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

state that left him better able to fight the next day, but still alert enough to spring into action should he be summoned to the front. When the draught was taken with spirits, the elixir lowered inhibitions, loosened the tongue, and resulted in a period of forgetfulness.
    The very result Spur required.
    He poured the mixture into a mazer of ale, filling the maplewood drinking vessel to the rim before returning to her. A knee on the bed, he carefully lifted her head from the pillow and held the goblet to her lips. “Drink.”
    She obediently gulped the brew down with nary a pause. Afterward, when she began to sink into a relaxed state, he propped her body up into a naked, semiseated position and slid next to her. As he waited for the elixir to take hold, he took her injured breast in hand.
    The nipple must be attended to. Though the lash had not broken the skin, he would take no chances on leaving a scar on her flesh.
    Why had she turned toward the whip?
    There was an art to dispensing just discipline, and he excelled at it. His hand was steady. His strokes landed exactly where he planned. He punished aplenty, but he never inflicted lasting injury on his subjects. Why would he, when lasting injury decreased the value of his serfs? He fed his people well, including his prisoners, made sure they received proper nursing when they fell ill, took care of them as he would his children. In return, he demanded absolute obedience to his authority.
    Her injured nipple shamed him. By his own hand, he had done that to her. Had he kept her subjugated to his authority, as was his charge to do, the accident never would have happened.
    There was a lesson to be learned here. Giving in to emotion—anger, passion—threatened his authority. In the future, he would make sure never to lose control again. Others suffered when he did.
    Fortunately, along with the elixir, the alchemist had mixed him a healing balm. He had brought both with him to the storage chamber. Spur anointed the nipple that accused him of a loss of control and then began his prisoner’s interrogation.
    He asked a nonincriminating question first. “Have you knowledge of the mercenary leader who torched Lord Harold’s manor home and the surrounding estate?”
    Eyes closed, she nodded. “Aye, my lord.”
    He took a deep breath, part relief, part disappointment. “What is he called?”
    “Axehand,” she promptly answered.
    “Know you his location?”
    Her lolling head shook against the pillow. “Nay.”
    Impasse.
    Spur tried a different approach. “And you were his whore, is that not so?”
    She shook her head in vehement denial. “Nay, my lord. ’Tis not so.”
    He frowned. “You never bedded the leader of the mercenaries?”
    “Nay, my lord. I have never bedded anyone. The mercenary leader gave his men permission to use me, a fate worse than death I narrowly escaped. I chose the honorable route instead. I chose to walk into the bonfire.”
    “There is no honor in giving up hope,” he muttered.
    “A fact I realized after meeting you. You enticed my animal spirits and made me wish to live.”
    Her coquettish response stirred him carnally, and he looked down the length of her young body, past the peaked, firm young breast to the shapely limbs, slightly parted. Moisture dotted her pubic lips, pubic lips plump with arousal.
    His prisoner was ripe for plucking. Chained as she was and his to do with as he pleased, he could take her now if he chose. Wipe her clean of his seed afterward and she would never know the difference.
    Spur moved away slightly, putting some distance between them.
    He never interfered with serfs. “Are you telling me you have never whored?”
    She giggled. “Only to a candle.”
    “Pardon?” he frowned. “What mean you?”
    “I lost my maidenhead to a candle, my lord. Before the mercenaries burned my cottage to the ground, I made them—erotic candles, that is—for sale at market in London.”
    Whilst he watched, she placed a hand over