Page 2 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
“An estate a day’s ride from here. Its lord fought honorably and yielded to me when the battle was won. He has sworn fealty and I’ve no reason to doubt him.”
“Won’t he object to surrendering his home?”
“He understands the penalties of the vanquished. Marriage to a Norman woman would enable me to recognize his loyalty by permitting him to remain at his home.”
“Is he a good man?”
William chuckled. “Harald of Wildstorm is a big red-blooded brute with Viking blood in his veins. The Saxons call him the Butcher, and he’s more than capable of controlling his countrymen.”
“Mon Dieu…”
“Don’t worry, Alain. Despite appearances, he’s a man of honor. He demanded I spare the lives of his men, even when I had the tip of my sword at his throat. A man shows his true quality by how he treats his subordinates rather than his equals—or his conqueror. He’ll make Eloise a fine husband.”
“I shall do as my king wishes.”
“I’m not crowned yet, Alain,” William said. “But I ask you to trust me. I wouldn’t give Eloise to a beast. I’m most distressed she never fully recovered from her illness, and I would see her happy again.”
Alain sighed. “She’s my only child now. Perhaps she’ll be happier in England.”
“Then so be it. Prepare Eloise to travel immediately you return to Morigeaux. The wedding must take place as soon as she arrives at Wildstorm. I shall send her a token of my affection.”
Alain nodded. “You have my thanks.”
“Come, Alain. We sail tonight.”
William spurred his horse and galloped down the hill. Alain sighed, closing his eyes to fight the fear of giving his gentle little lamb to a man known as The Butcher. He tipped his head skyward before spurring his horse in the duke’s wake.
I pray you’ll help my daughter to heal, Harald of Wildstorm.
Chapter 1
Wildstorm Estate, December 1066
Harald baskedin the afterglow of his climax, the woman’s moans of pleasure ringing in his ears. Marlin might be the best whore in the village but Harald knew the difference between a woman genuinely enjoying a good rutting and one screaming with false enthusiasm in order to secure an extra coin.
He sighed at the thought of the evening to come. Honor dictated that after today he must deny himself the pleasure of his Saxon beauties. And though he might be called the Butcher—and rightly so—he was, at least, a man of honor.
Marlin ran a fingertip down his face then brushed her lips against his own. He jerked his head away.
A second pair of hands caressed his chest, wiping the leaves off before he felt a hot mouth on his stomach which worked its way down to the apex of his thighs.
“Be off with you, Gertrude,” he growled.
“But my Lord, it’smyturn—and I ache to taste you”.
“Very well,” he murmured. Gertrude, anxious to ensure he paid her as handsomely as Marlin, administered to him enthusiastically, showing no disappointment when his body was unable to summon similar enthusiasm.
Marlin caressed his shoulders and murmured words of encouragement in his ear. Harald closed his eyes, taking in the sensation of the two whores desperate to please him and the hard, cold ground against his back. The moans turned from groans of pain into screams of agony. Thousands of voices cried in terror until some were silenced, others left to scream for hours. Blood, always blood, the field bathed in the blood of his men. The metallic odor thickened in the air, morphing into the sickly sweet smell of flesh rotting—flesh of the men who lay on the battlefield without hope, dying, watching while their bodies dissolved into the ground…
He sat up, and let out a hoarse scream.
“My lord!! Marlin reached for him but he pushed her away, shaking.
“Are you well, my Lord?”
“Aye, Marlin,” he said. “’Tis only the cold.”
“Let us warm you,” Gertrude coaxed.
