw her honey shining in
the moonlight as she spread it over her labia.

Opening her eyes again, looking dazed,
she saw him hunched over, fisting his cock like there was no
tomorrow.

Lady Helene de Leon slipped two
fingers over her sex again and then opened her pussy. Opened it as
if to welcome him in.

He shifted on his knees to aim for her
sweet, hot haven. Oh he would fill that tight little pink mouth
with his meat.

Sal began to thrust, his gaze pinned
to her entrance as she held it open. Christ, he could feel it
contracting on his cock, pulling him in.

He'd plow her alright. And plant his
seed deep inside. Deep inside.

With that happy thought plundering his
imagination, he shot his seed in a high arc through the bars of the
gate.

Chapter
Six

If she gave herself time to think
about what she'd done, Helene might have felt embarrassed. So she
threw herself into work the next day, trying to keep her mind
occupied. Perhaps if she pretended it hadn't happened...

But the thoughts crept into her mind
like thieving little imps that would not let her ignore them. Just
like him.

They stole their way into her
conscience and teased her.

Thoughts of Salvador's eyes. His lips.
His broad, thick shoulders. His huge hands. His cock.

Oh, his cock.

Helene had never seen the like of it.
Was not certain she wanted to see it again.

Who was she trying to fool? Of course
she wanted to see it again. It wasn't the sort of thing one could
take in fully from one glimpse.

She had prayed for a full hour last
night after returning home. It hadn't removed the image of his
splendid manhood from her thoughts.

"My lady?"

Helene suddenly realized the dairymaid
milking the cow next to hers was looking at her oddly, and only
then did she know she was blushing. And chuckling to
herself.

"Just...just my thoughts," she told
the maid.

They both got on with the
milking.

Was it true, she wondered, that the
d'Anzeray were descended from a daughter of Satan? That's what
she'd heard throughout her life and had always rolled her eyes at
it. They might be wicked, lawless mercenaries, but she sincerely
doubted there was anything about them that hadn't come from man and
woman. Helene had seen enough of life to know that evil could live
in the most normal, plain and smiling of faces. It didn't need to
be put there by any supernatural force.

As for Salvador, he might not have
horns and cloven feet, she thought wryly, but he did share certain
other attributes with a farmyard beast.

Again the nearest maid's head turned
to look at her, and she hastily quenched her giggles, making her
face solemn. For pity's sake, what had come over her? Helen de Leon
was no giggler. She ought to go down on her knees and beg for God's
forgiveness for her sinful lapse.

Suddenly Harold came running into the
diary, looking for her.

"My lady, my lady! Come quick," he
cried.

Fearing something dreadful had
happened out in the fields— blight had been found in the growing
crops, or an animal was sick with something that would spread among
the herd, she instantly followed him out of the dairy.

The panic increased as her imagination
grew more dire. Was one of the laborers ill, hurt? The men were out
haymaking in one of the fields that day. Had someone swung a scythe
out of rhythm, cutting himself or one of the others? A tumult of
worries flooded down, as she raced out of the dairy, following
Harold.

This was all they needed, she thought
grimly. In another two months, every hand would be required to
bring in the harvest. They could not afford even one man sick for
illness could spread quickly in their small manor and—

Five strange young men stood in her
yard with rakes in their hands and behind them were two oxen and a
plough.

"They've been sent over to help you,
my lady," Harold exclaimed as she stood staring at the unexpected
sight. "The men to help with haymaking and harvesting, the oxen to
plough the fallow fields. After the harvest they can plough the
other fields too."

Still she stood in silence. Part of
her was appalled by this for she knew who had sent these gifts to
her, and she knew why. But another part of her, a small, secret
sliver of her insides, burned with pleasure. He must want a great
deal more from her, since he was this generous. Her pulse skipped
foolishly at the thought of what he might want from her
next.

"He said he noted you had no oxen for
your plough, only men to pull it, my lady. But the work will go
faster with oxen."

Her last two plough beasts had to be
slaughtered when bad disease swept the region last winter and to
purchase new oxen was costly, certainly above her means. The manor
survived now by the skin of her teeth and so she'd had to rely on
men to pull the plough that spring.

"And he said your wheeled plow is next
to useless in this clay soil. But this is a moulboard plough,
better suited for the hard earth."

She was amused to hear how he repeated
all this, his face earnest as he gestured with his hands at the new
wooden plough. "Thank you for the lesson in farming,
Harold."

"Lord d'Anzeray explained it to me,"
he said, grinning, forgetting this was serious business.

"So I see." She walked cautiously
around the plough and the hefty oxen. Sturdy, well-fed beasts. They
would indeed be an enormous help to her farmers. Glancing back at
Harold she added sternly, "He is not a lord, there is no need to
call him one."

"What is he then, my lady?"

A bloody big
bastard
, she mused. "You may refer to him
as d'Anzeray. That is his name." Whatever else he might be she did
not care to think about.

"Very good, my lady."

She had soon put the new haymakers to
work, sending them up into the fields to help the other men. They
looked able, healthy, obliging. He had delivered good workers to
her— that much was obvious by the speed with which they rushed to
obey her—but for some reason they would not look her in the face
and kept their eyes downcast. Well, perhaps, when they were
accustomed to her friendliness they would learn to look at her and
laugh with her, like her own farm laborers. Salvador was, no doubt,
a stern task master and not terribly kind to his men.

At least that was how she imagined him
as a master.

When she walked back to the dairy,
Harold ran after her. "My lady, he sent you another message with
his gifts."

She stopped. "Did he,
indeed?"

Harold stood straight, chin up, hands
at his sides, reciting his message as if it was meant for a king.
"He said that he has seen your beehives being well-tended, my lady,
and he supposes they produce very sweet honey. He would like a
taste, if you can spare any."

"My beehives?"

"Yes, my lady."

Swallowing a chuckle, she took a coin
from the small leather pouch she wore on her belt and pressed it
into his palm. "Thank you, Harold. Tell him...tell him I shall
bring him some tonight. To his gate. As I did before."

The boy nodded, smiling, and ran off
to take his message back the half mile to d'Anzeray's
fortress.

So he wanted a taste. He was working
his way through the senses, it seemed.

Soon would come 'touch'. If she
allowed this game to continue that far.

She really ought to end it now. She
really ought.

But she knew she wouldn't. She
couldn't. Didn't want to.

Helene de Leon, you just
made a pact with the Devi, for a little bit of land.

And apparently a great deal of cock.
She trembled inside, but not out of fear. Out of excitement,
anticipation, and sheer unadulterated lust.

* * * *

"She said she will bring the honey
tonight, sire. To your gate, as she did before."

Tonight? Damn. He'd expected her to
make him wait at least another day. The woman must be eager. "She
liked the plough, eh?"

"Yes, sire. She liked it very much for
there were tears in her eyes and I have never seen that before on
my lady. She is always so strong. Even when Lord Calledaux died she
did not weep."

He scraped fingers over his rough
cheek, feeling a dimple where the urge to smile threatened. She
liked his gift. That simple fact pleased him almost too
much.

Those workers he'd lent to her had
better not look at her with lust in their eyes. He'd given them all
a severe warning before he sent them on their way. They were not to
smile at her, talk to her, or look at anything below her chin, or
he promised them he'd find out. One could never be too careful and
now he'd discovered her surprisingly playful side, he didn't want
it revealed to anyone else.

Again he pondered this possessiveness
he had never before experienced. It almost swept the breath out of
him; it was too much. Perhaps because he had never felt it before
and now he felt it all at once.

It was as if, when he drew a breath of
her fragrance as she stood before him under the sun and bared her
hair for his sight— his sight only— he had scented his
mate.

He finally remembered the boy still
waiting, so he nodded, tossed him a coin and sent him on his way.
"I will look forward to the honey," he said.

The boy caught the coin, grinned,
bowed, and scuttled off.

Although Sal certainly had things to
do with his time, he suddenly found himself walking in circles
around the yard, achieving nothing. Couldn't seem to concentrate on
important tasks.

But he soon had something else to
worry about. A shout from his guard at the gate told him he had
visitors, and not of the sort he'd been thinking about.

Chapter
Seven

He reluctantly showed his brothers
around the half-finished fortress, pointing out the progress lately
made and all the newest ideas he was incorporating into the
structure. Fastidious when it came to details, he liked to have
everything done by the best, most capable craftsmen and to oversee
the work with his own eagle eye, which was why, as he explained to
Dom and Raul, it was taking considerable time to finish the place.
And why he must spend so much of his time there, despite the fact
that, in their opinion, the fortress lacked comfort. Of course,
"comfort" to them —now that they were getting lazy and
complaisant—meant women and soft beds, stuffed with feathers and
down instead of a hard pallet on a drafty floor.