Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7) Read online

  Like so many others, Helene's husband had given up and given in. It annoyed her, frustrated her that those upstart bastards got away with so much. No one, it seemed, dare stand up to them. Especially not Robert. After his formal protest to the king fell on deaf ears, he made no further attempt. Oh, he complained plenty to anyone who would listen, but he did not act.

  Even worse, Helene knew d'Anzeray had looked with scorn at her husband and thought him weak. That man's sneering looks had been more humiliating to her than the fact that it was true; Robert had been weak, but he couldn't help that, could he? Robert was used to being spoiled and pampered, for he came from grand, well-landed family in Normandy and had never needed to lift a finger to help himself. Life in this adopted, savage land of England after the conquest had come as a bitter shock to the poor fellow. No longer surrounded by familiar comforts, or having a father at hand to fight his battles, he'd floundered. Poor Robert. He'd relied on Helene a great deal and she'd liked having someone to watch over, someone who needed her.

  But she did not like the way Salvador d'Anzeray had looked at her husband and then at her with a darkly knowing smirk. As if he was biding his time.

  Well, d'Anzeray was possibly thinking he could simply step in and take the rest of that land from Helene de Leon Calledaux, now that her husband was dead. But it would be over her corpse!

  She heard the ruckus as he galloped to the gate in a cloud of dust and called out for the "Lady of the manor." Even the way he said it showed no respect, only disdain and sarcasm.

  Helene set down her heavy buckets of water and strode to the gate. "What makes your arse sore today, d'Anzeray?" she called out, wiping her hands on her skirt.

  From his saddle he glared down at her, dark eyes full of heat, narrowed and merciless. "You've been moving fences again, woman." She felt his gaze roaming over her figure. "Or one of your men did it for you."

  Hands on her hips, she replied, "I know not of any fences being moved. And I can assure you that if I wanted such work done I would do it myself. " She wanted him to know she was not afraid of him, even if her husband might have been.

  "Then how can you account for the fence around the far field on your side being two feet closer to my stream?"

  "Two feet?"

  "Aye. I just measured it with my own paces, woman. Did you think I'd never notice?"

  Actually that was exactly what she had thought. But she laughed, squinting up at him. "It amazes me that you have nothing more pressing to do with your time than measure silly fences with your stupid great feet. I, however, do." Turning away, she began to walk back to her well, but he shouted after her through the gate.

  "I'll move the fence back to where it was. Touch it again if you dare and you'll be touching my blade."

  Head high she kept walking.

  He raised his voice again. "Each time I'm gone that wretched fence moves, woman! Next time it moves will be the last."

  Damn the man. Why did he have to come back again? Why couldn't he just fall down a long, long hole?

  "Do you hear me, woman?"

  She stopped, swiveled on her heels and marched back to the gate. The two guards standing there moved swiftly aside, stumbling over their own boots. "The name is Lady de Leon," she spoke slowly, as if to an idiot. "Perhaps you have forgot the name? I know you're an uncivilized, loutish brute and I don't expect you to remember manners since you never had any, but surely you can manage a name."

  His horse shifted uneasily, shaking its tail and its mane, but the other, dumber beast astride its back stared down at her with his usual sneer, his hard eyes taking in every stain and tear in her garments. Finally he said, "For how long do you think you can keep this up?"

  "Keep what up?" she snapped. She'd move the damnable fence as many times as he kept moving it back again.

  "Trying to run the manor alone. 'Tis no place for a woman."

  "I'll manage my affairs. You manage your own. Should I need your opinion I would ask for it. Hold your breath until I do."

  Again his gaze strayed across her bosom, lingering on a tear that stretched from under her arm to just below the upward swell of her left breast. Not only did she see where he looked, she felt it too. Worse than an uninvited caress.

  Well, it should have been unwelcome.

  But Helene suffered a sudden heat between her thighs and prayed to God she wasn't flushing. Oh, she should have mended her gown by now, but there was so much to be done and her appearance was the item of least concern. Now, what was once a hole no larger than her fingertip, had been pulled into a larger rip, thanks to her violent turning of the well pulley. And because of the heat she wasn't wearing a shift beneath her gown.

  "You're barely keeping your head above water," he muttered, his horse fidgeting under him again. "Give the land to me and go back to your family, wo—." He stopped and to her surprise managed a very tight and resentful, "Lady de Leon."

  "I did not think you knew I had a head to keep above water, d'Anzeray."

  He squinted at her. "What?"

  She smirked. "You address most of your insults directly at my breasts."

  His stormy gaze finally found its way upward to her lips. "What?"

  Helene groaned softly and shook her head. "No matter, brainless fool. What else might I expect of a brute beast?"

  He remained there outside her gate, waiting for something. As if she might ever invite him in. Ha!

  Yet she did not move away either. Sometimes, much to her irritation, his presence there had the pull of a magnet. That was why she tried never to get too close, tried to keep a safe distance from the strongest force. But she still felt it tugging slightly.

  "Have you considered my latest offer, madam?" he managed after a long moment's pause.

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "No."

  Every few weeks he came to her with an offer for her land, and every few weeks she turned him down with a few, well-aimed insults. But he didn't give up. He was like a dog with a juicy bone.

  Which was exactly how he was looking at her in her torn gown. She shivered and folded her arms over her bosom. "I'm not going anywhere, d'Anzeray."

  He looked away, grinding his jaw. An even darker frown creased his brow, sweat glistening in the ridges. Still he did not leave.

  "How is your father?" she asked, genuinely curious to know, since Guillaume had been supposedly dying for years.

  "Improved," he snapped, as if it brought him no cheer that his father survived.

  Helene sighed as she thought of poor Robert. "Only the good and the innocent die young."

  His eyes came back to her through the bars of the gate, stinging her face with their stern perusal. "You and I ought to outlive everyone else then, eh?"

  She raised her chin. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Goodness has naught to do with it, and innocence is over-rated. The slow and the weak die first, Lady de Leon. That's why you and I will live to fight forever."

  And thus he turned his horse and galloped home again, leaving her to think about his words.

  Had he just, in his own odd way, paid her a compliment of sorts?

  Oh, he had better not start doing that. While they were insulting one another she knew where she stood; it was comfortable and predictable. God help her if he ever changed his mode of attack.

  Because she had a feeling that he very rarely— if ever— gave a woman a compliment. And she, very rarely, if ever, received one. Or sought one.

  Damn men. They were all mostly useless and pig-headed. At least Robert was harmless and had been content to let her take charge, even if he did insist on taking the credit for whatever she achieved. Robert, really, had been a decorative, handsome, painted wooden screen, behind which Helene could do all the important work, unnoticed and unperturbed.

  Which was exactly the way she liked it.

  Robert never threw strange compliments at her and then rode off all mysterious and sulky. In fact he had never done anything unpredictable. She'd not had to think too much around him, or even listen really because he would never say anything surprising or earth-crumbling.

  She wasn't about to start listening to a man in case he said something interesting. Certainly, Salvador d'Anzeray would be better off if he kept his mouth shut and didn't talk at all. But then the same could be said of most men.

  Chapter Three

  He ate supper by his fire, relieved he could do so tonight without the accompaniment of minstrels. His fortress might be quieter in the evenings, but he liked it that way. Perhaps it had something to do with being the eldest of seven brothers, but he liked his solitude when he could get any. He had a memory of being the only one in his mother's life; the only one she need have time for. It was a sweet, sunny, very brief memory of sitting on her lap while she sang to him in Spanish. Ah, the peace and tranquility before his brothers came along and after that he seldom heard her singing anymore. Nor was there ever enough room for him on her lap. He'd soon grown too big for it anyway.

  Since then the only time he could be sure of a woman's full attention, so he'd found, was when he shouted at her or when he fucked her. Perhaps he couldn't complain about that, since the only time he gave a woman his notice was when she was misbehaving, or when she was ready for fucking. Often, so he'd found, the two came together.

  Then there was the de Leon wench, who misbehaved frequently, but who he had not fucked.

  Yet she had his attention. She had it and she kept it. Even when she was not standing before him.

  Even now, as he should be enjoying his supper, she crept into his mind.

  He wondered if she liked her solitude too.

  It was six months, two weeks and three days since her sapling husband went to his maker. Sal always kept track of important dates, and he remembered that as the day he'd expected to double the size of his property. Only to run headfirst into that stubborn wench who had her own ideas about keeping the land for herself.

  So she'd been alone that long. Was it normal for a woman to go that distance without needing a man's cock? Sal knew he couldn't go that long without pussy, but perhaps women were different.

  Or else she made use of one of her husband's soldiers.

  He scowled and dropped the half-shredded leg of pheasant, suddenly finding the meat too dry and tasteless.

  Aye, the villainess must be getting her purse filled somewhere.

  On the other hand, perhaps she didn't enjoy tupping. Some wenches were like that, or so he'd heard, and Lady Helene de Leon had a reputation for piety, charity and goodness.

  As far as Sal had seen, her husband had been a wilting milksop, so mayhap the woman didn't even know what she was missing in her bed.

  Her bed. Hmm. Those two words sent a sudden heat through his blood, made his muscles tense, as he pictured what that piece of furniture might look like. With her in it. Naked. Her skin dampened by perspiration.

  He picked up the leg of meat again, dipped it in his wine and brought it back to his lips. Her skin would glisten in the candlelight, he thought. Christ, he could picture her laid across a wolf-skin, her legs spread. She would cry out as he put his mouth on her. Oh, he'd make certain she was trembling with need by the time he did.

  Salvador sucked wine and grease from the leg of meat. Sucked hard. And then ripped into it savagely, greedily.

  It wasn't quite enough. Tonight his appetite was insatiable and roasted meat a poor substitute for a woman.

  Did the mouthy, stubborn woman lie alone in her bed?

  Reaching for the wine jug, he drank from it directly and some ran down his chin. Hadn't realized how thirsty he was.

  He sniffed, wiping his mouth on his tunic sleeve. Wench probably slept with a knife under her damned pillow in case of intruders. Probably wore an iron chastity belt. Or had a pussy that would bite his cock off. That could, of course, explain why her husband couldn't manage her either. She was always running her mouth, even when Calledaux was alive and should have corrected her.

  No, that woman must surely sleep alone.

  Piety, Charity and Goodness. Hmph.

  He reached under the table and straightened his cock, which had become uncomfortably constricted in his chausses.

  She slept alone. She must do.

  She'd better, he thought with a sudden flare of anger.

  He'd write to the king if he found out the supposedly prim and proper widow was fornicating with some opportunist little fucker.

  Now his head was aching. Was he drunk?

  Sal soothed his temper by thinking of her lying on that bed again, spread for him. Or bent over for him, on her knees, begging for him to fill her wet cunt. He could well imagine the shape of her bare arse for he'd seen her walking away from him enough times to know the curve and the sway. And the little jiggle. She must have no idea how that angry walk of hers got his seed racing, his balls hard. That insolent, sharp-tongued woman had the type of arse that called out for a man's hand to spank it. To spank it until it was red and glowing, and then she'd need him to soothe it for her, after he'd made her beg...

  Yes, indeed. He might not like to admit it, but his neighbor was comely— if one got beyond the snappish temper and her sly, cheating ways. Nice pair of succulent titties too. His expert eyes could see their lush shape despite the disguise with which she burdened them— a procession of ugly, dirty gowns. She had curvy hips, long legs, and full, proud tits.

  More than all this, she was braver than most men he encountered. She faced him without qualm, spoke without fear or hesitancy, was never afraid to look him in the eye.

  That made her a rarity.

  Being in her bed, he knew instinctively, would be different. Even dangerous.

  Now he had to adjust his erection again. He was marble hard.

  It had not escaped his notice today that she referred to herself by the name de Leon and not Calledaux. Clearly she identified with her own name, rather than her husband's.

  Sal's thoughts wound about that woman like a snake, hissing and spitting. He couldn't help it. He was undeniably curious.

  So, apparently, was his cock, and worse so tonight than ever before.

  He blamed it on the sight of that little bit of soft, damp skin earlier when she came to her gate and he saw the tear in her gown.

  That was another thing— the bloody woman wore no under-shift to preserve her modesty. If she had a husband she wouldn't dare walk around like that. There was no one to control her and keep her in her place, that was the trouble.

  It offended his eyes, he decided, to see her walking about like a whore, with her nipples poking through her wool gown, no demure under-garments to hide those pointy nubs.

  How was a man supposed to go about his business when he had that to look at?

  Indeed, Sal's eyes were so offended that they still hadn't recovered from the teasing glimpse of her breast. Just the under-curve. Like a ripe peach hanging almost within sight. Almost within nibbling distance. He just wasn't capable of looking away.

  Salvador acknowledged reluctantly that sometimes a teasing glimpse of skin on a haughty, quarrelsome wench was more exciting than a stark naked whore on her back with her feet over her head. At least, it was in this case. Even when the wench insulted him in the presence of others and got away with more than any woman ever had, he was aroused.

  He could, quite easily, burn her manor down, slaughter her beasts and send her to join her needle-necked husband in the afterlife. But for some reason he let her go on living there, arguing with him, thumbing her nose at him. Pointing her nipples at him.

  His brothers had openly expressed their puzzlement about this, but then they had not met Lady de Leon. Sal might not actually have told them she was an ancient, wrinkled, saggy-tittied, toothless hag— not in so many words— but if they got that impression from his heavily inferred hints, he couldn't help that.

  The last thing he needed was any of his brothers laying eyes upon his widowed neighbor. That would only complicate the entire issue. And now that they all spent more time at his father's manor, they had more opportunity to catch a glimpse of her. Even though she stayed well away from that side of the valley because of the d'Anzeray reputation, a few of his brothers had taken to riding over and visiting Sal lately. He was never a very genial host and got rid of them again as soon as possible, but there was always a chance that one of his brothers might notice her in the fields one day, close enough to see through her muddied garments.

  The time of keeping them fooled about his neighbor was, he felt certain, running out.

  He ran splayed fingers through his hair, scratching his head wherein all these strange thoughts lurked to cause him agony and confusion.

  Why was he spending so much time thinking about that damnable wench?

  She had to be near five and twenty, for pity's sake! He preferred his women younger, more timid, looking up to him with awe, gratitude and admiration. A female of her age knew too much, saw too much, probably wouldn't appreciate all his wondrous attributes and talents. Even if she did, she'd pretend she didn't. The older a woman, the more trouble she was to keep satisfied. Unless, of course, she was paid for her services.

  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.

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