Authors: Georgia Fox
“I like this duty of yours,” he whispered. The saucy gleam in his eyes flickered; then burst into flame. And she bathed in the fire.
* * * *
He was supposed to be taking a slight rest, leaning up against the carved head of the bed, but it wasn’t long before his cock took issue with that thought. Emma had carefully washed them all off using the scented water by the bed, and the mere touch of her hands and that wet rag on his proud stallion caused it to rear up again.
“Are you never sated?” she remarked coyly.
Thierry hitched up on his elbows and placed a hand on Wulf’s hard thigh. “’Tis a fine cockerel, Raedwulf.”
Emma turned away to rinse out her rag in the water. Wulf looked down at the man laid out on his bed. Thierry was blatantly admiring his manhood. He reached down and cupped his balls with one hand. His penis was merely inches from Thierry’s mouth. Their eyes met. There was no need to speak. Thierry began to tongue his shaft.
Wulf shuddered, as the man gently squeezed his balls. Thierry continued upward until he’d taken the scarlet crest in his mouth.
At that moment Emma saw what was happening. She knelt at her husband’s side and watched, wide-eyed as the other man suckled on him, drawing on his rock-hard prick as if it was his only sustenance.
“Do the same for him,” Wulf managed between fierce grunts. “And give me your sweet cunny.”
Thus the three of them laid in a circle, sucking, licking and nibbling without mercy, reaching a new summit, time and time again, muffling their cries deep in the body of the one they pleasured.
And much later they tried the honey spoon again, this time in Thierry’s willing arse, while he mounted Emma. Wulf ran his hands over the fine curve of the Norman’s buttocks, feeling the flexing muscles beneath as they worked hard. Emma’s knees were drawn up, her gaze on her husband’s face as he leaned over them both and moved the plug back and forth. The man between them gave a feral grunt, spreading his thighs wider. With one hand, Wulf reached for the small clay pot beside the bed and flipped off the lid.
* * * *
She saw what he was doing, but didn’t understand at first. He’d taken something from the pot and lathered it over his cock from root to head. Only when she saw him remove the plug and apply the same substance to Thierry’s anus, did she realize what was happening. Emma held her breath and watched her husband stand over the other man. His face was calm, almost smiling. Thierry, who apparently also knew what was coming, was far less calm. He began fucking her faster, breathing harshly against the side of her neck, sticking his buttocks higher, as if he meant to tempt and tease her husband.
It worked. Wulf replaced the wax toy with his own member, forcing his way in, while Thierry exhaled strange hissing sounds, his own dick still moving in and out of her pussy. There was one moment when he broke stride, as that massive cock was at last settled between his straining buttocks and Wulf exclaimed gruffly, “Now who is the conqueror, Norman?”
His point made, he took Thierry Bonnenfant for a short, hard, blistering hot ride, forcing him deeper into Emma’s over-indulged pussy with every thrust.
He was a master craftsman and however he wielded his tool that night, his bedfellows made no complaint. They were beguiled.
The three of them would never again share another adventure, although they never forgot that wild, unbound few hours of pleasure.
Soon they all had other concerns to worry about.
Emma had always known it was coming. Like so many things in her life of late, there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Chapter Ten
She was drawing well water and arguing with her husband about whether or not it was her place to do so, when a new arrival clattered through the gatehouse and brought her world to ruin. Both she and Wulf had a hand on the bucket strap, but she almost lost her grip when those horses stormed into the yard, bringing a litter and several smaller carts.
The noise brought almost every resident out to see what had happened.
As the litter creaked to a jarring halt, the curtains around it were swept aside and a pretty face peered out, blinking through the churned dust.
Emma’s heart tightened, the beat arrested briefly. She took a deep breath, drawing in the smell of the place, the scent of the man who stood beside her. The man who had, just a few moments ago, been arguing with her. It was as if she wanted to capture the essence of that place and that moment, because she already knew it would soon be snatched away from her.
Guy Devaux trotted down the steps of the castle to greet the new arrival.
The woman stepped down, helped by one of her dismounted guards. Her gestures were irritable, her voice sharp. “Are you Devaux? Finally I am here after the wild goose chase I was sent on.”
Emma’s fingers relinquished the bucket strap, letting Wulf take the weight.
“I am Amias of York,” the woman’s voice rang out like a peal of bells. “I was sent here by King William to wed Raedwulf the Saxon of Wexford.”
Water from the bucket sloshed on Emma’s gown. She wanted to laugh hysterically. She’d known her cousin would arrive eventually, of course. But for a while she’d let herself believe this happiness was hers; she’d dared to think herself worthy of it.
* * * *
A mistake had occurred somehow. Messengers had taken the wrong orders to the wrong women.
“I did not know what to think when I received the king’s note urging me into a convent,” her cousin exclaimed. “It was not my place to disobey, of course, but when I arrived there, the nuns expected someone else.” She turned, scanning the small group of folk gathered around her and looking beyond, until her eyes found Emma. “
You
— it seems.” Other people had drawn away from Emma, leaving her abandoned, noticeable.
She bowed her head. “It would seem so.”
Feeling Wulf’s gaze upon her, she avoided it, looking instead at the other woman and keeping her face clear of any expression. She hadn’t seen her cousin in years, but she was recognizable still from the spoiled, soft-lipped, short-nosed girl she was back then. Amias of York was well-rounded in figure and younger than Emma. She would make Wulf a proper bride. A fertile bride.
“You told me you came from York,” Wulf muttered, stepping closer.
“I said no such thing,” she replied, still not looking at him.
Guy Devaux ordered his great hall cleared of onlookers until only family members—and the new arrival—remained. “We have a dilemma,” he said, looking at Wulf. “My brother-in-law has wed the wrong woman.”
Emma flinched and clasped her hands tighter. The wrong woman. Not—
another woman
, but a wrong woman. She cleared her throat, raised her chin and said carefully, “It can be amended, my Lord Devaux. I am barren. That is grounds to annul the marriage and the king would raise no objection.”
A few weeks ago it had been her plan to enter a convent, in any case. What had happened between then and now must all be forgotten, ignored, like the comical error it was.
“Well, that’s settled then,” said Amias, who clearly liked the look of Wulf and kept throwing him silly little smiles that made Emma’s stomach churn.
“Yes. It is for the best,” she managed with a taut smile of her own.
Wulf looked at her for a long moment and then turned away, storming off to his workshop. Guy Devaux’s shoulders relaxed and he invited the newcomer to sit and take refreshment after her journey.
But Deorwynn was scowling at her, then at Emma. “We should discuss this matter,” she said firmly.
“There is naught to discuss,” Devaux replied. “Emma has made the wisest decision for us. And for your brother.”
Anxious to get her coffers packed, Emma hurried away, hiding her expression, swallowing the tears that threatened to overwhelm her.
* * * *
“This is madness, my lady,” Joan complained, wringing her hands while Emma folded her clothes and packed them hastily. “You were content here. You told me so yourself. A convent is not the place for you, my lady. You’ve too much life in you yet.”
“Joan, you know this was what I planned originally. We already talked of it. Now do help me. Here—pass that embroidered throw by the window. I haven’t finished it yet and I’d like to take it with me.” She was thinking practically again now, preparing herself for yet another change.
As Joan angrily grabbed the embroidered throw, Wulf’s wooden design for the “honey spoon” fell to the floor and rolled at her feet.
“What is this, my lady?”
Flustered, she snatched it up before the bent maid could reach for it. “’Tis nothing.”
“Your husband’s handiwork?”
“Yes.”
“He’s got clever hands. I’ll give him that.”
Emma tossed the little wooden gadget onto the bed, trying not to remember the wondrous time they’d spent with its wax counterpart. An eye-opening experience, to be sure. Not that she could explain that to Joan. And yes, her husband had very clever hands. Very clever other parts too.
“I know I did not like that Saxon much when we first came, but he grows on me, my lady.”
“Like lichen?”
“Nonsense! He is…he is not so bad. And he is clearly fond of you, my lady.”
“Really? How can you tell?” She laughed to make light of it. “He is so quiet most of the time. I’m sure one wife would be as good as any other in his eyes. I thought you said we are all merely sheaths for their bloodied swords?”
There was a sudden cacophony in the passage outside and the door burst open. Guy Devaux looked in, his face pale as milk. “It’s my wife. I need help. Come quickly. Please.”
Emma went at once—not for him, but for his wife.
* * * *
It was a long, hard labor. Deorwynn’s small body, wracked with pain, struggled to expel the babe that seemed too big for her. Emma had seen similar suffering many times and she was able to take control calmly, sending the fussing men out and rolling up her sleeves.
“Fetch water. Warm it. And any extra linens you can find.”
Deorwynn’s frightened, inexperienced maid hurried to obey.
Behind them, Amias of York stood in the chamber doorway, complaining at the sight of so much bodily fluid and indignity. Joan finally drew her away, finding some more useful employment for the delicate lady. The midwife had been sent for, but she was old and had lately been sickly, confined to her bed. It seemed doubtful she would arrive in time to be of much help.
“Thank God you are here,” Deorwynn ground out, reaching for her arm.
Emma spoke softly, wiping a dampened cloth across the poor young girl’s brow. “Try not to worry. All will be well. Take a few deep breaths. That’s better.” She opened the shutters to let in more fresh air and washed Deorwynn’s face, neck and shoulders. “The child will come. Don’t push yet. Breathe.” She ordered mugwort in wine—something to help ease the pain—but even that was not enough when the babe was finally ready to emerge.
Deorwynn bit down on a knotted rag, her eyes closed tight, the tendons on her neck standing out with the strain. Emma did what she could to comfort, above all knowing the importance of remaining steady, not showing fear or alarm.
Through it all she felt a building wave of emotion swelling in her own stomach. Soon she must leave this place and these people. She would never see them again. But now, in this moment, she was needed there. She hoped the child would be born safely and in health; then one day, perhaps, Deorwynn would tell him about the strange woman who once came there and helped at his birth.
Wulf’s nephew, she thought, another wave crashing in.
* * * *
“Well are you just going to stand there like a wet Monday and say naught?” Joan demanded.
Wulf did not look up from his workbench. The angry little woman had thrust her way into his woodshed and refused to leave, like a scrappy dog nipping at his boot heels. “There is naught for me to say. Your mistress makes her own mind up. I can’t force her to stay.”
“For pity’s sake, are you as thick-headed as you look, Saxon? All she needs is for you to say you want her to stay. ‘Tis all she waits for.”
He wrinkled his nose, skeptical. How could he be sure she wanted to stay with him? She was yielding enough in the bed-chamber certainly, but still there was something hidden under her long, copper lashes and she’d immediately suggested they get an annulment. No equivocating. No doubt.
I am barren, as you know. That is grounds to annul the marriage and the king would raise no objection.
It was almost as if she’d been ready with that plan; as if she’d expected this. As if she’d known it was a mistake.
“You said yourself, woman, she thinks her place is to suffer quietly. There’s no talking sense into one who thinks thus.”
Damned deceitful Norman wench! He should have known she’d be trouble, the moment he saw the shifting colors in her eyes.
* * * *
It took the rest of the day and all night, many notches burned down on the candles, but at last the babe came, a squealing, squirming creature, eyes wrinkled shut, a mass of dark hair surprising Emma. She’d never seen a babe born with so much of it. No sooner had the creature slipped out, been proclaimed a boy and carefully wrapped in linen, than Deorwynn began to seize up again with more pains. A few moments later a second babe was born, this one a girl.
“You have twins, my Lord Devaux,” Emma was able to pronounce a short while later to the anxious father waiting in the passage. He dashed by her to see for himself, even before she had the opportunity to offer congratulations.