Enchantress

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.

Enchantress

Seven Brides for Seven
Bastards, 6

by

Georgia Fox

M/F/M/M/M/M/M/M/M, M/F/M, ANAL,

BRANDING, ORGIES, PUBLIC EXHIBITION,

AND DOUBLE PENETRATION.

Twisted Erotica Publishing,
Inc.

www.twistederoticapublishing.com

A TWISTED EROTICA PUBLISHING
BOOK

Enchantress

Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 6

Copyright © 2014 by Georgia Fox

Edited by Marie Medina

First E-book Publication: April 2014,
SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover design by K Designs

All cover art and logo copyright © 2014,
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.

"
They came from the bowels of hell to slaughter, ravage and
pillage wherever they went. It was said they were descended from
the daughter of Satan and I know of no man alive in their time who
would doubt it."

The words of Herallt, medieval
chronicler, on the deeds of Guillaume d'Anzeray and his seven
bastard sons.

Prologue

Marrakech, 1062

The little girl had been beaten. He
saw the marks of a strap, or a whip, across her back. When a brawl
broke out in that hot, dusty souk, she had run for shelter
immediately behind a large earthenware pot. And that was where
eleven-year-old Antonino d'Anzeray, separated from his brother
Ramon in the rush and clamor, found her. Approaching the same
hiding place, he saw her back turned toward him and witnessed the
cruel marks through her torn clothing.

She must have heard steps behind her
and turned to see him there.

Her skin was dark, her hair long and
shining, pulled into a snake-like braid. Her eyes, as they assessed
him sharply, were bright but not with fear. Despite all the chaos
erupting around her, she was oddly calm. The strange light in her
eyes, when she looked at him, was curiosity. It was also, he
thought, slightly disdainful.

She chattered at him in a rapid,
foreign tongue, and he was quite sure that whatever she said was an
insult. Her manner was scolding and scornful. Gesturing at the pot
behind which they hid, she then pointed to herself and repeated the
stream of incomprehensible words.

Apparently the girl was trying to tell
him that this was her place for hiding. Not his.

Then she pointed to rough marks carved
into the wall behind the pot. Arabic letters. Was that her name?
Had she claimed the place by writing it there?

"You must come here often," he
remarked.

She glared at him, hands on her small
hips.

"You've been whipped." He moved to
touch her back and she shrank away, eyes widened. "I'm not going to
hurt you," he exclaimed. "I never would." He didn't know why he
added that; she couldn't even understand his language. But it was
suddenly very important that she understood he would not harm her,
and it wasn't merely that he wanted to share her hiding place until
the dust cleared.

He supposed he felt pity. She was very
thin, scrawny. Her eyes were the biggest thing about her. The marks
crisscrossing her back made him angry. What could she have done to
deserve such nasty, cruel punishment? She was younger than him and
much smaller. It made him angry that anyone would do that to her.
To any living creature.

Reaching into the little leather bag
hanging from his belt he took out a sweet pastry he'd been saving
for later. He handed it to her. "You look hungry," he said briskly,
not wanting her to think him too soft. "May as well eat this. I
don't want it."

Unblinking, she glanced at the peace
offering and then looked up at his face. Antonino felt as if her
gaze reached inside him to read his very thoughts. It was
unsettling, and yet he could not make his feet move
away.

Suddenly she grabbed his belt and
tugged him close. The sweet pastry dropped to the ground between
them. He smelled spiced oil in her hair and the saltiness of her
perspiration. There was no time to protest for he had no idea what
she meant to do.

But she kissed him.

The little girl rose up on her toes
and pressed her soft lips to his. He tasted honey and cinnamon,
felt his cheeks grow heated.

Out there in the spinning dust, under
the heat of the ochre-hued, midday sun, his elder brothers enjoyed
their fight, disrupting the market probably because they were
restless again, or thought one of the traders had tried to cheat
them. It didn't take much for a fight to break out around his
brothers — they required little reason, especially on such a hot
day— and where one brother was involved the others soon joined in,
but they considered Antonino and Ramon still too young to fight and
therefore more of a liability in such situations.

Where Ram was now he couldn't say.
Probably taking advantage of the furor to steal
something.

Later his brothers would all tell
their version of events that day, no doubt adding a vast deal of
unlikely, even fantastical, detail. But fearing they would tease
him unmercifully, Antonino did not feel inclined to tell about his
own experiences that day. And so he never did.

Chapter One

England, Ten years
later

Herallt bent over his parchment and
wrote with long, angry drags of his quill.

The bastard sons of
Guillaume d'Anzeray have plundered this land from one end to the
other. They have stolen away the lawful brides of other men and
forced them to submit to a life of degradation.

He paused to glare out at the grey
clouds hanging low that evening. It was a grim sky that had
darkened without sunset, well suited to the monk's vengeful
mood.

The d'Anzeray must be
stopped.

And far worse than the
d'Anzeray's kidnapping of random women for their own evil needs,
was the fact that they had now stolen the
groom
of Herallt's own niece. Not
that he cared about his niece's predicament of being abandoned on
her wedding night. Oh no, it was the shame of that groom's real
gender which was more than he could bear. That Cedney Bloodwynne— a
Saxon earl supposed to marry Herallt's niece Rosamund— was found to
be a female, a woman who had masqueraded as a man for one and
twenty years, fooling not only the soldiers who rode and fought at
her side, but even King William himself.

Then along came Dominigo d'Anzeray to
murder Herallt's brother and steal away Cedney Bloodwynne, having
apparently ascertained immediately what no one else had realized
for so many years. The deserted bride, and therefore Herallt's
family, were made a laughingstock. It was not to be borne. Only
that day he had heard muffled laughter following him through the
cloisters.

A visitor was announced by the low,
shuddering creak of a door opening. Drawn out of his bitter
reverie, the monk set his quill aside then turned stiffly in his
chair.

She wore a heavy cloak with a hood,
but even with her face cast in shadow, her eyes were visible, two
sultry, gleaming orbs of a unique celestial color. They stared at
the monk and through him with an intensity he found unsettling. A
great believer in women being seen and not heard, it was
distasteful to Herallt that he must resort to seeking assistance
from this one, but he'd been told that she had strong powers.
Besides, she too had an axe to grind against the d'Anzeray. An axe
that was cunningly placed in her hands by those who, eager to make
good use of her, whispered in her ear a sly but effective
lie.

"You are prepared?" he demanded. "You
know what must be done?"

"Worry not, monk. An eye for an eye,
as they say." The woman's voice was soft, heavily accented, but
self-assured. "I have waited a long time for a chance to plunge my
dagger into the heart of the beast."

Herallt nodded, his lips twisted in a
cruel smile. "They tell me you are a witch."

The eyes blinked,
momentarily vanishing beneath dark fingers of shade. "I prefer the
term
Foreteller of
Destinies
," came the terse
reply.

A sudden brutal wind blew in through
his narrow, arched window and stung the side of Herallt's cheek
like a hard slap. Oddly enough it did not disturb the solitary
flame of his candle on its way by. Did not even tickle it. He
shivered. It was as if someone had walked upon his
grave.

"Let me see your face," he snapped,
curious to assess the beauty of this infamous woman for
himself.

Slowly she lowered her hood, and the
monk stared through narrowed eyes, almost afraid to look for too
long in case she tried her spells upon him.