The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) Read Online Free PDF Page B

tugged on her ripped kirtle, and the wool rose. Past the turn of trim ankles, up shapely legs, past female knees to tempting thighs, where its ascent stopped.
    “Bare the rest,” he said cruelly. “I would examine that which you seek to hide.”
    “I hide naught.”
    She hid her genitals, the inlet of which was well trafficked, he wagered, and which might have a blade strapped to it. He had seen the ruse done before, and to the detriment of one of his best men, a gallant warrior too respectful of womanhood to conduct the required search. That soldier lay dead now, killed by a blade the camp follower had secreted to her privates. She’d used her weapon without remorse, a slash to that respectful warrior’s throat. Spur would never forget how his courtly vassal had bled out onto the dirt whilst the prostitute laughed.
    He pricked this camp follower’s flesh with his dagger. A droplet of blood sprang forth from a vulnerable area slightly above her jutting nipple.
    “Uncover your cunt,” he raged.
    “If you want it, ’tis yours. I give it to you gladly. Only take me away from this place. I care not where we go or what you do to me, but I cannot stay here.”
    “You two quarreled, eh? You and the mercenary leader had a parting of the ways, did you?”
    “Aye. Exactly. If he sees me, he will first have his troops kill me, then you. You are but one man against many.” She batted her lashes. “Why stay here, surrounded by death, when we could be off enjoying ourselves? Hmm?” she added seductively.
    Wicked doxy. What she suggested was despicable—even without direct involvement in murder. With involvement, her offer smacked of the depths of depravity. What manner of evil did he deal with in her?
    His people called him the Devil of Nettlewood, but even he was out of his element here. He had no firsthand knowledge of calculating women like her, selfish females only concerned about their own precious necks. His partners in bed sport were wholesome and earthy creatures, despite their royal titles. Frustrated widows living at court, ladies-in-waiting weary of their boring lives in Winchester. This whore was everything he knew naught about, an immoral slut agreeable to anything if it meant saving her head.
    This situation called for precaution. This female was a diabolical schemer, a murderess once removed.
    Or perchance, not removed at all.
    For all he knew, she might have participated in the actual torching of this settlement. She might have herded those innocents into the Great Hall with a promise of amnesty for their cooperation.
    He would show her the same sort of amnesty those lost souls received.
    “Bare. Your. Cunt,” he snarled. “Do it and you live. Refuse and you die.”
    Again the threat worked. She raised her kirtle belly-high, revealing her loins, a delta ablossom with riotous sable curls.
    An intense scrutiny told him she carried no weaponry, but maddened, he rasped, “Loosen your thighs.”
    She tossed her head, and her streaming brown hair spiraled over her creamy shoulders like a thousand vipers coiled on white sands. “I told you, my lord, away from here.”
    Astonished by her gall, he slipped his dagger briefly between his tight lips for safekeeping whilst yanking off a gauntlet. Then, barehanded, he spread her open.
    Wide open. Splitting her legs like a white chicken he intended to stuff. “Place no demands on me.” After sheathing his weapon altogether—the blade got in his way—he cradled her loins, smoothing a thumb back and forth over the stretched slit. “Bring this forward.”
    When she once again did naught, he pulled the other glove off too, stowing the pair on his belt before placing his bare palm against her exposed buttocks. With more force than was necessary, he tilted her hips, which raised the entrance to her passage.
    He was all set to probe her, to finger her channel deep, when she whispered, “Oh aye. Aye. What you do feels so good. But please, my lord, I beseech you, not