Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7) Page 3

  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.

  He found her lips smiling. For the first time in his memory.

  "Put my fence back where it was," she said, "and I'll grant you a favor in return."

  "A favor."

  "Whatever you wish."

  He stared, thinking he must have misheard, his ears playing wicked tricks upon him. She opened her pretty eyes wider. Not just pretty, he realized, horror-struck. They were stunning, two fields of wind-ruffled, summer lavender.

  "What ails?" she demanded. "Surely you understand a simple trade. What would you take from me in return for two feet of land?"

  His cock answered before he could, swelling instantly in his chausses and growing hard. Finally he found words. "What would you give me?" His voice sounded hoarse, and his tongue felt tight.

  Head on one side she pretended to consider. "I will show you my hair."

  Sal stared at the woman. "I want more than that."

  "Then I want more than two feet of land."

  He said nothing, his mind working in stunned, halting turns.

  She sighed. "Showing you my hair is—"

  "Not enough." He paused. She waited.

  His men were already at the bottom of the slope, glad of a rest and eager for a mug of ale inside, rushing to get out of the heat.

  He looked down at her again. "I want to smell it too."

  A faint line appeared between her brows. "You want to smell my hair?"

  He swung the mallet by his thigh, feeling stupid suddenly, like a shy boy. He nodded.

  After a moment she looked over her shoulder to be sure his men were far enough away. "You will move the fence posts back?" she demanded.

  Sal nodded again, too tense to speak.

  She regarded him with thoughtful, smoky eyes, scanning the width of his naked shoulder and then downward. Slowly. Sal began to feel slightly molested. Perhaps that's how she felt when he looked at her bubbies, he thought wryly.

  "Very well," she said. Slowly she raised her hands to her head and began removing the widow's hood she always wore.

  Again he glanced warily over her head toward the wooden buildings and high walls in the distance, still wondering if this was a trap of some sort, expecting something. Anything but this.

  Once the cloth was tugged free, she handed it to him and he held it for her. Then she proceeded, with quick, supple fingers, to loosen her braid.

  He was stunned. The widow's hair, long thick waves of rich, luscious dark bronze tumbled down over her shoulder, all the way to her hips. All that beauty hidden away from his sight every day. A sharp spear of anger stuck in his chest at the thought.

  And as each lock was pulled free from the braid, it unleashed another wave of warm violets. So that was where the scent came from.

  The mallet slipped from his fingers and landed on the ground with a hefty thud, just missing his own foot.

  Her fingers paused in all that sun-fired beauty and she frowned. "Did you just growl at me?"

  "No," he lied. "Must have been one of the beasts in the field."

  She arched an eyebrow, but made no reply. He watched her hands. They were not as smooth and pale as a lady's should be and her nails were not well tended, but he knew why.

  Sal had watched from a distance as she did all the work about the place and let her husband take the credit. When Sal told her that she wasn't fit to manage the manor alone, he meant only that as a woman she should not be allowed to. In truth— when he forced himself to admit it—he knew her capabilities, but that didn't mean he should approve of her having them. A woman ought to know her place in the world and be content with it.

  But this woman did it all, as if it was normal.

  Soon all her hair was down, spread over one shoulder.

  "Come closer," he muttered, because he'd just found his feet stuck to the earth, too heavy to move. A thick pulse of desire had seized his entire body and he feared that if he was the one that moved he wouldn't be able to stop. He just didn't know where he could flee to. Somehow she would always be there in his mind, tormenting him. There was no escape.

  She stepped closer and tipped her head back, looking up into his eyes without the slightest trepidation.

  Damn woman.

  He bent his head only slightly toward her and inhaled.

  A little breeze picked up a lock of her hair and lifted it to tickle his cheek.

  He closed his eyes and breathed her in. Deeper.


  Why hadn't he fucked her? For five years at least he'd been aware of her there, within a mile of him. So what if she was married then? That had never have stopped him before, if he saw a woman he fancied. He'd tried to tell himself that he simply wasn't attracted to her, but that was a lie. His mind might believe it, but his body knew the truth. Possibly she did too. Cunning wench.

  Helene stepped back. "Well, there you are. Now you will move the posts."

  His gaze traveled slowly over her face. She looked so much prettier, softer and younger without her wimple. He didn't want her to put it back again.

  But on the other hand, he didn't want other men seeing her like this. It was for him alone.

  His heartbeat was thrusting hard and powerful, blood racing through his veins. She'd taken a risk today, fulfilling her side of a bargain first, trusting him not to cheat her.

  Usually that would be a mistake, he mused. But today...today he felt...accommodating. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  She squinted up at him, her hair dancing around her face as the breeze picked up and played with it. When the sun's rays touched that color and added yet another shade it almost looked as if her head was afire.

  And so was he.

  Even when he cleared his throat, Sal's voice remained husky, his tongue holding her scent. "What if I move the posts and give you three feet of land? What would you give me then?"

  She pursed her lips and turned her head, apparently considering. Another wave of lilac lapped over him, soothing and arousing all at once. He almost closed his eyes while he drank it in, but fortunately he kept them open, for it didn't take her long to make up her mind. She looked at him again. Those peculiar, lavender-tinted eyes flickered, flared boldly, as if this idea had come to her in the spur of the moment and she knew it was wicked. But she didn't care.

  Lady de Leon was in a reckless mood.

  Then she smiled, slowly, dazzlingly.

  "Move the posts four feet and see," she said softly, her tone teasing.