Enchantress by Georgia Fox Page B

lived there through all five other
marriages. She had borne the first child, and she had genuine
affection for the other wives. But she loved Raul d'Anzeray, lived
for his every glance and smile and touch. She let herself be
shared, but she wearied of it and yearned to be the only woman in
his heart and his bed.
    Jesamyn sighed. How blind these men
were.
    Next there was Isobel who also had her
secrets. She too pretended not to mind this arrangement, but her
sexual awakening had been at Alonso's hands and that was where her
love belonged.
    Shy little Jeanne became bold only in
the presence of young Ram, as if she wanted to impress him. Around
the others she melted into muteness again, but when he stood near
to her and held her hand, she came out like the sun on the first
summer morning.
    As for Cedney and Dominigo — they were
as close as any married couple she'd ever seen and could hardly
take their eyes off each other.
    These people needed her, she
realized.
    Perhaps her mission here was not one
of death after all.
     
    * * * *
     
    Nino took command that evening after
the wedding feast. He had the new wife first and then, one by one,
allowed his brothers to take their turn mounting her while he
directed the proceedings. She was incredibly supple and
accommodating, a perfect playmate for all seven men. He knew he had
made a good choice, although he still wasn't sure why he'd done
it.
    Somehow she had crept under his skin.
She had bewitched him completely, his lovely
enchantress.
    "I think I love you," he whispered in
her ear, as he took her again at the end of the night, mounting her
from behind, his hands cupping her breasts, pulling her into his
lap.
    "You are an impulsive fool," she
whispered back.
    "Yes," he said simply, laughing. "And
a very lucky one."
    Later he placed that old silver cuff
on her wrist. It had been mended, the broken clasp welded back in
place.
    "I never thought I'd see this again
after I gave it to you," he said. "My brothers and I sailed for
Normandy that evening and never returned to Morocco. I did wonder
what became of that poor little girl. So now I know,
eh?"
    She had been watching his fingers
close the clasp around her wrist. Now she raised her eyes to study
his face. "You sailed...?" Her voice dropped away like the last few
brittle leaves from a tree in late October.
    "Yes, we were called home to work for
William of Normandy."
    "That same day?"
    "Yes. Why?"
    She swallowed hard. "Two years after,
the villages of Khamarin and Masareen were ransacked, burned to the
ground. All the people killed. Did you and your brothers not do
this?"
    "I have never heard of such a place."
He frowned. "We were in France then."
    "You...you are sure?"
    "Of course." He tugged her into his
lap. "Why do you look like that?"
    Herallt had assured her it was them—
the d'Anzeray— who were responsible. Since she found that cuff
among the charred ruins, long before she even knew what the crest
meant, she'd had no cause to doubt the monk's story.
    "I lived there," she said, her voice
little more than a whisper. "In Masareen."
    He raised his eyebrows. "That was the
place where your family died?"
    Slowly she nodded, blinking back the
tears that came to her eyes.
    "And you thought that we did this,
Jesamyn?"
    Again she nodded, unable to
speak.
    Nino closed his arms around her. "No
wonder you hated me then."
    Her heart ached. Gradually she let her
head rest on his shoulder.
    She wondered whether to tell him about
her sister, but she was not ready to do that yet. Eventually she
would, once she was certain he loved her.
    Oh, he said he did now, but how could
he know that so soon?
    She was not used to being loved and
knew nothing about it, but her feelings for him had grown without
the slightest tending, like a garden of neglected saplings, little
sprigs that she'd deliberately trodden upon to discourage them. Not
wanting the trouble and responsibility of nurturing them. It was a
garden still too young to be called love, but it