Elena's Conquest Read online

  Aimery groaned aloud, his fingers kneading her hard­ening nipples. ‘Little one, how quickly you learn. Your mouth is so sweet. And now, it is my turn …’

  With swift, powerful movements, he lifted her unres­isting body across the bed and crouched between her tender, outspread thighs. Then he bent his head and started to lap at the soft, moist folds of her secret flesh.

  Elena drew up her knees in ecstasy, stroking and clutching at his thick hair as his strong tongue darted fiercely at her quivering bud of pleasure then slid down tantalisingly to probe at her honeyed entrance, thrust­ing and caressing until she moaned aloud, almost at the very brink. Her eyes opened wide in momentary disap­pointment when he suddenly pulled himself up beside her, enfolded her in his arms, and rolled onto his back.

  ‘Ride me now,’ he whispered. Take me into yourself, Elena. Make me your prisoner.’

  As he guided her astride his hips, she shuddered in delirious excitement at her sudden sense of power over him. She saw his soft, lazy smile as her eyes widened in surprise at this new, blissful sensation. Gently, experimentally, she wriggled above him, feeling his hugely thrusting penis desperately trying to gain entry; then, as she poised carefully above it and felt the swollen glans just start to slide between her hungry flesh lips, she gasped aloud in pleasure.

  Carefully, she lowered herself inch by inch. Surely -surely, it was too much! Surely this hot pillar of flesh would never fit inside her own tight, aching entrance!

  Aimery reached up slowly with his strong brown hands, his silvery-grey eyes strangely intent. Gently he began to roll and twist her jutting rosy nipples. The pleasure shot darkly through to her abdomen, like hot tongues of flame; she rose with a soft cry, and sank down again onto his beautifully engorged shaft, grip­ping tightly with her silken sheath as waves of almost unbearable pleasure washed through her.

  He filled her now. Her whole being was nothing but glorious sensation. Languidly, teasingly, he continued to play with her aching breasts, driving her to delirium as she slid herself up and down on his magnificently solid penis, feeling it fill her, possess her, as she gripped tighter and tighter, driving herself relentlessly to glo­rious ecstasy.

  Smiling softly into her dazed eyes, Aimery reached deliberately to stroke her engorged, exposed clitoris with the pad of his thumb. ‘Oh …’ Elena threw her head back with a wild cry, tossing back her mass of golden hair in abandon as the molten pleasure seared her; the Breton’s face tautened as he clutched fiercely at her juicy buttocks and pumped himself into her, spend­ing himself within her just as her own fierce, rapturous orgasm racked her quivering body.

  She collapsed onto his chest, her breasts and hair caressing him, the waves of delight still washing over her as he gently kissed her face, her hands, her hair.

  A candle guttered and went out. She was suddenly aware of the raucous sound of men feasting in the great hall below. Another world; the world where Aimery belonged. A dark shadow passed over her heart. Her face suddenly troubled, she raised her head to gaze down at him, pushing back his tousled hair with her fingers and gently caressing his lean, scarred cheek.

  ‘I want to remember you like this,’ she said quietly.

  He took her finger and nibbled it gently between his lips, sending little pleasure messages through her still-heated body. ‘You talk, caran, as if we are to be separated’ he said softly. ‘Another premonition? Have you so little confidence in me?’

  He cradled her gently in his arms. Elena felt his solid warmth, and tried desperately to fight away her fear, telling herself that all her doubts were a nightmare and this was the reality. She pressed her cheek against his warm chest and listened to the sound of his slow, steady heartbeat.

  Exhausted after two nights without sleep, Aimery’s breathing grew slow, and he fell asleep, still holding her tightly.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was Alys who accidentally let slip to the lady Isobel that Aimery le Sabrenn had not joined his men for the evening meal. Isobel, pacing her room in an agony of tension, whirled round on her unfortunate maid. ‘Then where is he, you fool?’

  Alys, her pocked face stricken with sudden fear as she realised her mistake, backed instinctively towards the door. ‘He - he is with the Saxon girl, my lady! He went to her room immediately on his return, more than an hour ago. Nobody dares disturb them …’

  Isobel strode across the chamber and struck her servant hard on the cheek. ‘You’re lying! Stupid slut, you’re making this up.’

  Alys back whimpering to the door. ‘No, my lady! I swear! They all know about it, down below in the hall. Hamet has told them to begin the feast without him.’

  ‘Get out,’ said Isobel dangerously. ‘You’ve already said too much. Get out of my sight. No - wait! One thing you can do for me - find out where Morwith is. And send her to me immediately!’

  Shaking with almost uncontrollable anger, Isobel waited for Alys’ footsteps to die away down the corri­dor. So, Aimery, instead of celebrating his victory over the Saxons with his men, was in the chamber of the little Saxon slut, pleasuring her, making her gasp and writhe in sluttish ecstasy!

  Like molten iron ready to be forged, Isobel’s anger cooled and hardened. Quietly, she tiptoed down the back stairs, the stairs used by the house serfs to bring hot water and food to the upper storey of the strong­hold. She had her ring of keys fastened to her girdle. Purposefully she went down the dark, echoing stone steps that led to the dungeon where the Saxon rebel Leofwin was still imprisoned.

  She didn’t realise that Alys, still burning from the blow to her cheek, was watching her every move.

  Hamet, though he’d given the order for the feasting to begin, was also missing from the high table, like his master. He’d removed his armour, to wash and change. Then he’d gone outside in the darkness to the stables, to check that the horses were all right. He lingered for a while enjoying the dark peace out there, the scented smell of the hay and the horses’ contented whickering.

  He knew without being told that his master had gone straight to the beautiful Saxon girl’s room. In his fierce loyalty to his master, he was instinctively worried, because he knew that the lady Isobel hated Elena and would stop at nothing to destroy her.

  He went back out into the courtyard, checking that the guards were alert and in position inside the pali­sade. Then, a muffled giggle from the shadows caught his attention, and he whirled round, his sword drawn.

  It was the Saxon redhead Morwith, watching him from the darkness behind the stable wall.

  ‘It’s not your sword I’m after, my lord Hamet’ she murmured huskily. Hamet grinned, his teeth white in the darkness, and strode towards her, catching her up in his burly arms.

  It was there that Alys found them, her attention caught by the soft rasp of indrawn breath and the rustling of clothes as she edged round the corner of the stables. She caught her breath as the cold moonlight shone on the two figures coupled together, oblivious of everything.

  Hamet had caught Morwith up in his big arms, supporting her so that her shoulders rested gently back against the stable wall. While she, her skirts rucked up shamefully around her waist, had wrapped her legs tightly round the Saracen’s hips, locking her ankles together; he was thrusting into her eagerly, his face nuzzling at her generous breasts, while she flung her head back and groaned in delight.

  The Saracen’s loose-fitting hose gaped at the crotch; Alys gasped and felt the blood burn hotly in her cheeks as she glimpsed the base of his powerful, thick shaft, ramming so eagerly up into the lady Morwith’s lasciv­ious flesh, while his heavy balls bounced up and down with exertion. Oh, Morwith was so lucky! If only she, Alys, could feel that huge, dusky penis driving into her own love-starved flesh, ravishing her so sweetly!

  Biting her lip in anguish, Alys pressed herself into the shadows. Avidly, her hand slipped down to her own heated love mound; it was juicy, desperate. Pulling up her full skirts impatiently, she pressed with her busy fingers, working away hotly at her swollen nether
lips. Oh, to feel the Saracen inside her, pumping fiercely away, his mouth guzzling greedily at her own aching breasts …

  Then the Saracen drew his penis slowly out of Mor­with, so that the tormented Alys could see almost all of its slippery black length. Alys bit her lip in an agony of desire as he drove it back in with a hoarse cry of triumph and proceeded to jerk quickly to his climax, his muscular hips thrusting madly, while Morwith bucked and spasmed in his arms, her heels drumming excitedly against his waist. It was too much for Alys. Groaning aloud, squeezing her hard nipples tightly with her free hand, she rubbed fiercely at her clitoris with her fingers, spasming in solitary delight, her secret flesh pulsing and twitching hungrily as she reached her lonely orgasm.

  The inevitable disappointment coursed through her. She wanted a man inside her; a man’s hard, strong flesh, so she could clutch at him with her churning love passage and savour every delicious moment until the last spasm died away.

  Her mouth thinning in disappointment, she let her skirts drop, and waited for the two of them to recover from the violence of their copulation and make them­selves decent.

  That Morwith was nothing but a slut. Alys had heard, indeed the whole castle had heard how she’d spent the whole night with three of the guards. But because she had a bonny, unmarked face and a plump figure, the men were round her like flies to a honey pot.

  Her feet dragging, Alys stepped forward out of the dark shadows. ‘You, Morwith! The lady Isobel wants you,’ she called out sullenly.

  Morwith spun round. ‘Spying again?’ she taunted. ‘I suppose it’s the nearest you’ll ever get to the real thing, Alys!’

  Her mouth pressed tight, Alys headed back to the hall, not waiting to see whether or not the redhead followed.

  Her plans complete, Isobel de Morency glided along the gallery and gazed down into the great candlelit hall below.

  The feast to celebrate the return of Aimery’s soldiers and the rout of the Saxon rebels was in full swing. Serfs rushed from the hot kitchens carrying platter after platter of hot, spicily-scented food: boars head with chervil, venison, roast heron and haunches of pork in cinnamon, accompanied by jugs of strong wine and ale for the jubilant men lining the trestle tables in the body of the hall.

  With a pang of bitterness, Isobel observed that Aimery le Sabrenn had condescended to join his men at last. Seated there at the high table in a fine grey woollen mantle, surrounded by his loyal knights, he looked magnificent, a natural leader of men as he rose to his feet and drank to the health of King William of England. A man to worship with his proudly handsome face and his beautiful, battle-hardened body.

  And he’d just come from the little Saxon’s slut’s bed …

  Isobel’s long fingernails dug into her smooth palms as she watched and waited in the shadows. Her patience was stretched almost to breaking point as the feasting and drinking went on interminably and Aimery, though finished with the food, went on talking and drinking with his soldiers. Hadn’t she known him when he was an impoverished, land-hungry mercen­ary? Hadn’t she helped him rise this high? And yet he’d not bothered to come and see her, his lady.

  The poison gathered in her blood, festering. Stepping at last out of the darkness, she walked along the gallery and glided down the stairs into the great hall, her red silk skirts rustling. There was a satisfying silence as men turned and gaped. They at least knew how beauti­ful, how desirable she was even if the Breton didn’t!

  Swallowing down her icy anger, she walked proudly up to the high table, her head held high. ‘My lord,’ she said in clear, melodious tones, ‘I crave a moment of your time.’

  Silence fell at the high table. Aimery said, ‘Now? Here?’

  Isobel held herself steady. In private, if you please.’

  Aimery hesitated, his face unreadable. Then with a slight bow of his head, he said, ‘My time is all yours, my lady Isobel.’

  Liar, burned Isobel. Liar! But she kept a smooth, calm smile on her face as she turned to go back upstairs, with Aimery behind her.

  To Aimery, Isobel’s chamber seemed dark and oppressively hot after the space and airiness of the great hall. He suddenly became aware that he’d drunk a lot of wine - too much. As he followed Isobel inside, it took him some moments to adjust to the shadowy darkness, relieved only by a single tall candle in a silver holder. Isobel’s hand lay lightly on his sinewed brown forearm; his nostrils were assailed by a musky eastern perfume. He was aware suddenly of impending danger, of some obscure evil.

  Then he saw them. In the dark corner. The redhead, the Saxon serf called Morwith, crouched on all fours; her bottom cheeks pouting obscenely from beneath her ragged tunic. And kneeling behind her, shafting her vigorously, was a big blond Saxon, clad only in ragged breeches, with his hands shackled behind his back. Morwith the redhead was writhing in pleasure, eagerly thrusting her buttocks at the grunting, sweating man as he thrust his penis deep within her.

  Aimery, his mouth set tight, swung round towards the door, suddenly realising that he was in no mood for Isobel’s tricks tonight. But Isobel barred his way, her back to the door, a strange, excited gleam in her dangerous green eyes. ‘Wait, my lord! There is more …’

  ‘Of that,’ said Aimery acidly, ‘I’ve no doubt. But you’ll excuse me, lady, from your entertainments this evening.’

  Isobel’s eyes darkened almost to points of blackness. ‘Even if I tell you,’ she hissed, ‘that the scene in the corner was enacted only yesterday by your little convent slut, Elena, and a Saxon prisoner?’

  Aimery felt the blood drain from his hard-boned face. ‘God’s blood, but you jest, lady. Let me pass. Your games no longer amuse me.’

  Isobel’s eyes spat venom. ‘It’s the truth! Are you so unwilling to hear it? I saw them myself - saw the Saxon scum, pleasuring one another - just like these two! It’s the truth, my lord - ask her! Bring your little slut in, and ask her!’

  Aimery felt the bile rising in his throat. Madelin. Just like Madelin.

  ‘Ask her’ went on Isobel softly in his ear. ‘Force her to watch this pair in their open lust, and see if she can deny it. One thing more, my lord. The man with whom she copulated so eagerly was a Saxon rebel - a traitor. She is a danger to you and your men, conspiring wickedly against you.’

  Madelin and Elena. Elena and Madelin. The past churned up in the dark, wine-soaked recesses of Aim­ery’s agonised brain. He had been making wild, aban­doned love to Madelin when the Saxons came and captured him, just as she had planned. The witch had stood over him, still naked and moist from his love as her Saxon compatriots struck him to the ground, tied him with ropes, kicked him. She’d stood over him, with a smile on her beautiful face, and a long sword in her hand …

  ‘You really thought I loved you, didn’t you, Breton?’ she had taunted him softly. ‘Such pride, such self-delusion.’ It was then that she had slashed at his face. ‘Take him away.’

  Now, the fierce, devouring anger burned white-hot in his brain. ‘Very well, then,’ he grated out to the waiting Isobel. ‘Fetch her.’

  He sat blindly in the carved chair, gripping at its arms for support, while she was gone. The couple on the floor were bucking wildly towards climax; he felt his own phallus rearing hot and hard in cynical desire, pushing against his leather belt. He knew he had already drunk too much wine; but he reached out to fill Isobel’s goblet from the halffull jug at his side, and drank it all down, hoping for numbing release.

  Elena was asleep, dreaming of Aimery when Isobel came in. The soft smile died on her lips when she saw who was shaking her awake.

  The lord Aimery wishes to see you - slut,’ breathed Isobel, with a fierce triumph burning in her eyes. ‘Go, he is waiting in my room.’ Trembling with a nameless fear, Elena clothed herself and left the room. Isobel watched her go, then moved back to the girl’s still warm bed, slipping something quickly between the sheets.

  As soon as Elena entered Isobel’s room, the room that she hated, she saw Aimery, and as he looked at her the expression in h
is cold, slate-grey eyes was enough to fill her with despair. Isobel followed behind her, and shut the door; it was then that she became aware of the couple on the floor, entwined around one another, damply exhausted; Morwith the redhead, and a big blond serf, clad only in ragged breeches, with his hands chained behind his back.

  ‘Leofwin!’ she gasped out, her hand to her mouth.

  Isobel’s chuckle warned her what she had done. The Saxon on the floor turned round to look at her, grin­ning. He looked like Leofwin, but he wasn’t. The sick dread rose through her limbs, numbing her. Aimery said nothing, but watched her from his chair with cold, fathomless eyes. She started to tremble.

  Isobel said, rapturously, ‘So you recognised the little scene they have just enacted for my lord’s entertain­ment! You thought he was Leofwin, didn’t you, this fine Saxon who has just serviced Morwith so delight­fully? With his mane of blond hair, and the shackles on his wrists, I can quite understand your mistake. Because, only yesterday, you were lying on the floor, pleasurably sated, just like Morwith here …’

  Elena took a step forward, her hands clenched to whiteness, ‘No - no!’

  Isobel hissed, ‘Do you dare to deny it? That you coupled, like those two in the corner, with the Saxon rebel Leofwin, while my lord Aimery was away?’

  Elena hung her head in bitter despair, her long golden hair sweeping her pale cheeks. Defeat. Isobel had defeated her.