Authors: Georgia Fox
The immediate fullness took her breath away as his balls slapped into her vulva, his big hands closed around her hips keeping her anchored in place.
The soldiers held her bent legs off the bed. She had no control, while he rutted her fast and hard. When he came he growled like a wolf, ramming his massive cock into her, over and over, showing off. Letting them all know he claimed her. He was the proud head of his pack.
* * * *
“I thought you were shy,” she mused aloud, stretching beside him on the bed.
He pulled her close to kiss her again. “With women.”
“Not in front of men though?”
“Why should I be?” He lifted his left shoulder. “They’re built the same as me, have the same needs as me. ‘Tis nothing. Women are different. I never know what they’re thinking.”
Men were hardly all the same build as him, she mused, running her hand along his semi-soft penis, stroking it with the back of her fingers. He had not been so humble when he rammed home and shot his load in her half an hour ago. Oh yes, he knew what he had—the beauty and splendor of it. Now he knew for sure, because with this man she could not hold back her lusty temper. Like the storm he lured her true wickedness out into the open.
She hoped her new husband wouldn’t get too big-headed.
“Will the soldiers talk?” she whispered.
“No.”
“They might.”
“Not if they want to keep their tongues,” he replied, stern, confident, unswerving. “I’ve plenty of sharp tools in my workshop to rip them out.”
Emma tipped her head back to look up at him. So there was an edge of violence to quiet Raedwulf after all. The way the soldiers had acted around him suggested they knew it too. Those men had come with him, he told her. He’d known them from the days of his confinement.
She wondered if he’d experimented with those soldiers before, but she didn’t ask. Her husband did not encourage many questions. Perhaps it was something about the methodical way he moved, the brutal honesty of his few words and the intensity in his dark eyes. Raedwulf was a man who watched and saw a great deal, but spoke little. He knew himself well, was comfortable in his own skin. Only women, apparently, were his Achilles heel. She still found it hard to believe he’d never known a woman before, but at the same time she was foolishly glad.
He’d enjoyed claiming her in front of those men, she realized. He’d let them have a taste, but he was the only one who could spill inside her; the only one whose cock would know her like that. Raedwulf’s actions might have appeared munificent, but in the end he’d relished showing the soldiers their place and his.
And hers.
Emma tried to quell her excitement. After all, it was doubtful she would remain his only lover. Sadly, if it was true that he had been a novice, she’d opened a new world to him now and there would be no stopping his hunger to explore. There would be other women. She had no right to complain. She was merely a bride sent by the king and she must do her duty without complaint or question. Raedwulf was her lord and master and she belonged to him. But he could do as he pleased.
It was the way of the world.
In any case, she was not in love with him. She had no heart left to risk for love again. So it was just as well if he did not want that from her. All he wanted was her body and that she could give.
Chapter Eight
When Wulf woke, his wife was already gone from the bed. He opened his eyes to find a small, wizened face with a hooked nose bearing down upon him, black eyes blinking angrily.
“What are you still laying abed for, Saxon? My mistress has been up and about, bright as a daisy, these past two hours at least while you lay like a dead slug.”
He rose up, scratching his head and yawning.
The old woman moved around the bed, still muttering. “Told me to bring you up a bowl of water she did. And some bread. As if I’ve naught else to do but wait on you.”
Wulf glanced over at the large bowl of water, littered with rose petals. Clearly he was meant to wash himself. Again. He’d only just bathed from head to foot yesterday! The bread, however, he grabbed at hungrily and stuffed into his mouth, even before his feet had swung down to the floor. The old woman huffed and puffed, hands on her waist.
“You got the better part of this bargain make no mistake, young man.”
He looked over his shoulder, still chewing the bread.
“My mistress would have been better off going to that convent like she wanted. Now she’s got to stay here and be pawed over by the likes of you.”
A convent? He almost laughed but swallowed it, along with the bread. Somehow he couldn’t imagine a woman as vibrant and lovely as Emma hiding herself away with the nuns in a convent.
“Lucky I got her first then,” he grunted. “Joan isn’t it?”
She nodded, looking surprised that he knew her name.
“What was her first husband like?”
The old woman was picking a fleece blanket off the floor, shaking it out and folding it. “A very good man, honest and true. Loved my mistress dearly. And she him.”
He felt a sharp, mean little knife stab into his chest. “Why did he die?”
“A terrible sickness. He wasted away slowly. It would have been better if it happened fast. Better for him and for my mistress.” She paused and shot him a scowl. “Why do you ask me all this, Saxon?”
“Curious.” He brushed crumbs from his chest and stood. The old woman hastily looked away rather than view his naked body, but he saw her eyes widen in shock before she turned her head. “Ought to know about my wife’s past.”
“I’m shocked you care.”
“Of course I care.”
She frowned doubtfully. “Then ask her.”
But he didn’t know how to talk to her that way. He didn’t know if he could bear to hear, from her own lips, about her love for another man. And would she tell him the truth anyway? He doubted it. She would let him do all manner of things to her body, but there was a barrier keeping him from going beyond.
Joan flung his mantle across the bed. “Put that on for the love of all that’s holy. Looking at that
thing
…is more than flesh and blood can stand at my age.”
He stuffed another crust into his mouth and pulled the mantle over his shoulders.
“My mistress tells me she means to sleep in here with you every night. I never heard of such foolishness.”
Wulf would have been soothed to hear she wanted to share his bed every night, but Joan’s next words ruthlessly ripped that comfort away.
“A lady should have her own chamber. I told her she’ll be sorry. Thinks it’s her duty to lay here with you night after night, suffering. Always been one for suffering has my mistress. Thinks she’s no right to be happy. Ah, but ‘tis a woman’s lot, she says, to put up with it and stay silent.”
Wulf took a step without looking and tripped over the bowl of water, stubbing his toe. He cursed. “Where is my wife this morning?” he demanded of the sneering old woman.
“Where else? Tending to your sister. Fetching and carrying. Like a servant.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“She’s always been that way. Putting other folk before herself. Fair wounds me it does to see her so used.”
“She will not be used badly here,” he replied sharply. And then he couldn’t resist adding, “As long as she behaves herself with me.
Joan sniffed, turning her lip up again. “Behave herself? There’s not a wicked bone in that woman’s body.”
“There was last night.” Wulf chuckled. He reached over and pinched the end of her hooked nose. “And there will be again tonight.”
The maid looked astonished and for a brief moment he thought she might laugh. But she recovered well, slapping his hand away with her apron. “You! Scoundrel!”
“Don’t you worry about your mistress. She’s in safe hands with me.”
“She’d better be, young man. Now for the love of all that’s holy, put some clothes on.”
* * * *
Emma was relieved to see Deorwynn looking rested, chattering and smiling more, less fear clouding her big brown eyes. After helping the young woman wash in a bowl of scented water, Emma dressed her in a clean shift and guided her back into bed, plumping her pillows and rubbing her feet. Deorwynn had protested that she had a maid to help her, but Emma gladly took the opportunity to be useful. Since Henry died she had not felt so needed—only in the way, a burden. Now she could put her acquired nursing skills to practice again.
“You must eat to keep your strength up for the baby,” she said, setting a tray of food in Deorwynn’s lap. “It won’t be long now until the birth, I daresay.” Emma had been present at several births over the years and knew the signs to look for. She might not have given birth herself, but she’d assisted a few babes into the world and that made up for her own loss a little.
“I hope ‘tis not long.” Deorwynn spoke through a full mouth of bread and cheese. “The sooner this Norman brat is out of me the better—oops…” She looked up guiltily. “Sorry. It’s easy to forget you’re a Norman, too.”
Emma smiled. “Won’t your child be both Norman and Saxon?”
“Yes. Poor thing. I hope he has my brains and my husband’s good looks.”
“What if ‘tis a girl?”
“Oh it can’t be. My husband is quite certain this one is a son. He won’t take kindly to a girl.” She sighed. “You know how men are about their offspring—the importance of sons. Though I know he’s all talk. He’d love a girl just as much. Another woman in the world to adore him.”
Yes she knew how men were. Of course, any child was better than none. At that thought she turned away to the window, gazing out at the expanse of pale blue, cloudless sky, while she steadied her expression again.
“I was hungrier than I thought,” Deorwynn exclaimed from the bed behind her.
After a moment, Emma said, ‘Tell me about Raedwulf. What was he like as a boy?”
“Quiet, deliberate and careful in everything he did. Much like he is now. I was only six when my father sent me away to a convent for safe-keeping. Wulf was fourteen, but I remember he always looked after me, protected me. I was closer to him than to any of my other brothers for they were much older. He always stood up for me against them—and against father’s temper, too, from time to time when I crossed it.”
Emma turned slowly to face the young woman on the bed. “I thought he was deaf and mute when I first met him.”
Deorwynn chuckled. “Mute? Oh he makes himself heard when he wants to be. As far as deaf—well, he hears only what he cares to hear. Like all men.”
She nodded. “I see that now.”
There was a pause. “I hope all was well on your wedding night, Emma.”
“Yes.” Emma clasped her hands behind her back and studied her toes, afraid she might be flushed, although she couldn’t feel heat in her face. She certainly
ought
to be blushing.
Another pause and then Deorwynn remarked, “That was quite a wild storm last night, was it not?”
“Indeed.”
* * * *
As she came out of the chamber, carrying Deorwynn’s empty tray with the wash bowl balanced on it, she found Wulf waiting, thick arms across his chest, a scowl darkening his brow.
“What are you doing, Emma?” he demanded gruffly.
“Tending you sister,” she replied, surprised at his tone.
“You are not a servant here. You are
my
wife.”
She shivered slightly at the masterful way he said it. “I know that.”
“Then there is no need to wait on my sister hand and foot. She has a maid.”
“I like doing it.”
His scowl eased. She passed him. Wulf followed, his steps heavy behind hers. Why was he following her about? She did not expect him to take any concern over what she did with her day.
“I thought you would be in your workshop by now,” she flung over her shoulder, wanting him to know she would never keep him from the work he enjoyed.
He said nothing, but Emma imagined she could feel the heat of his gaze on her spine, trailing downward to her hips and buttocks. It was as if he touched her with his hands, although he was too far away to reach her.
“The sky is blue and clear today,” she muttered.
“Aye. The storm cleared the air.”
But did it?
They came down the stone steps and into the main hall where folk and dogs already milled about. Wulf suddenly walked around her and took the tray out of her hands. She was so shocked she could think of nothing to say. A few people watched them. They must be puzzled to see a man lightening a woman’s load, she thought.
Wulf didn’t seem to care.
“I’m going fishing, Emma,” he announced. “You will come with me.”
* * * *
He was dedicated to the cause, but his determination was little advantage. Up to his thighs in the stream, he promised her he could catch the fish with his bare hands if need be. He was, however, using a sharpened stick for a spear. And so far the fish had proven remarkably scarce.
Emma, seated on the grassy bank, glanced down again at the empty basket. They’d been “fishing” for an hour at least, by the angle of the sun. Her husband’s pride would suffer a mighty dent if he did not soon fill that gaping basket with slippery victims. Shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, she watched him standing in the gleaming water and admired the shifting gold that patterned his naked chest. It wouldn’t matter to her if they came away empty-handed, for the sight of that splendid torso, lit up by the reflection of the water, more than made up for it.