The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) by Louisa Trent Page A

several scratches on her belly, he brushed some moss from her pubic curls. Without ceremony, he knelt before her and parted the pouty lips of her cunt. To satisfy his curiosity, he fingered her as he would, just to see what strokes she preferred.
    Greedy pus! She liked them all.
    She stretched open her thighs so he might do her deeper.
    “Not now,” he chastised. “We are both of us in a hurry to leave. But later,” he promised. “Later I will fuck you hard. I will fuck you until you tell me to quit.”
    “I look forward to an eternity of hard fucking then, for never will I tell you to quit, my lord.”
    He believed her.
    His cock jumping in anticipation, he regained his feet and pushed her ahead. Though he no longer gripped the end of her leash, he knew she would make no attempt at flight. Her object was to leave this place, and he was her method.
    At his steed, he made a cradle of his fingers for her to mount, watching in bemusement as she did, and then swung up into the saddle too, taking up a position at her back.
    Her bare back, save for the unyielding leather strap crossing her breasts.
    She looked over her shoulder at him. “Might I have a cover, my lord?”
    Her nudity beguiled him as few things did anymore, and so he promptly dismissed her request. “No one will see you here in the forest.”
    “The outlaws saw me,” she wheedled. “Fending off attack by another roaming band of thieves will only delay our return to your holdings.”
    “Not at all,” he drily replied. “This time, I will let the outlaws have you.”
    “What!”
    “I do so enjoy lazing back and watching a rousing group coupling. Some of my prior partners, dames left widowed by their knights for the most part, had no objections to being shared. Do you voice objections?”
    “I shall object to naught, refuse you naught.”
    “What a relief. I find participating in orgies an amusing pastime and watching them endlessly entertaining.”
    From his saddle, he untied a silver fox fur. The animal skin provided a layer of comfort between him and the hard ground when he traveled. After wrapping the soft pelt around her shoulders, he kneed his destrier to a gallop. “Sleep. If we ride through the night we will arrive at Nettlewood by dawn.”
    Knowing just where to go to avoid the stinging nettles, he galloped past hedges of thorns and across the moat as the sun rose.
    Unable to rouse his charge, Spur carried her into his keep, past the gawking serfs who tended the fires. He never brought stray waifs home with him, and so they were naturally surprised.
    “Get back to work,” he told them curtly, “or sleep in the kennels with the dogs tonight.”
    After shouldering the portal open, he placed his prisoner on a small cot nestled in the far corner of a chamber he used for storage, mostly for tack in need of repair. Whilst removing his heavy armor and boots, he watched her toss and turn on the straw mattress.
    She slept deeply but restlessly, bad dreams—and a reddened arse—undoubtedly disturbing the slumber her body and mind needed.
    Moving soundlessly, he exchanged the leather leash attached to the collar at her lovely throat for a heavy chain, fastening the end to a metal plate bolted into the stone wall. The chain would permit his prisoner to move freely around the chamber, though the length, whilst generous, would get her no farther than the threshold that led to the hall.
    Confident she could not escape her enforced captivity, he left the chamber then to retrieve a sleeping draught made by an old man who claimed to be an alchemist. The elixir was made of valerian root and various other harmless botanicals, as well as a secret ingredient its maker refused to name. During periods of extended battle, Spur would take the sleeping agent to induce a mindless respite from the rigors of constant warfare. When taken in moderation, the tincture produced a sense of euphoria, along with a twilight repose, half awake, half asleep, a relaxed, altered