The Good Sinner's Naughty Nun (2 page)

Vivienne unfolded her arms and walked to a nearby barrel. After a brief struggle with her unwieldy habit—an item of clothing not meant for any form of physical exertion—she hitched herself up to sit on the flat top. From this perch she could address all the women at once.

"Men like him—mercenary soldiers—care about four things." She listed them off on her fingers, holding them up. "His sword, his horse, his cock, and his drink."

"
Sister Vivienne
!"

She continued without pause, "The order of precedence varies man to man, but all else remains the same." How Sister Vivienne came to know so much about the male animal was hardly a fitting tale for the righteous ears of her traveling companions, so she skipped that part and hurried onward. "Since we have access to only one of those items, we must use that to negotiate for what we want."

The other women looked at one another, nonplussed.

Vivienne tapped knuckles on the barrel beneath her. "Wine, ladies. By my estimate they'll send someone to fetch another barrel soon." She smiled slowly. "Then they'll have to give us what we want, won't they, because we'll have something to barter."

* * * *

"They
what
?"

The soldier was grim. "They're sitting on the casks, my lord. All of them. We can't have the wine until we feed them."

Thierry realized he'd made a mistake putting the nuns in with the wine supply. How could he have been so foolish? Pondering his unusual stupidity for a moment, he could only put it down to the sudden shock of finding himself custodian to a bunch of nuns. That was enough to excuse any man a momentary blunder. He'd panicked. Now he paid the price.

"Can't you just...push them off?" he demonstrated with his hands through the air, amused by the thought of nuns falling like skittles.

"The men won't lay hands on holy women, my lord."

Thierry groaned.

"It wouldn't be right to risk it," the soldier added, his scarred face solemn. "Not with the journey ahead, over water. The men are too superstitious, my lord."

"Very well," he muttered wearily, realizing that his own wine jug would soon be empty and in need of a refill. "Give them food. I suppose even nuns have to eat, too. It seems their Almighty Lord is lax in providing for his flock tonight and expects me to do it."

"Oh, and she wants to know why they all have to share, when you have this tent to yourself. She says you could share your tent and free up one of the others..." The soldier hesitated, seeing Thierry's expression. "My lord," he added hastily.

Still growing accustomed to the honors recently granted him by the king, Thierry made no comment on the soldier's belated acknowledgement of his new title. In truth, it sat uneasily on his shoulders, for he'd never been one to enjoy responsibility. It had been his plan to remain burden-free all his life, to fight where he was wanted, earn coin where needed, and enjoy himself at every opportunity in between. But last year, on his twenty-seventh birthday, he acquired a wife he did not want—and who did not want him—for anything more than a good swiving.

She was a shrewish, viciously vindictive woman, but he'd married her to save his best friend, Guy Devaux, from the duty. Thus, Thierry believed his recently granted title was King William's way of thanking him for saving Guy, the royal favorite, from a predicament in which he'd entangled himself by falling in love with a woman other than his arranged wife.

Love. Thierry shook his head, laughing softly. He honestly never thought he'd live to see the day when his closest friend Guy Devaux fell in love. But it happened. Love caused honest folk a vast deal of trouble, and one never knew where it might strike.

Strange, unexplained things sometimes happened—like stars falling and comets racing across the sky. Or eclipses of the sun. Or strong men falling in love.

Not that it could ever happen to Thierry. He loved women, of course. And a lot of them. He just didn't
love
them that way. Once the challenge of seduction was over, his mind always moved on to the next conquest.

When he received this mission and the chance to leave his wife behind for a few weeks, Thierry was happy as a horse in clover. A consequence of his unhappy marriage. But now, just when he thought he'd escaped nagging, bitter-tongued wenches for a while, the king sent these wretched nuns into his care. He was the last person on earth who should be asked to play nursemaid to these needy, whining women. It should never have been expected of him. He was a warrior, a man of battle, not shepherd to a bleating flock who could do nothing for themselves. Fury lapped at his pride. When would the world in general stop mocking him?

Good old Thierry, he'll do anything for anyone. See how blindly loyal he is? He married a spiteful whore, pregnant with another man's babe, just to save his best friend. Let's see what we can make him do next.

Thierry examined his fingernails. "If the old hag feels crowded, she can sleep outside. Tell her not to stray too far from the campfire, or she might end up as supper for a few wild animals. Or maybe not," he smirked. "At her age that skin is probably too tough for them. She should be safe."

The soldier bowed and hurried out.

Share his tent? Thierry looked around, shaking his head. His was the smallest tent in the camp and besides, he was supposed to be in charge here. He ought to have a tent to himself. It was his right. He made all the decisions, took on all the responsibilities. He deserved his own tent.

And why was he even justifying it to himself? The stupid woman didn't know what she talked about. He could see this was going to be a long journey. With any luck some of them would fall overboard tomorrow. There would simply be no saving someone in one of those big, heavy, shapeless habits.

"She says it would be too cold to sleep outside tonight, my lord, and the ground is too damp. And she says wild animals aren't the only things the women need to be wary of outside the tent."

In the process of pouring wine into his goblet, he spun around, spilling some on his tray. "
What?
"

"She refers to us, my lord—the soldiers."

Of course, Thierry knew what she'd meant by her comment. His reaction stemmed from disbelief and amusement rather than any misunderstanding. The old woman actually thought that she and her cohorts were in danger from being molested by his men? He shook his head, laughing again.

"She says, my lord, that men are filthy beasts and can't be trusted."

He almost spat out his wine. "You can assure the old harpy that no one—no one—is desperate enough to slake their lust with one of her companions." He grinned. "Although I can't vouch for the goat. He might take one look at her and think he's found a soul mate."

"She said if any one of them get ill, you'll be to blame, my lord. She'll be sure and tell the king how they were treated."

Thierry considered, one finger to his lips in mock solemnity. Finally he grabbed a small fleece from the back of his folding chair. "Give her that."

Now no one could say he didn't try to accommodate their needs, could they?

* * * *

Vivienne looked at the fleece and then the soldier offering it. Despite the fearsome appearance wrought by a long, vicious scar across his cheek, he regarded her timidly, holding this gift toward her at arms length, as if she might bite. Now how did he know that?

"I am teary-eyed at this
generosity and kindness." The fleece was just about big enough to wrap around her shoulders. Just. "Are you certain he could spare it? I wouldn't want him to get cold this evening. In his own, personal tent."

The soldier squinted down at her, shifting uneasily on his feet.

"Do you know, I just had an idea," she exclaimed brightly. "I should thank him personally."

Alarm quickly took possession of the soldier's face, grime and sweat gathering in the deep folds between his brows. "Oh, I wouldn't..."

Grabbing the fleece she marched around him. She had a job to do and if she didn't act soon it would be too late.

Sister Vivienne had to be in that sinner Thierry Bonnenfant's breeches before morning.

Chapter Two

He heard the squawking noise and thought at first that the hens had got out of the crate, or else a wild hog was running rampant through the camp. Then he heard a woman's voice.

"Put me down at once, you filthy pig. How dare you manhandle a Bride of Christ?"

Munching on a leg of roast pheasant, Thierry strolled leisurely to the flap of his tent and raised it with one hand. Dominic was midway between the campfire and his tent, struggling with a wriggling bundle over his shoulder.

That, he thought, taking another bite of his supper, must be the one who did all the talking.

She kicked and cursed, using a surprising variety of oaths for an innocent, pure-minded "Bride of Christ". Even stranger, as she squirmed, showing a slender pair of ankles and a goodly amount of bare leg, Thierry felt a stirring of interest. For a nun of all things.

Just a little more wriggling and her gown would ride up above her knees. And then higher.

He tentatively checked his forehead with his free hand, afraid he might have sun stroke after riding all day. No. Probably just the usual impulsive need for a female. He hadn't fucked one in almost a week and his prick was on the alert for possibilities.

Determined to get free of her captor, she almost succeeded. The soldier nearly dropped her as she kneed him hard in the belly and her foot swung into the poor man's groin. Thierry winced. Poor Dominic. That had to hurt. He took another hungry bite of the pheasant, eyes pinned to the woman's arse as she was spun around again and hauled back over her captor's broad shoulder. In the struggle her wimple was loosened, showing a sliver of dark brown hair. No grey visible at all. Another flash of leg started his juices flowing in earnest and he couldn't look away. The damn woman was lucky she was a nun or she'd be on her back by now in the dirt, those kicking legs spread nice and wide for a rutting she wouldn't soon forget.

Dominic started back toward the animal tent, carrying her high, his helmet knocked to the ground, his gloved hands tight around an apparently trim waist. The rough material of her garment, now gathered inward and given more shape by the soldiers grip, pulled across her top half. A pair of full, round, pert titties jostled above the man's head as he lifted her higher still, trying to save himself from further wounding by her vicious feet.

Thierry flung the pheasant bone to the ground and wiped his lips on his sleeve. Damn. Those were very nice tits and he happened to be quite an expert on the subject having fondled and kissed more than a few in his day. He was hot now. What he needed was a rapid cock-handling to ease his nerves and prepare for a restful sleep, ready for a hard day ahead of them all tomorrow.

Just as he turned away from the struggle by the campfire, the woman fought her way free and headed determinedly for Thierry's tent. The soldier would have pulled her back again, but Thierry held up his hand, an appeasing gesture to the other man. Her steps picked up speed as she approached, shoulders held firm and proud chin up. The heavy wool habit swirled around her ankles, luring his gaze downward, remembering the pretty legs he'd seen and making him think again about what he'd like to do to them—between them specifically.

To a nun
. He sighed heavily. Well, he always knew he was a sinner and probably beyond redemption. Now he knew he was certainly damned to eternity in Hell's fiery pit for thinking lustily about a nun.

Just his luck to be this aroused and have no available woman nearby. There was always male company as an alternative and he was not averse to finding pleasure where he could. But tomorrow they crossed water and anything could happen; they might not make it to the other side. Tonight, therefore, could be his last night on earth and what he really desired was a final supper of pussy. Hot, tight, wet pussy, preferably coming all over his face.

Sadly, all he had was an irate nun, coming over to pick a fight. The only thing his face was about to get all over it was a slap.

He braced for it, arms folded, feet apart. He'd let her take her best swing. Then she could spend the rest of the trip shackled and gagged as punishment.

It was for her own good
, he would explain somberly to his king,
I had no other choice
.

She might be a wretched, holier-than-thou nun, but she was still a wench underneath that habit, still inferior to him, still the lesser gender. She was asking for trouble—a danger to his men and to herself. King William would understand why he had to restrain her for the remainder of the journey and she was about to give him the excuse to do it.