Purebred

The seven bastard sons of
Guillaume d'Anzeray are on a mission to find wives -- women to
breed the next generation of a dark dynasty that many wish to see
extinct.

It won't be easy to find
brides from among the Norman nobility, for the d'Anzeray are
upstarts, their family's fortunes raised through bloodshed and
violence. As one holy man and chronicler of their times has
written,
"From the devil they came and to
the devil they will return".
But these
brothers
don't care much for holy men or
for what is written about them. Now, with the future of their
bloodline at stake these mercenary warriors need wives and they
have no scruples when it comes to claiming the women they
desire.

Purebred

Seven Brides for Seven
Bastards, 3

by

Georgia Fox

M/F/M/M, BRIEF F/F, BONDAGE, BDSM, ANAL,

SPANKING WITH BELT, CUCKHOLDING, DOUBLE
PENETRATION, PUBLIC EXHIBITION,

SEX TOYS, DUBIOUS CONSENT,

AND FORCED SEDUCTION

Twisted Erotica Publishing,
Inc.

A TWISTED EROTICA PUBLISHING
BOOK

Purebred

Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 3

Copyright © 2013 by Georgia Fox

Edited by Marie Medina

First E-book Publication: August 2013,
SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover design by K Designs

All cover art and logo copyright © 2013,
Twisted Erotica Publishing.

ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED:
This literary work may not be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part,
without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book
are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is
strictly coincidental.

DEDICATION

To: Ginger

"
They were ruffians, murderers and wife-stealers. They took as
they desired without bowing to law or God, or
conscience."

Herallt, medieval chronicler, on the
deeds of the d'Anzeray family

Chapter One

1072

Isobel stepped out of her bath and
stood silently while the maid wrapped a clean fleece around her
shoulders. It was cold today, the stone under her bare feet
stinging like blocks of ice, but she was glad of the change from
the long heat of summer. The harsh ache now sweeping up her bones
was satisfying proof that the seasons were changing, time passing.
At last. While the dusty, dry spell had stretched on with
unremitting dreariness, it had seemed to Isobel as if they were all
stuck, trapped in purgatory. But the blessed relief of rain had
come that morning in the early hours. She'd woken to the pleasing
sound of it beating on the shutters of her bedchamber window. It
had seeped into the hard ground and even formed a few puddles in
the yard. Life could finally move forward again. Soon the leaves
would fall and frost would come. Things would change.

If only her body would change too, she
thought, glancing down at her flat belly and small breasts. Alas,
there was no chance of pregnancy to fill her out. Not while her
husband still failed to breach her maidenhead. Despite several
fumbling attempts he had yet to keep a semi-hardened cock in her
presence, let alone one capable of breaking through her barrier.
Subsequently another flux had just come and gone, as it did every
month with tedious monotony. Another chance for a babe was lost
with that blood flushed out of her. Now her body's cycle began
again and with it the interminable wait to fulfill its duty. Her
duty.

The maid began to comb out her long,
wet hair, but Isobel stopped her.

"Thank you, Jeanne. I'll do it
myself."

"Yes, my lady."

She took the comb and walked to the
window, looking down on the yard. A few figures moved around below,
along with some dogs and horses, hens and a few pigs. Two small
children leapt in and out of puddles, laughing for joy at the muddy
mess they made of their feet.

Isobel almost smiled, but then she saw
a familiar, wide-shouldered figure cantering through the gates and
her lips quickly formed their usual hard line of disdain. The
guards jumped to attention, but he greeted them with a casual shout
and a wave of his gauntleted hand.

The easy, confident
gesture annoyed her. Everything about
him
always did.

The way he spoke. The way he moved.
The way he ate. The way he looked at her.

He rode into her husband's castellany
and filled it with his brazen, boasting noise, his brutal, ruthless
masculinity. And Lady Isobel, wife of the man who had hired him,
felt anger, impatience, frustration.

On that morning, even the mere sight
of this mercenary knight brought a sharp halt to her pleasure over
the rain. He'd spoiled the day, shattering her simple joy in the
change of temperature, just as his warhorse's hooves splattered
through the puddles and tore apart the sky's reflection.

He was a common man, a bastard raised
up by his bloodthirsty deeds in battle, and now he thought highly
of himself. Perhaps that was why his arrogance annoyed her even
more than that of most men she knew, for his was built on the pain
and suffering of others.

Isobel had lost a brother to war and
her first betrothed likewise. She could find nothing redeemable in
a man who made his fortune from killing.

Hearing the ruckus outside, her maid
joined her at the narrow window and peered out. "The Blackheart,"
she muttered. "He returns safely again, my lady."

Isobel forced a yawn. "So
it would seem." She kept hoping he would go off on one of his
missions for her husband one day and not return. But he was
apparently indestructible. "And kindly stop referring to him by
that preposterous name. He is Alonso d'Anzeray. But if you must
call him anything,
upstart bastard
will be sufficient."

He dismounted, talking to one of the
grooms and waving his arms about in his usual manner of
exaggeration. A small group of soldiers followed behind him, all of
them spattered with blood and dirt. They looked tired, but content,
celebrating as they gathered around their much-admired leader.
Another battle was won in her husband's name.

"Have you heard, my lady, what they
say about the d'Anzeray men?"

Isobel had, in fact, heard a great
many things said about the notorious brothers d'Anzeray, but to her
shame it didn't stop her morbid curiosity wanting to know more.
"What do they say now, Jeanne?" she snapped.

"That they are descended from the
daughter of Satan, my lady."

Isobel exhaled a curt laugh. "That
explains a lot. Alonso d'Anzeray is a crude beast of a man who
might as well have cloven hooves rather than hands and feet, and
horns instead of ears."

In the four weeks since he first came
there to work for the Baron Louvet, the warrior had shown himself
to have no manners, no couth, no gentility. He slept in the hayloft
over the stables, more at home with the horses than with his fellow
men. He told loud, filthy stories at supper every evening and
monopolized her husband's attention — when he was not seducing the
women of the castellany, rutting like a young bull wherever and
whenever he took a fancy.

"And the seven brothers are collecting
women for a harem, my lady," her maid continued, slightly
breathless. "Their father sent them out to find brides to breed and
they...they share their women."

Isobel sniffed. "This does not
surprise me at all, Jeanne. I suggest you stay well out of his way
while he remains here. It surely can't be for long. Mercenaries and
thieves like him are always on the lookout for a better
opportunity."

"Yes, my lady."

Suddenly, as if he sensed their eyes
upon him, Alonso looked up, swept his shoulder-length black hair
aside, and stared directly at her window. His regard was fierce,
unblinking. One end of his lips moved in a half smirk that also
lifted the corresponding brow in a cocky, sensual arch.

Little Jeanne whimpered and covered
the sound quickly with both hands. But Isobel was betaken by a
sudden wicked impulse. She let the fleece fall from her fingers, as
if quite by accident.

Below in the courtyard, the man they
called "Blackheart" did not blink, but stared, ruthlessly taking in
the sight of her naked body as she stood at the narrow window with
little drips of bath water slowly trickling from her hair. She felt
a frisson of heat ripple across her skin and under it.

"Oh, my lady," Jeanne gasped, stooping
quickly to retrieve the fleece and save her mistress's
modesty.

But Isobel made no movement to cover
herself. She let him look for a moment more and then, with every
ounce of haughtiness she could muster, slammed her shutters closed,
blocking out the grey light and his arrogant, unworthy
face.

* * * *

The Baron was drunk again tonight.
Alonso observed the fact soon after taking his seat at supper in
the great hall. As usual, seated on Louvet's right at the top
table, he was expected to regale the man with all the gory details
of his latest victory.

"I would ride with you myself,
d'Anzeray," the Baron slurred, leaning heavily on the carved arm of
his great chair, "but there is so much to do here and, of course,
until I have strong grown sons to stand in my place I cannot risk
leaving the manor untended."

Alonso merely nodded and drank his
wine. He knew Louvet, like many of his kind, was a coward who
preferred paying others to do his dirty work. But this was
perfectly agreeable for Alonso, who gladly collected a good fee for
shedding blood on the Baron's behalf.

"And it seems my lady wife can't give
me those sons I need," Louvet added, sneering over his shoulder at
the woman seated on his left. "Seven months and no sign of a babe
in her womb. I was sold infertile stock, d'Anzeray. She's all bones
and hard edges, never keeps a bit of fat on her. I should return
the useless wench to her father."