Warprize (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 5)(MFMMMMMM) (2 page)

Must get a look at her first though
and ensure she was suitable breeding stock. His father had advised
finding a woman with hips for birthing and good titties for
suckling, but there were other qualities Dominigo meant to look for
too. Not that he would tell his brothers about that for fear of
being laughed out of the family.

He tied the belt and purse around his
hips and slid the ring on his finger. Then he tossed his old, thin
cloak over the corpse, mounted his own horse and led the newly
acquired beast by its bridle. Time to see what else he could claim
as his war prize, for according to that letter there was plenty for
the taking and she wasn't far away.

* * * *

A bone-cold chill swept through the
manor that afternoon and there was nowhere to escape its vicious
tendrils except the cookhouse. Here Cedney Bloodwynne made use of
himself, not just to benefit from the warmth but to hide from his
father's ghost. On days like these, when the wind howled and doors
rattled, the old man was more present than ever, whispering in his
ear. No matter how many times he told his father to leave him
alone, the spirit came back again—usually to tell him he did
something wrong, or wanting Cedney to slice someone's throat
open.

But Cedney had no more time for war.
He was sick of it and just wanted to get on with his life. As he
told his father's ghost, much had happened to him and to the world
in the seven years since old Hereward Bloodwynne's death, since his
only child became an orphan at fourteen. And since, in one
desperate moment of necessity, Cedney also became forever known as
a male.

As she promised her father, she'd led
his remaining soldiers and kept the manor whole for as long as she
could, until their neighbors gave up the fight and Normans
outnumbered her Saxon allies. Then, on bended knee, dressed in
breeches and chainmail, the slender youth pledged fealty to the new
king and survived by a lie. Somehow she'd got away with it. Time
had moved on, and with the turn of every season Cedney became
deeper entrenched in her false identity. So far did she embody it
now that she often forgot her true gender. Most of her father's
counselors had died in the intervening years and if Ordwyn, the
lone survivor, still remembered that Cedney was female, he never
mentioned it.

King William, impressed by tales of
the young lord's bravery, and by "his" noble demeanor at their one
meeting, allowed Cedney Bloodwynne to keep the manor. At least, for
now. Always there was a chance the king's mood would change, but he
was, at that time, more interested in settling the land and making
his mark through building—not just grand structures of stone, but
allegiances. Apparently he saw in Cedney the future and even,
perhaps, a little of himself when he was a youth.

Perhaps her success in this pretense
was not such a surprise. After all, while he was still alive,
Hereward Bloodwynne had tried his best to make her into a boy,
teaching her how to handle a sword, a knife and a club. Treating
her as if she was "one of the lads", never apologizing for his loud
burps at dinner or sparing her ears from his crude jokes. He'd
wanted her toughened up. As a daughter she was merely an
inconvenience and Cedney was made well aware of that fact, so for
much of her youth she'd struggled to please her father by filling
the place of a son, denying her femininity.

Unfortunately, she was now one and
twenty—no more such a slender youth - and it took her longer each
day to hide her feminine curves. But even worse than this, King
William had decided it was time Cedney married a Norman wife. And
he could no longer be put off with excuses.

The chosen bride was on her way to the
manor now, escorted by one of her uncles.Somehow, Cedney must carry
this off. She had played the role of boy, son, lord and warrior.
Now she must also play husband.

But there was deceit and then there
was blasphemy. Cedney had a feeling some would say she'd committed
both by living as a man all these years, and she was also quite
sure the Normans—with their love of law and order—would have a rule
against what she'd done.

On that afternoon, as
wailing wind dashed around corners and rattled bare tree limbs, she
knew her father rode with it, trying to hound her out and lecture
her again, tell her what she should be feeling and thinking and
doing. So she hid here in the cookhouse, amid all the noise and
bustle, where a welcome feast was being prepared for her
bride.
Her bride
.
The woman who came to wed her and—sweet lord—bed with
her.

"Oh, father," she muttered under her
breath, chopping angrily at a slab of newly slaughtered beef, "let
me grow a cock and quickly." Blood speckles shot up over her tunic.
"Or I fear the poor wench might die of disappointment on our
wedding night." What she needed was a cock like the large specimen
belonging to Torvig, one of her younger counselors, a grandson of
Ordwyn, and a fellow who boasted a vast deal about his prowess with
the women.Aye, if only she could borrow Torvig's thrusting spear
for one night to deflower her maiden bride and hopefully impregnate
the wench too.

For whatever her own sins, surely
raising the hopes of a young maiden and leaving them unfulfilled
would be the worst thing she did yet. After all, Cedney knew a
great deal about thwarted lust and frustration—knew what it was to
have a woman's body and never have the pleasure of using
it.

She wouldn't wish her lot on
anyone.

Chapter Two

"You're not my uncle," the prim girl
exclaimed as she stepped out of the small boat and stood among the
reeds, holding her finely woven kirtle off the damp ground. "Where
is he?" she demanded in French. "Where is my uncle Rufus?" Her
expression was more peevish than anxious or fearful. She gave no
assistance to the elderly, crook-backed woman who tried following
her out of the rocking rowboat.

Dominigo stood before her in the dead
man's cloak and lied in her own language, with what he thought was
brazen aplomb. "He couldn't come and sent me instead, my Lady
Rosamund. He is...laid low...with a stomach ailment that keeps him
chained to the privy." While she glowered at him, he stepped around
her to help the old woman. When he put out his hands, the bent
crone looked shocked, wary. But he smiled, picked her up under her
arms and lifted her effortlessly through the weeds to stand on
dryer ground. Her mouth opened wide in surprise. It was as if no
one had ever noticed her presence before, let alone helped
her.

A sour-faced boatman sat with his oars
in the air. Having made no move to assist either of his passengers,
he gave a sniff of relief and quickly pushed away from the bank
side. "Good luck to you," he muttered, shooting Dom a quick, wry
glance as he lowered his oars and began to row quickly away.
"You'll need it."

It wasn't long before Dom understood
the boatman's comment.

"I have had the most terrible
journey," the young girl now shouted at Dom as if everything wrong
was his fault, waving her arms about and spitting French words.
"Lame horses, broken wheels, inhospitable peasants, a boorish
blacksmith, a boat that leaked. And now my own uncle cannot be
bothered to greet me. Does no one in this godforsaken country know
how to treat a lady with respect? I have not eaten since this
morning, and last night I was forced to share my bed with this
wretched old crone just for some warmth."

Dom looked her up and down. So this
was Lady Rosamund Du Clair, of noble blood pedigree, virgin pussy
and good dowry. She had a pretty face, he supposed, although it was
hard to tell when she was busy complaining, her lips turned down
and her brow furrowed with a continuous frown. She was sturdy,
plump and made plenty of noise. None of these things, in his
experience of females, suggested she had lacked sustenance, health
or comfort for long. "You do not appear to have suffered overmuch,"
he muttered.

"Not suffered?
Not suffered
?" Her
cheeks puffed out and became scarlet with indignation.

"You're clean, wench, well dressed,
apparently healthy and walking on two feet. There are many who
can't lay claim to all those advantages."

"How dare you speak to me thus? Who
are you anyway? I don't like you. Why should I believe my uncle
sent you to escort me?"

He showed her the ring with the seal
and then the letter from the stolen calfskin purse. "Your uncle put
these into my hands, as he entrusted your safe passage to
me."

She glowered at the scroll and then at
him again.

"I suggest you tell no one else that I
am not Rufus Redbeard," he added carefully.

"Why should I not?" she
pouted.

"Because if your intended
husband doubts
my
identity he could also doubt
yours
and send you back
again."

"Good," she snapped. "I want to go
back, and you can make yourself useful by taking me."

"I fear I cannot, wench. I have my own
concerns to manage here and have only agreed to escort you as a
favor to your uncle. If your intended does not accept you as his
bride, you must wait here, in the depths of this savage country,
until someone may be found to take you back."

The girl's eyes widened. She shivered
and pulled her fine cloak tighter over her bosom. "I hope you do
not think to ravage me."

He paused. "It had not occurred to
me."

"I know what men are like. Little
better than foul beasts in rut. You had better not lay a hand on me
with such wicked intention. I am a virgin and would sooner suffer
death than let you put your filthy hands all over me."

Dom replied steadily, his amusement
increasing, "Again I can assure you, I have no thought of
it."

"But you are a man."

"And yet I do not go about raping
indiscriminately to pass the time."

She glowered stormily.

"Now," he continued, "since we have a
fair journey yet to travel, we should waste no more time." He bowed
and gestured toward the horses.

For a moment she seemed doubtful
still, but then the wind picked up, tugging on her wimple and her
skirt. She shivered, hunched her shoulders and stomped through the
reeds. "Sacre bleu," she hissed. Again she gave no thought to her
elderly companion, but left the struggling crone to manage her own
path.

"You have traveled long with Lady
Rosamund?" Domingo asked as he offered an arm to the ungainly
figure.

A brown, wrinkled, wizened face peered
up at him. "All her blessed life, young man. And aye...before you
ask...I don't know how I manage it either. But soon, praise be,
she'll be her new husband's burden and no longer mine."

* * * *

"She's here! She's here!" A flurry of
panic and excitement swept the cookhouse, and suddenly Cedney felt
even hotter, as if the flames in the great hearth had caught on her
breeches and she was about to be consumed by fire.

Too dazed and distracted even to think
of putting the butcher's knife down, she walked to the door, her
heart pounding out a battle march.

"Go on then, lad," hissed the head
cook, a thick-set woman with a merry face and scant teeth. "Go and
meet your new wife."

Bewildered, Cedney looked down at the
elderly woman, wondering, as she often did, at this role she'd been
given and where it would all end. She felt alone in this world, a
soul holding a secret that could one day lead to her own death if
it was discovered.

But none of the manor's residents
conceived any difficulty arising from this forced marriage. They
crowded around their young "lord" in the door now, eager to catch a
glimpse of the newcomer. She would have sent them all back to their
work, but Cedney knew it would be unfair of her to do so. The
curiosity was inevitable. They all loved a good wedding and the
excuse to drink themselves silly.

Several hands shoved her firmly from
behind and thus she stepped out into the torch lit yard, still
clutching a bloody knife, to greet her new bride.

But the figure dismounting from a
black warhorse was something very different to what she'd
expected.

Her first thought, on
beholding the man immediately before her was,
Dear God, he's enormous. And dark. And he has thighs as wide
as my torso. And eyes...eyes the color of molten steel.

With one huge hand resting on his
sword hilt, the new arrival stood in her line of startled, confused
sight and stared back at Cedney Bloodwynne in equal astonishment.
His heated gaze caressed her painstakingly from toes to head, while
she stood with her feet melted to the ground, unable to move an
eyelash.

Finally he said, "Are you going to
come at me with that knife? Let's get the fight over with, lad, if
you want to try."

Belatedly she remembered the knife in
her hand and passed it to the cook who stood behind her.

The giant's eyes narrowed, as if he
really had expected a fight. His fingers spread over his sword hilt
and tapped slowly as she took a step toward him.