Read Online The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) by Louisa Trent - Free Book Online
Authors: Louisa Trent
Tags: BDSM Historical
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was even aware of his presence. Without looking back at him on the mossy bank, she waded deeper into the stream, a waterway, he belatedly realized, deeper than it had first appeared.
Jesu Christi ! How could he have been so blind? The foolish whore was about to take her own life.
Spur flung off his armor and sturdy boots, dropped his garb to the ground with the exception of his soldier’s loincloth—from force of habit, he left the linen in place—and plunged into the river after her.
Tall for a female, she was still only neck-deep in the water when he reached her. But even with that, she was already floundering, sputtering too. Obviously she sought to drown herself.
“Foolish slut,” he shouted and took her firmly by the elbow. After a quick sluice of his own grit-stained body, he dragged her to safety.
Back on the riverbank, he flung her to the dirt.
Chapter Five
Drips puddled beneath her as Mitri rolled up in a ball on her side, her knees drawn up to her bare chest.
The warrior she had coerced into taking her away from Lord Harold’s destroyed village stood over her. Ushering her small store of courage, she glanced up slowly into his face. “Wh-why did you do that?”
“Because you tried to bring harm to yourself. And what was worse, you did so over a pair of worthless outlaws.”
Save for a strip of wet cloth girding the tremendous ridging of his loins, her warden was naked. Huge in stature and big everywhere else, he should have frightened her. Yet she feared him not. Her bestirred animal spirits ignored trivialities like fear.
She lusted after his engorged manhood, wanted it inside her as much as she now wanted to stay alive.
“You defied me,” he continued, his voice quivering, his chest working like bellows fanning a flame. “Worse still, you almost destroyed my property, an ownership I value.”
He considered her his possession and he valued her? Is that what he meant?
Comprehending his words proved difficult, as his virile countenance had set her mind to stuttering.
Here was her first glimpse of the warrior’s face without his helm. And without her fear distracting her. Funny, how a life-and-death struggle negated the impact of a handsome man’s countenance. For now that she had escaped assault, the powerful persuasion of his masculinity hit her full on. This man was everything she knew naught about.
But she did know about pride. Her pride fought back against his wrong opinion of her.
She looked up into his odd metallic eyes, eyes akin to chain mail, silvery eyes chilling her with their icy rage. “Aye, I disobeyed you, my lord. B-b-but I did not try to take my own life. Not then. Then I was merely trying to cleanse myself.”
“What mean you not then ? Merde!” he exploded, his black hair, straight and coarse, brushing against his high cheekbones with the fierceness of his expelled vulgarity. “Is that what you were about to do when I came upon you in Lord Harold’s courtyard—take your own life? I interrupted before you could fling yourself into the bonfire?”
A sting of leather against her wet flank stole Mitri’s breath away before she could answer.
Explain, her thoughts screamed, before he beats his valued property to death.
Before she could, he raged at her again.
“Hearken you to this, wench. Any attempt you make on your own life, you make on my life.”
What?
Then she understood. Her warden needed the name of the mercenary leader to protect himself and his keep from future attack. If she killed herself before revealing his identity, she endangered the nobleman’s holdings.
“Roll over, wench.”
Not wishing to die now that she wished to live, she scurried to do his bidding. In the muddy grass, she flopped over onto her front, her small breasts smashed into the wet earth, her legs straight.
“Too low. Raise up,” he ordered.
Coveting the release that the leather strap offered, she was only too anxious to oblige—so long as her pained bliss did not come
Jesu Christi ! How could he have been so blind? The foolish whore was about to take her own life.
Spur flung off his armor and sturdy boots, dropped his garb to the ground with the exception of his soldier’s loincloth—from force of habit, he left the linen in place—and plunged into the river after her.
Tall for a female, she was still only neck-deep in the water when he reached her. But even with that, she was already floundering, sputtering too. Obviously she sought to drown herself.
“Foolish slut,” he shouted and took her firmly by the elbow. After a quick sluice of his own grit-stained body, he dragged her to safety.
Back on the riverbank, he flung her to the dirt.
Chapter Five
Drips puddled beneath her as Mitri rolled up in a ball on her side, her knees drawn up to her bare chest.
The warrior she had coerced into taking her away from Lord Harold’s destroyed village stood over her. Ushering her small store of courage, she glanced up slowly into his face. “Wh-why did you do that?”
“Because you tried to bring harm to yourself. And what was worse, you did so over a pair of worthless outlaws.”
Save for a strip of wet cloth girding the tremendous ridging of his loins, her warden was naked. Huge in stature and big everywhere else, he should have frightened her. Yet she feared him not. Her bestirred animal spirits ignored trivialities like fear.
She lusted after his engorged manhood, wanted it inside her as much as she now wanted to stay alive.
“You defied me,” he continued, his voice quivering, his chest working like bellows fanning a flame. “Worse still, you almost destroyed my property, an ownership I value.”
He considered her his possession and he valued her? Is that what he meant?
Comprehending his words proved difficult, as his virile countenance had set her mind to stuttering.
Here was her first glimpse of the warrior’s face without his helm. And without her fear distracting her. Funny, how a life-and-death struggle negated the impact of a handsome man’s countenance. For now that she had escaped assault, the powerful persuasion of his masculinity hit her full on. This man was everything she knew naught about.
But she did know about pride. Her pride fought back against his wrong opinion of her.
She looked up into his odd metallic eyes, eyes akin to chain mail, silvery eyes chilling her with their icy rage. “Aye, I disobeyed you, my lord. B-b-but I did not try to take my own life. Not then. Then I was merely trying to cleanse myself.”
“What mean you not then ? Merde!” he exploded, his black hair, straight and coarse, brushing against his high cheekbones with the fierceness of his expelled vulgarity. “Is that what you were about to do when I came upon you in Lord Harold’s courtyard—take your own life? I interrupted before you could fling yourself into the bonfire?”
A sting of leather against her wet flank stole Mitri’s breath away before she could answer.
Explain, her thoughts screamed, before he beats his valued property to death.
Before she could, he raged at her again.
“Hearken you to this, wench. Any attempt you make on your own life, you make on my life.”
What?
Then she understood. Her warden needed the name of the mercenary leader to protect himself and his keep from future attack. If she killed herself before revealing his identity, she endangered the nobleman’s holdings.
“Roll over, wench.”
Not wishing to die now that she wished to live, she scurried to do his bidding. In the muddy grass, she flopped over onto her front, her small breasts smashed into the wet earth, her legs straight.
“Too low. Raise up,” he ordered.
Coveting the release that the leather strap offered, she was only too anxious to oblige—so long as her pained bliss did not come
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