Hellion (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 7) (5 page)

He found her lips smiling. For the
first time in his memory.

"Put my fence back where it was," she
said, "and I'll grant you a favor in return."

"A favor."

"Whatever you wish."

He stared, thinking he must have
misheard, his ears playing wicked tricks upon him. She opened her
pretty eyes wider. Not just pretty, he realized, horror-struck.
They were stunning, two fields of wind-ruffled, summer
lavender.

"What ails?" she demanded. "Surely you
understand a simple trade. What would you take from me in return
for two feet of land?"

His cock answered before he could,
swelling instantly in his chausses and growing hard. Finally he
found words. "What would you give me?" His voice sounded hoarse,
and his tongue felt tight.

Head on one side she pretended to
consider. "I will show you my hair."

Sal stared at the woman. "I want more
than that."

"Then I want more than two feet of
land."

He said nothing, his mind working in
stunned, halting turns.

She sighed. "Showing you my hair
is—"

"Not enough." He paused. She
waited.

His men were already at the bottom of
the slope, glad of a rest and eager for a mug of ale inside,
rushing to get out of the heat.

He looked down at her again. "I want
to smell it too."

A faint line appeared between her
brows. "You want to smell my hair?"

He swung the mallet by his thigh,
feeling stupid suddenly, like a shy boy. He nodded.

After a moment she looked over her
shoulder to be sure his men were far enough away. "You will move
the fence posts back?" she demanded.

Sal nodded again, too tense to
speak.

She regarded him with thoughtful,
smoky eyes, scanning the width of his naked shoulder and then
downward. Slowly. Sal began to feel slightly molested. Perhaps
that's how she felt when he looked at her bubbies, he thought
wryly.

"Very well," she said. Slowly she
raised her hands to her head and began removing the widow's hood
she always wore.

Again he glanced warily over her head
toward the wooden buildings and high walls in the distance, still
wondering if this was a trap of some sort, expecting something.
Anything but this.

Once the cloth was tugged free, she
handed it to him and he held it for her. Then she proceeded, with
quick, supple fingers, to loosen her braid.

He was stunned. The widow's hair, long
thick waves of rich, luscious dark bronze tumbled down over her
shoulder, all the way to her hips. All that beauty hidden away from
his sight every day. A sharp spear of anger stuck in his chest at
the thought.

And as each lock was pulled free from
the braid, it unleashed another wave of warm violets. So that was
where the scent came from.

The mallet slipped from his fingers
and landed on the ground with a hefty thud, just missing his own
foot.

Her fingers paused in all that
sun-fired beauty and she frowned. "Did you just growl at
me?"

"No," he lied. "Must have been one of
the beasts in the field."

She arched an eyebrow, but made no
reply. He watched her hands. They were not as smooth and pale as a
lady's should be and her nails were not well tended, but he knew
why.

Sal had watched from a distance as she
did all the work about the place and let her husband take the
credit. When Sal told her that she wasn't fit to manage the manor
alone, he meant only that as a woman she should not be allowed to.
In truth— when he forced himself to admit it—he knew her
capabilities, but that didn't mean he should approve of her having
them. A woman ought to know her place in the world and be content
with it.

But this woman did it all, as if it
was normal.

Soon all her hair was down, spread
over one shoulder.

"Come closer," he muttered, because
he'd just found his feet stuck to the earth, too heavy to move. A
thick pulse of desire had seized his entire body and he feared that
if he was the one that moved he wouldn't be able to stop. He just
didn't know where he could flee to. Somehow she would always be
there in his mind, tormenting him. There was no escape.

She stepped closer and tipped her head
back, looking up into his eyes without the slightest
trepidation.

Damn woman.

He bent his head only slightly toward
her and inhaled.

A little breeze picked up a lock of
her hair and lifted it to tickle his cheek.

He closed his eyes and breathed her
in. Deeper.

Why
hadn't
he fucked her? For five years
at least he'd been aware of her there, within a mile of him. So
what if she was married then? That had never have stopped him
before, if he saw a woman he fancied. He'd tried to tell himself
that he simply wasn't attracted to her, but that was a lie. His
mind might believe it, but his body knew the truth. Possibly she
did too. Cunning wench.

Helene stepped back. "Well, there you
are. Now you will move the posts."

His gaze traveled slowly over her
face. She looked so much prettier, softer and younger without her
wimple. He didn't want her to put it back again.

But on the other hand, he didn't want
other men seeing her like this. It was for him alone.

His heartbeat was thrusting hard and
powerful, blood racing through his veins. She'd taken a risk today,
fulfilling her side of a bargain first, trusting him not to cheat
her.

Usually that would be a mistake, he
mused. But today...today he felt...accommodating. He wiped the back
of his hand across his mouth.

She squinted up at him, her hair
dancing around her face as the breeze picked up and played with it.
When the sun's rays touched that color and added yet another shade
it almost looked as if her head was afire.

And so was he.

Even when he cleared his
throat, Sal's voice remained husky, his tongue holding her scent.
"What if I move the posts and give you
three
feet of land? What would you
give me then?"

She pursed her lips and turned her
head, apparently considering. Another wave of lilac lapped over
him, soothing and arousing all at once. He almost closed his eyes
while he drank it in, but fortunately he kept them open, for it
didn't take her long to make up her mind. She looked at him again.
Those peculiar, lavender-tinted eyes flickered, flared boldly, as
if this idea had come to her in the spur of the moment and she knew
it was wicked. But she didn't care.

Lady de Leon was in a reckless
mood.

Then she smiled, slowly,
dazzlingly.

"Move the posts
four
feet and see," she
said softly, her tone teasing.

"Tell me first, woman!"

She laughed, and his pulse
quickened again. "Move the posts four feet," she repeated,
snatching her wimple out of his tight fist, "and
see
."

Turning, she walked away down the
slope.

The woman was toying with him, as no
other woman would ever dare.

Oh, this was bad, he thought morosely.
He should be holding a hard line and telling her she could expect
no more than he would deign to give her. Yet there he was, thinking
about her hair and what it would feel like to wrap his body in it.
Wondering all sorts of things about her. Whether she liked soft
fucking or hard fucking. Whether she was a screamer in bed, a
howler like a wolf, or a pigeon that cooed. Whether she tasted as
damn good as she smelled.

The sun was getting hotter by the
second.

She had now reached the bottom of the
slope, and her hair was covered again by the wimple. She hadn't
bothered to re-braid all those tumbling waves, but the luster was
safely, properly covered again. Good, it better be. He didn't want
other men's eyes admiring that beauty. Sal coughed, needing to ease
the tension in his throat. He wiped a hand across his sweating brow
and drew his palm down over his face, hoping he hid the sheer lust
that must surely be marking his expression at that moment. Not that
she could see his features clearly from that distance, but if she
realized how much he'd been thinking about fucking her lately, he
would lose— end up giving her the very boots off his feet before
he'd got as much as he wanted from the woman.

And this was too good a game to risk
losing. Yes, she was playing with him, gambling with him, but he
didn't mind it. Not. At. All.

He couldn't help but admire her
bravado, her fearless spirit.

Still, he was confused about what had
brought her to him that day with her negotiating game. Helene de
Leon had never hidden what she thought of him— that he was her
inferior, because he was the bastard born grandson of a blacksmith
and had none of that noble Norman lineage that was so important to
her sort.

However, they both had something the
other wanted, didn't they?

Now he'd have to trust her. If he
moved those posts as much as she wanted, he could be left looking a
fool. On the other hand, she would know she'd found a way to win
herself something from him and doubtless there were other things
she wanted. Other things for which she would bargain.

Chapter
Five

There was no reasoning with the
tumultuous feelings coursing through her body, she'd decided.
Therefore she would concede to this terrible, lusty desire to play
with Salvador d'Anzeray while she still could. The morning sun,
merry birdsong and that glorious expanse of blue summer sky had
cheered her spirit that day, made her feel invincible.

Before a new husband was sent to her
and the walls of her prison closed in, she must make the most of
it.

Later, when her guards reported back
that the fence posts had been moved to give her four feet of
additional land at the end of her field, she felt a skip of
excitement. He had complied, taken her bait. Now she must fulfill
her side of the bargain.

She wrote him a message and sent it
via the boy, Harold, a slim, freckled lad who could approach
d'Anzeray's gates without fear of being shot at with arrows. The
only one of her servants he had ever allowed near his
fortress.

Only after Harold had gone did she
pause to wonder whether Salvador could read. Oh well, too late now.
Hopefully he could.

She ordered a bath and had Elyce rub
her body from head to toe with perfumed oil. And then all she had
left to do was wait for the lowering of the sun.

* * * *

Send all the guards from
your gate at dusk and wait there.

Was she mad? He should send his guards
away from the gate? And then what? Her soldiers would storm them
perhaps?

He looked at the boy Harold, whose
face was open and merry, expectant and eager. "You like working for
your mistress, boy?" he barked.

Harold grinned. "Yes,
sire."

"She's a good mistress? Treats you
well?"

"Of course, sire."

"Perhaps I would treat you better, if
you came to work for me."

The boy's grin faltered, and he
scratched his chin. "For you?"

"That's right. I'll pay you twice
whatever she does and feed you well too."

Harold seemed to consider this for a
while, but then his smile sparked again. "No, thank you, sire. I'll
stay with Lady de Leon. She's the kindest of ladies and looks after
me."

Apparently her servants were loyal. Or
else the boy didn't understand the concept of coin and what "twice"
his wages might mean, he mused. He looked at the boy thoughtfully
as he crumpled the message in his fist and tossed it into the ashes
of his fire.

"Tell me more about your mistress,
boy."

"Why, she is clever and witty. Always
looking to make life at the manor better for all of us. She never
raises her voice to me or her hand." Then he added proudly, "She's
teaching me to read and write." Clearly the boy liked talking about
her.

"Anything else?"

"What else would you like to know,
sire?"

Sal leaned back in his chair. "Since
Calledaux died, she has lain alone, has she not?"

The boy's eyebrows drew together.
"Lain alone, sire? She goes to her private chamber at night with
her maid, sire. I sometimes carry up her bath water and then carry
it back again." He shifted from foot to foot. Was that because he
felt discomforted by the subject, or because he'd been told to stay
quiet and he did so out of loyalty to his wondrous
mistress?

"How old are you, boy?"

"Twelve, sire."

"Then you are old enough to know what
I mean when I ask whether she is chaste."

A light flush suffused the lad's
cheeks and then his ginger eyebrows straightened. His small chin
was up, indignant. "Sire, my mistress is an angel and the
best—"