Excerpt:

Set on a ridge overlooking the North Sea, Summerfield Castle’s gray stone towers reflected the noonday sun, giving off a silvery glow. A welcoming glow indeed for the deVere men who shivered in their armor this December day. Earl Rolfe spurred his destrier, and soon he, Will and Gavin had outpaced the troop of knights and men-at-arms. The others could take their time, guard the wagons and siege engines they’d used to quell yet another rebellion in the midlands.

No doubt they all yearned not for the comfort of home, too...anticipated the pleasures that awaited them. Especially Gavin. For him this would be the last time he’d return to the castle where he was born and call it home.

As his father had done twenty-two years earlier, Gavin would wed with a great heiress and become master of her holdings. The wedding would take place ten days hence, at Summerfield, as part of the Christmas celebration. When he swung out of the saddle onto the ground of the frozen bailey, Gavin tried to tell himself ‘twas time. That all would end well so long as he had land and titles to pass to his own son when he became a man. He even attempted to dredge up a bit of enthusiasm toward his betrothed, Lady Evelyn fitzSimmons, whom he’d soon meet for the first time.

A more sharp-tongued lady you’d be hard-pressed to find. She’s a fondness for the table, too...plump as a Christmas goose. Mayhaps barren. Mayhaps not although she gave her husband no bairns, for he was old and battle-worn. The words of the jongleur who supposedly had met the Lady Evelyn in her castle—soon to be his, Gavin reminded himself—sent another shiver clean to his balls as he dismounted and handed the reins of his snow-white destrier to a waiting serf.

That jongleur had also mentioned that Castle fitzSimmons, his betrothed’s main holding, possessed high round towers. Three of them. If he found his bride too repulsive, he could confine her to one of them as soon as he got an heir on her. The way Gavin felt today after three long months of fighting, he’d have no trouble dredging up the necessary enthusiasm to fuck any female on two legs, no matter how ugly she might be.

When they passed over the drawbridge, Gavin noted a lighter than usual number of men at arms along the wall and wondered briefly which of their northern neighbors might be causing havoc along the border. No matter. Had it been a serious problem that required dealing with, a messenger would have galloped to their train to enlist their aid.
‘Twas past time for him to enjoy the comforts of home, the gaiety of the season. Putting his worries out of his mind, Gavin mounted the stone stairs and made for the great hall, with Will and their lord father at his heels. Mayhap he and Will would share a wench or two, as had been their habit for seven years now.

Gavin recalled that first encounter, when they’d first learned some things were more fun when shared. The accommodating milkmaid they’d encountered in the barn at Harrow ere going to the castle to enjoy their fourteenth birthday celebration had apparently thought so, too, despite the clumsiness of two boys with no finesse and no staying power. At least she’d come back for more. Many times over. By the time they’d finished their fostering, the sassy little whore had given them as much training in pleasuring women as Uncle Giles had provided in use of weapons and strategy for battle.

Back home, they’d honed the art of seduction, learned it added to the excitement when they added toys and erotic games into the mix. Gavin’s cock stirred when he recalled the way one adventuresome kitchen maid had creamed herself when they stripped her naked and tied her to the cross-shaped beam they kept in their chamber to hang their plate armor. They took her in tandem, Will’s cock in her cunt and his in her tight, hot ass, while she whimpered and moaned and begged for more.

Excitement hung in the air. Proud of his battle-hardened physique, Gavin flexed his muscles against the warm steel rings of his chain mail. He reckoned there was some of the boy left in him, for he yearned for home and family, merriment, and the sorts of ribald amusements that always made his lady mother shake her head. Debauchery ran ever rampant at Summerfield Castle, but especially during the Christmas season. His cock grew harder as he anticipated dipping it into the sweet, hot cunts of one or two of the willing wenches he and Will so often shared.

The hall smelled of precious spices and roasting meat. A huge fire crackled in the fireplace that would soon hold the massive Yule log they’d cut last February. Flickering beeswax candles cast shadows on walls bleached to a grayish white, illuminating tapestries that bespoke of triumph and tragedies the earls of Summerfield had seen over the years. Gavin would never tire of hearing the tales depicted in scenes of the Holy Land—settings his father had described. Exotic places Lord Rolfe had seen when he served as his brother’s squire on the crusade that nearly cost him his life. Gavin inhaled deeply, took in the heady fragrance of the spruce boughs and pomander balls that decorated the hall.

“Jasmine!” Lord Rolfe shouted from the base of the winding stair to the north tower. Gavin knew his father had gained politically by wedding with his mother, but ‘twas obvious to all that the countess had fired his sire’s blood. Damn, from the hot, needy look he saw in his father’s eyes, Gavin doubted not that the fire still burned, hardly banked at all in the twenty-two years since their marriage.

Lady Jasmine ran down the stairs, flinging herself into his father’s arms as soon as he’d laid his helm and gauntlets on a long, narrow table by the stairs. Lord Rolfe lifted her, swung her around in circles. “‘Tis good to be home once more. You told me not of any trouble along Summerfield’s borders in your last message, my love.”

“Rievers. From Clan MacFarlane from the look of their plaids, said the serf who brought the news. I sent a party out to chase them back over the border.” Lady Jasmine laid a hand on Lord Rolfe’s mail-clad chest.

Gavin would have liked naught better than running the wily Scots laird through with his broadsword and consigning him to hell for all the trouble he caused—but damn! Not now. His ass ached from the long ride, his throat was parched for lack of ale. He stank of the road, his saddle, and his destrier. He turned to his twin, resigned to riding out again, postponing the start of the yuletide celebration. “Shall we ride out and join in the rout?”

“It will not require us both. I’ll go, be sure the bastards are running, tails ‘tween their legs,” Will said. “After all, ‘tis my inheritance they plunder. Besides, you’ve got a wedding to prepare for.”

Summerfield. His brother’s legacy. Not Gavin’s. And his upcoming wedding to a widow he’d not laid eyes on. Not very cheering thoughts though they all were true. “If you do not mind, I’ll stay. My arse is saddle-weary, and you’re right. My sword won’t be needed to vanquish no more than a few bloodthirsty clansmen. I’m for a bath, some wine, and a warm wench–not necessarily in that order.”