Elena's Conquest Read online

  ‘Here is some water,’ Elena whispered. ‘Please drink it.’

  The Saxon managed to raise himself carefully on one elbow, though he grimaced with the pain. She held the waterskin to his parched lips and he swallowed feebly. Then he lay back on the ground.

  ‘I have brought this upon you’ he muttered. ‘And now you’re going to the devil’s lair. God help you, sweet maid.’

  Again, Elena felt that tight constriction round her heart at the mention of Aimery le Sabrenn. The devil’s lair? ‘W … what do you mean?’ she faltered.

  The man’s head twisted round in alarm. ‘Hush! Be silent - ‘ Too late, Elena heard the crunching of boots through the undergrowth behind her. As she whirled round, a cry on her lips, a rough hand caught at her shoulder.

  The Saxon man struggled to raise himself from the ground. ‘Let her go, damn you! Vile Norman scum-’

  The guard silenced him with a swift blow to the stomach that had him doubled up. Then he turned to the girl; and Elena realised, with a shudder of fear, that he was the mounted guard who’d spoken to her earlier and watched her in such a disturbing way.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said softly. ‘The little convent brat. Like to explain what you were doing here, would you? With him?’

  Elena struggled to free herself, but his strong hands dug into her shoulders. He was big and muscular, with a dark, floridly handsome face, and she could smell the wine he’d been drinking.

  ‘I brought him water!’ she retorted defiantly, hoping he wouldn’t notice how her voice shook in secret fear. ‘Poor man - he was injured! I couldn’t just leave him there!’

  His calloused thumbs were fondling her shoulders through the thin material of her gown. He seemed to be breathing strangely, and something in his hot, dark gaze really frightened her. ‘A soft little heart, eh?’ he said, grinning slowly. ‘By Christ, but I’ve heard all about you convent brats. Desperate for it, are you, sweetheart? Well, I’ve got good news for you - no need to make do with a filthy Saxon rebel - ‘

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! Let me go, please, you’re hurting me …’ But before she could even scream, the soldier’s eager mouth had come down thickly on hers, his hot, rasping tongue capturing the inner tenderness of her lips. In desperation she struggled to push him off, but her anguished efforts seemed to excite him all the more. He clutched her helpless body hard against his; she whimpered beneath his fierce kiss and struggled again, but his hands pinioned her already sore wrists with iron strength.

  ‘Here’s one juicy little prize our fine lord Aimery won’t get to first!’ the soldier muttered thickly. Then he reached for the neck of her dress, and ripped at the coarse grey wool; it parted easily, as did her white linen shift beneath it. He went very still then, and his grip slackened involuntarily as he gazed with hungry avid eyes at Elena’s small white breasts.

  With a cry of alarm, Elena tried to turn and run, but he caught her and threw her roughly to the ground, pinning her down with the weight of his heavily-muscled body even as she kicked and struggled wildly beneath him.

  ‘Oh, my little beauty,’ he muttered as he gazed at her soft nakedness. ‘My little dove …’ And he moistened his thin, curling lips as he kneeled in homage over her prostrate form.

  He bent low over her, to kiss her again; she jerked her head to one side in an effort to escape, but he’d got her pinned down, his hands holding her wrists against the ground on either side of her head, while his leather-clad thighs straddled hers. He gazed with lascivious eyes at the blue-veined whiteness of her innocent breasts; then, with a sudden groan, he plunged his head down and started to lick at her tender nipples with his hot, wet mouth.

  Elena felt her body arch in spasm. She was fighting him wildly, wrenching herself from side to side beneath him. ‘Get off me! You brute - ‘

  ‘You can stop pretending now, wench,’ the soldier chuckled. The women back at the camp beg me for this, just as you would if I stopped now! Such lovely little breasts; so perfect, so white, my sweetheart …’

  Still Elena fought on, though she was all but over­powered by the maleness of him, by the harsh threat of his powerfully muscled shoulders, his demanding mouth. Sweet heaven …’

  She tried to kick him. With a harsh oath, the man swiftly pushed both her hands together on the ground behind her head, so that he had one hand free. As Elena felt her strength failing, she watched with wide, horror-stricken eyes as he fumbled with his leather tunic, pulling it up somehow and reaching under it. He seemed to be stroking and rubbing feverishly at himself, while his eyes began to glaze over with satisfaction.

  ‘Ah, my little Saxon,’ he sighed, ‘I’ve been longing for this since first I laid eyes on you.’

  Elena squeezed her eyes shut tightly and prayed for this nightmare to end. It must be a nightmare, mustn’t it? With this hateful man, muttering and trembling above her.

  She opened her eyes again to make one last, desper­ate plea. ‘You must let me go. You must!’

  The words died on her lips. Because what met her eyes was a rigid, swollen shaft of flesh. The soldier gripped it in his hand, seeming to stroke it in some private ecstasy as he gazed adoringly at her naked breasts. Seeing how her eyes opened in horror, he went very still, watching her, letting her get the full impact of his swollen penis. ‘Not seen one of these before, my little nun?’ he whispered softly, cajolingly. ‘There’s many a fine lady like yourself begged me for a sight of this, I can tell you, so take a good look …’ He rubbed his hand slowly, luxuriantly, along the rigid shaft and a drop of clear moisture gleamed and dropped, glistening, on to her tender breast. He bent, adoringly, to lick it off her skin.

  Elena screamed, but the sound was choked in her dry throat as the man lunged forwards and covered her mouth with a hot, devouring kiss. Darkness engulfed her. And then, in the stifling stillness of that forest clearing, there was a sudden, alien sound - a harsh, whistling crack - and the man above her let out a sharp cry of pain.

  For a second, he arched rigid above Elena. Then he slumped to the ground, moaning and whimpering, while Elena hugged her arms round her bruised body, numb with shame and despair. Dear God, what was happening now?

  Then she saw. In the shadows was a group of men, and the one at the front carried a whip. Even as she watched, he raised his hand in a cold, calculating gesture, and the whip cracked out again, cutting with deadly accuracy into the man at her side. The soldier let out a thin sob and doubled up.

  The man with the whip stroked the lash softly, as if it were a friend. Elena, dragging herself to her feet, gazed at her rescuer in helpless fascination. Tall and wide-shouldered, he wore a leather gambeson, with soft deerskin boots encasing his strong legs, and a grey woollen cloak slung across his shoulders. As she watched, he turned and spoke to the men in the shadows.

  ‘Take him back to the camp. Tie him up, and wait there for me.’

  The men did his bidding silently, dragging the whim­pering guard away towards the fires of the soldiers’ camp. Elena was alone with the man who stroked the whip.

  Chapter Two

  Her heart thudding sickly, her dark blue eyes wide with despairing defiance, Elena gazed silently up at this new threat. Then, she almost stopped breathing.

  Something happened to her when she met this man’s scrutiny - she felt a shock of recognition, as if she knew him already. Yet how could she? Certainly, she would never have forgotten him - no one could. His eyes were a pale silver-grey, like ice. Cold, and yet they burned into her. With a little gasp, she felt his face imprint itself for ever on her mind; the thick, tawny hair, so unlike the severely-cropped cuts of his fellow soldiers; the high-bridged, arrogant nose; the harsh jutting cheekbones. And down one lean cheek ran a terrible scar. White and ridged, it drew up the corner of his thin mouth and gave him a perpetual, menacing smile. The most chilling smile she had ever seen. Elena shivered, and bit into her soft lower lip to stop herself from crying out when she saw it.

  He studied her with cold scorn
. ‘I thought,’ he said, in a low cool voice that sent tremors through her exhausted body, ‘that you Saxon vermin would be too weary tonight for such entertainments. Obviously I was wrong. You must be truly desperate to degrade yourself with a common soldier like Mauger there.’

  Elena pulled her torn gown across her breasts, and lifted her small head proudly.

  ‘You think’ she breathed in quiet defiance, ‘that I wanted him to do what he did? My lord, I would rather he had killed me!’

  The scarred man’s eyes narrowed. Why, Elena won­dered desperately, had she called him ‘my lord’? The words had slipped out by mistake; yet there was some­thing about this man that commanded obedience and respect, even from her. She suddenly realised that he was staring at the little wooden crucifix on its leather thong, a pathetic reminder of her former status.

  Abruptly, he reached out with the handle of his whip and touched the cross, playing with it. ‘Such sweet defiance,’ he mocked silkily, ‘from a Saxon rebel. No wonder poor Mauger was inflamed. You tried to tell him you were in holy orders, did you, wench? I hope he considers you worth it.’

  Elena almost cried out at the injustice of his words. ‘He knew!’ she choked out. ‘He knew that I was from the convent!’

  The convent that was a nest of rebels?’

  ‘I am no rebel!’ Elena’s voice broke. ‘Though if this is the kind of treatment I can expect, then I wish I had fought along with them! I would rather be killed than treated like this!’

  She gazed up at him, quivering with anguish. His eyes were as cold as the harsh steel of the sword he wore thrust in his belt. His face was hard and impas­sive. With an idle gesture, he moved the handle of his whip away from the crucifix, and jerked it at the torn material of her gown. It fell apart, exposing her breasts. He flicked lightly at one nipple; it stiffened involuntar­ily, tugging at the soft flesh of her breast, and Elena caught her breath, her hands helpless at her sides at this fresh humiliation.

  ‘So you are still claiming to be a nun?’ He sounded almost bored. Elena felt the blood rise in her cheeks as he made light, circling motions on her tender skin with his whip.

  ‘A novice, sire’ she faltered out. ‘I was destined to take my vows next month.’

  ‘And how old are you, little novice?’

  ‘They tell me I was born in the sixth year of King Edward’s reign - oh!’

  He was thoughtfully feathering her nipple with the tip of his whip. She gasped, and felt a hot, churning sensation in her stomach. Her rosy flesh jutted out with a strange yearning and she felt weak and dizzy. What refined game was this? What was wrong with her? Her breasts swelled and throbbed as he toyed with them so casually. The blood rushed to her face. She wanted to feel his hand there. She wanted him to hold her. His hands looked strong and firm, and cool …

  She shuddered, and he dropped the whip, bored. She clutched the material high to her throat, and tried desperately to regain control of her body.

  The man was speaking to her, saying, Then you are two and twenty, and according to your account, which I take leave to doubt, a complete innocent. That man Mauger - did he violate you?’

  Elena’s face flamed. ‘His very touch was violation, my lord!’

  His face twisted mockingly. ‘I can see I shall have to be more precise. Are you still the virgin you claim to be?’

  ‘I am! How dare you doubt it?’

  His mouth twisted cynically. ‘Well, we shall see. And in the meantime, Mauger will get a flogging he won’t forget.’

  Elena’s head jerked up at that. A man - a Norman -was being punished because he’d dared to assault her, a Saxon prisoner?

  Seeing her surprise, the man went on silkily, ‘You misunderstand, little Saxon. He is not being punished out of deference to your feelings but because he dared to defile my personal property.’ He paused; a sudden shaft of moonlight through the trees caught at his strong, hard profile and glinted on the tawny streaks in his thick dark hair. ‘You see, I am Aimery le Sabrenn, lord of Thoresfield, the man who owns you. Ah, I see from your face that you are acquainted with my name. Learn the rules well, little nun, many don’t get a second chance. No-one tampers with my personal property. No-one.’

  Elena gazed up at him with despairing eyes. She’d known. Somehow, she’d known as she set eyes on him who he was. It was as if the last of her breath had been knocked from her body.

  Meanwhile, the Breton’s hypnotic silver eyes nar­rowed almost to blackness as he inspected his young captive’s anguished face. It was a face of delicate, almost breathtaking fragility. Her skin was so pure and pale that it looked as if it would bruise at the lightest touch. Her deep blue eyes, fringed by thick, soft lashes, gazed helplessly up at him, still wide with despairing defi­ance. Her long blonde curls, totally disordered in her struggle with the arrogant fool Mauger, shimmered like a silver halo in the moonlight. He remembered her small, perfect breasts, and how she’d trembled as his whip brushed their rosy, nubile tips.

  This Saxon maid was beautiful, and spirited. Isobel would like her.

  At the thought of this new acquisition in Isobel’s power, some distant, half-forgotten emotion stirred within him, as he considered how Isobel would make her suffer. His face hardened, and he pushed the thought away without any difficulty. She was a Saxon -a rebel, in spite of her denials. She deserved what she was about to get. They all did. And if she was deter­mined to keep up this pretence of innocence, then she would serve the lady Isobel’s purpose very well.

  He smiled and Elena, on seeing that chilling smile, felt her greatest fear yet.

  Aimery le Sabrenn took the Saxon girl by the wrist. She felt fragile, like some helpless bird. She didn’t struggle. It was almost as if she’d given up as she followed helplessly in his shadow, back towards the firelit circle where his men were gathered. He’d unpinned his grey cloak and given it to her, to hide her shame; he didn’t want any more trouble from his men tonight. She’d kept her eyes lowered as he fastened it around her. She looked dazed with weariness and despair; yet there was still defiance there, he knew, even in her silence.

  Aimery wondered briefly to himself what would have happened if he hadn’t been with his men that night. No doubt the girl would have suffered badly at the hands of Mauger and his friends. He knew, because he’d seen it happen before. She was Saxon, she deserved her fate. Nevertheless, he was angry with his men for attacking the tiny convent, even if it had been harbouring rebels. And, strangely, he was glad he’d been in time to save the Saxon girl from Mauger’s crude attentions.

  He glanced down at the girl’s white face. Her pret­ence of being a nun was quite disarming. Whatever her story, he knew, from cold experience, that she would be sweet when he finally took her, sweet and tantalis­ing, with that slender figure and beguiling though feigned innocence. Also, if Aimery’s judgement was not at fault, her responses would be more than satisfac­tory once he and Isobel had trained her properly. There was no denying how her dark blue eyes had flown open, and her soft lips parted in a gasp, as he teased her tender little breasts with his whip. She had a lot to learn but he would teach her with care, and then would wait patiently, even indifferently, until she was ready.

  His men-at-arms, lolling around the fire with their wineskins, jumped to their feet when he suddenly appeared at the edge of the clearing with the Saxon girl stumbling at his heels. Aimery le Sabrenn smiled to

  himself, feeling the taut scar pulling at his cheek. They were afraid of him. Good. That was how it should be.

  One solitary figure moved slowly out of the shadows towards him. A man not quite as tall as Aimery, but burlier and more thickset, with a face and arms as dark as night, and a gleaming, curved sword at his belt. Elena stifled a little sob of fear as Aimery thrust her towards the man; he saw how she trembled but still held herself straight and proud. He was pleased to see this fresh evidence of her courage; she would need it.

  ‘I want this girl put in chains, away from the rest of the serfs, Hamet,’ Aimery said so
ftly to the Saracen, his servant. ‘For her own safekeeping. I will see to the punishment of the guard, Mauger. Keep the men away from her’

  The big Saracen looked at the trembling Elena keenly. ‘She is beautiful, lord’ he said, in a foreign, sing-song voice. ‘She is for you?’

  ‘For the lady Isobel’ said Aimery. A wintry smile twisted his mouth. ‘Do you think she will like her present?’

  Hamet’s black eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, yes, lord’ he said softly. The girl is a Saxon - and untried?’

  ‘So she claims. Whatever the case, we will soon teach her - Isobel especially’

  The black servant nodded, his eyes devouring Aimery’s captive. He swallowed hard. Aimery saw it, and laughed shortly. ‘You will have your turn, Hamet. But remember, Isobel as ever, is the tutor’

  Hamet nodded eagerly and went for the chains. When he came back with them, the girl cried out in protest but Aimery just nodded to his servant, who began to fasten the cold shackles around her wrists and ankles with powerful yet strangely gentle fingers. As he fastened her arms, the borrowed grey cloak slipped by accident from her shoulders, revealing her small, creamy breasts. The Saracen froze in his task, and Elena gave a low moan of protest as his hungry black eyes fastened on her vulnerable flesh. His big hand jerked slowly towards her tempting breasts, but his master’s voice stopped him like a sword in the back.

  ‘Lay one finger on her before I give the word’ said Aimery, watching impassively with folded arms, ‘and, friend though you are, you will die. Very slowly, I assure you. Now, fasten the cloak around her, and get on with your task.’

  As Hamet worked on her chains, the thunderstorm that had threatened for so long rolled down from the hills. Lightning played on the horizon; low rumbles of distant thunder menaced the still air. Heavy drops of rain were already pattering on the thick canopy of leaves overhead as Hamet fastened the last of Elena’s shackles. Then he swung her easily up in his strong arms and, at his lord’s command, carried her to the shelter of the half-ruined woodcutter’s cottage that lay at the edge of the clearing, where he had already placed his master’s things for the night. Aimery followed, and indicated that Hamet should take the girl into a small thatched outhouse that leaned against the main build­ing. As Hamet lowered her to her feet inside the crude hovel, Elena struggled to hold herself upright, with a last burst of desperate defiance.