The Virgin Proxy Read Online Free PDF

ribcage.
    The damned wench was just as tempting today as she was last night. Splinters of reluctant winter sunlight snagged in her hair as it tumbled in heavy locks over her rounded breasts. She wore no wimple, just a circlet of holly and mistletoe entwined. Some berries had fallen loose, tangled up in that thick, soft mass like rubies and pearls.
    Alone in his bed last night, he’d laid awake, thinking of the girl in the bath, marveling over his unbelievable good fortune. Looking at the empty bed beside him, he’d thought with excitement of having her in it. He’d imagined them rolling together, his cock finally piercing her maidenhead as she held his shoulders and gasped out his name. He’d even imagined her pink lips forming the word “love”.
    Love? Now he laughed at his own foolishness.
    The wedding party looked at him. He knew they must be wondering what had amused the Bear of Brittany—the man who seldom laughed.
    The chapel was already prepared, the monk inside, the feast laid out, and a group of traveling players were hired to perform in the great hall that evening. Guy could do nothing today but marry Sybilia Senclere and lay claim to her fat dowry. He may be an uneducated son of a whore, but three things he knew well—never turn your back on the enemy, never sleep without your sword nearby and never look a gift horse in the mouth.
    But as Thierry stepped forward to lead the way, Guy stopped him and whispered quickly in his ear. The other man had known him long enough not to question even the oddest of requests. He bowed and hurried on ahead into the chapel.
    Guy Devaux had decided not to be married—not today in any case—but most folk wouldn’t know it. Certainly not from his expression. He had mastered the art of never betraying a pleased thought, which is why most people assumed he never had one.
     
    * * * *
     
    He’d laughed at her. The lecherous Norman goat had just laughed scornfully at her!
    There was some delay while the chapel was readied. It seemed they were no more prepared for a wedding than they were to accommodate women in this fortress.
    Neither Sybilia nor the Norman spoke. Finally they were summoned inside. Deorwynn forced her feet forward into the chapel, but she was trembling, her skin scalded by his closeness.
    Of all the men she might have encountered last night, it had to be him. How skillfully he’d manipulated her with his fingers, driving her to lewd acts. Norman swine. She wanted to spit on his feet as he stood there, repeating his vows. How could he do that to her on the eve of his wedding to another? Easily of course. She tightened her lips over a small groan of despair. He was a Norman. This was the sort of thing Normans did regularly without a thought of repentance.
    And what about her? Was she any better? She had agreed to lay with a man she knew nothing about; a man who would be married to another woman. Although it pained her to admit, Deorwynn knew she was not above reproach. Last night he had tricked her by not revealing his identity; tonight it would be her turn to deceive.
    Cold fingers stretched around her heart, squeezing. Until last night, she’d never known how one man’s keen regard could disrupt her emotions to such a degree; turn her into a wanton hussy. How could she know? He was the first man who’d ever seen her naked; the first to look at her that way.
    A slash of cool, blue white mist fell jagged through the unfinished chapel window and lit him up from head to toe. Like the statue of some pagan warrior god, he stood tall with his hands on his hips and commanded the bumbling monk to get on with it. The poor little fellow seemed quite overcome with his duty and had dropped his book twice, causing a cloud of dust that made Sybilia sneeze uncontrollably. Deorwynn’s gaze tracked downward and she noticed the monk’s unusual footwear—a pair of rather elaborate boots with elongated toes peeking out beneath his ill-fitting robes. Perhaps this was his