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

goodly stretch of her nubile young body—and a further invasion of her most intimate privacy—over which his vantage point would award him a unique visual perspective. Alas, the agony of his heavy testicles was bound to interfere with his enjoyment.
    Damn her seductiveness, anyway! And damn himself too, for thinking to make her squirm by tossing out some poisoned bait. ’Twas a poorly thought-out maneuver from the very beginning. He was the one who squirmed—in male discomfort—not she.
    Not that she noticed. After doing his bidding, she inched her way back up, taking the helm with her, her wiggling bottom waving in the air.
    In an agony of arousal, he coughed. Coughed again. Tried to get himself under control.
    Unfortunately his usual self-restraint failed him.
    That left him but one option: To disguise his humiliating weakness, he said, before she could turn, “Carry the helm to my destrier,” thus keeping his bulging erection his big, inconvenient, secret.
    The strategy worked.
    “As you will, my lord,” she sang out cheerily.
    Bah! Why had he ever begun this exercise?
    ’Twas apparent the self-serving wench had made herself his willing slave before ever he placed the collar about her neck.
    Past disappointed with himself, he whipped the leather strap in his hand. A ripple raced down its length to her collar. “Walk.”
    She did, his helm cradled under an arm, her gait as naturally sensual as a warm summer breeze, whilst he trudged disagreeably along behind her, his erect cock pointing the way to rack and ruin. Henceforth he would need to steel himself from her inherent sexuality, an effortless physical attraction that stirred him too easily.
    His loins hurting, he stumbled after her, his hot gaze on the undulation of her swaying hips. And not just her hips swayed, provocative enough alone, but all of her swayed.
    He groaned. Aloud. Further evidence of his male weakness.
    As he braced himself for an extended bout of torture at her hands, a scuttling off to one side drew his attention. At first he put the sound off to scavenging animals on the hunt. ’Twas a common occurrence to hear dry wood splinter as beasts roamed the territory for prey.
    A fine conjecture ’twas too…until a heavily armed band jumped out from the overgrowth of bush and surrounded them.
    No ragtag paid soldier’s unit was this, no mercenary contingent looking to rejoin their main troop. An unkempt appearance and lack of military bearing and armor told Spur these men were outlaws.
    Holding his helm before her like a shield, his naked prisoner backed up.
    “Not so fast, dearie,” a red-bearded misfit said, and approached.
    Pointing his broadsword at the outlaw, Spur pulled his prisoner clear of his advance. “One more step and the lice will flee those red whiskers of yours before I cut your throat.”
    Up went Red Beard’s arms, hiked in the air. “M’lord, no argument do we have with ye. Kindly leave us to our jollies and we will release ye unharmed to go on about yer business. A decent exchange, methinks, yer valuable life for her worthless quim.” He clutched his crotch and shook the contents within. “Pardon our dropping in on ye, but we be a tad hungry for a female. Been a whilst since me mates and me had us a tumble.”
    “In that case…” Spur sheathed his sword and then loosed his hold on his prisoner’s leather strap. “I quite understand, my good man. I thought to do the same with the whore. She has rather nice bubbies.” He winked lasciviously. “Well, have to, my friends, and best of wishes.” He stepped back and away from his naked prisoner.
    “My lord! I pray you, do not leave me to them,” she cried out as the outlaw leader pawed her, his filthy hands kneading her breasts as spittle bubbled from his fleshy lips.
    For daring to touch his property, Red Beard would be the first to die, Spur decided on the spot.
    “Sweet Mary, nay,” the wench shouted and boxed the groping thief’s ear.
    “You heard the