Rocky Mountain Discipline

by Lee Savino

  “You set one foot outside to leave, and I’ll put you over my knee,” he threatened.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” She clutched the fur around her more tightly.

  “Try me.”

  He stalked closer and paused, waiting to see if she’d go through with it. They faced off. The look on his face was very, very determined. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

  Then she hardened herself. He didn’t get to tell her what to do. She didn’t want to go back out in the cold and rain, but it was the principle of the thing. She started forward, but didn’t get very far. Catching her arm, he pulled her back. She fought but he had her back in the chair, over his knee and pinned before she knew it.

  “Calum,” she shrieked as he pulled off the robe and struggled to undo her wet dress again. “You can’t do this!”

  “I told you I can and I will. I’ll spank you any time I like. I don’t like doing it now, when you’re cold and wet, but you’re acting like a child.”

  His hand swatted her, not hard, just enough to get her attention. She stilled.

  “Your hut is completely unsuitable. The roof is leaking, the floor is wet. You cannot build a fire. And it’s only going to get worse, and colder. You cannot live there, Phoebe.”

  He unleashed a flurry of swats, but even she could tell the force he used was barely enough to sting. She kicked her feet and tried to tussle with him, and he only secured her arms behind her back and tipped her forward so she was held fast and unbalanced over his knee. The helpless position defeated her faster than the spanking; she was beaten and she knew it.

  “All right, all right.”

  He stopped, but kept her pinned. “No more of this nonsense then? You’ll stay?”

  “I’ll stay.” At least for the night.

  “Good.” He helped her up. “Take off your wet things, and get in the bath.” He grumbled. “You’re a tough lass to help and no mistake.”

  She stopped struggling with her clothes under her robe and glared at him.

  He raised a brow. “Do I need to help you again?”

  “No.” She shivered and finished taking off her things, grateful to be out of them. Next time she went to war, she’d pick a better battle.

  Calum moved about the lodge readying the bath, muttering to himself about “stubborn lassies with no sense.”

  The next cauldron of water wasn’t but a little bit warm, but that was all right. Calum hung more bearskins around the tub, giving some semblance of privacy, even though, if he wanted to, he could see right over the curtain he’d made. Phoebe didn’t care; she lowered herself into the bath, feeling numb. Tingles spread painfully through her body, and she sighed. Calum kept heating water to add, though he did it carefully, handing her a small bucket of heated water so she could warm the bath a little at a time.

  When it was time for her to come out, he stood with another great robe, using the fur side to towel her off. She hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms over her bare breasts, but he stayed at her back, and acted like it was all business to wrap her tight in a bear robe and put her in the chair close to the fire.

  “Sit here for a while,” he murmured, and she was glad to do as he asked. While she rested, he built up the fire to a blistering blaze. Her body felt heavy, drowsy.

  Her eyes half closed when Calum came and seated himself, cross legged, in front of her, facing her. Digging under the robe, he pulled out one of her legs and started rubbing it.

  She roused. “What are you doing?”

  “Shh, Phoebe, I just want to get you warm.”

  Her head rolled back and she relaxed for a second, before she realized he was rubbing her cursed leg. His fingers even slid down her bare leg and wrapped around her bent foot. Shocked, she jerked her foot a little, but he easily recaptured it.

  Feeling her tense, he looked up with concern. “Does that feel good?”

  “Yes.” She eyed him warily.

  “It doesn’t hurt?”

  She shook her head, beseeching him with panicked eyes. He sighed, and tucked that leg under the blanket before drawing out her other. “One thing at a time.”

  His fingers worked at her calf, and she felt the knotted muscle loosen. He didn’t seem to think it strange to be sitting cross-legged in front of his housekeeper, rubbing her bare leg. He was at ease, from the top of his damp blond locks to his moccasins. His grey eyes were calm, and focused on his work. Eventually, Phoebe let her body sink back into the chair, though she studied him.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  He grinned, his large hands never stopping their massage. “Maybe I like your singing when you think I’m not around.”

  Her brow furrowed and he chuckled. “I said it before, Phoebe lass. From the moment I saw you, I knew you were mine.” He wasn’t asserting it like before, but the assurance in his voice sank into her very bones.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.” With confident hands, he tucked away her other leg and took her hand. Closing her eyes, Phoebe submitted to the rest of the massage, as he flexed and rubbed her hands, and arms. Her breathing softened and she was mostly asleep when he lifted her from the chair.

  “Bedtime, wee Phoebe.”

  From far away, she felt him tuck her into a bed and add warming bricks. Her forehead prickled slightly when his beard brushed it, but she smiled when she felt his lips press there, and savored the sensation as she slid into her dreams.

  She woke boiling hot, and pushed the furs away. Her mouth was cottony and her throat protested as she drew in air.

  She must have called out because when she opened her eyes, Calum was leaning over her.

  Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

  “Here, drink this. Let me help you.” He eased her up and she took grateful sips from the tin cup. The liquid was hot and sweet, and felt good on her throat. When he lay her back down and tucked the fur around her, she protested.

  “Hot.”

  A large hand covered her forehead and she shivered, even though the furs made her sweat.

  “You’re burning up.” The furs went back over her. “Not now, Phoebe. Stay wrapped up, sweat it out.”

  She faded in and out of sleep, the only breaks when Calum came to help her drink, or spoon fed her broth, or supported her as she went to the chamber pot.

  Finally, the sweats went away, and her body shook with cold.

  “Dammit, Phoebe.” He sounded angry, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t want him to be upset.

  “I’m sorry…”

  “Shh, it’s not you, lass.” A big body sank into the bed and curved around her.

  An arm snaked around her waist, pulling her closer to the warm wall of his chest.

  “I’m c-cold,” she chattered.

  “You’re going to be all right.” Fingers played in her sweat soaked hair, and then his breath caressed her neck. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  She let out a huge sigh and fell asleep in his arms.

  The next she woke, she was dressed in one of his great shirts; it was so long on her it may as well be a nightrail. She felt sinful, wearing the fabric that had touched his big body. The cloth even smelled of Calum—smoke and hickory and something wild.

  “You’re awake.” His chair scraped as he rose and caught her up in his arms and brought her to the chair. “You should’ve called me.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you.” She yawned, even though she felt like she’d slept for weeks. “How long was I in bed?”

  “Long enough to give me a scare, and send for the doctor.”

  She blinked at the cup of tea Calum handed her. “The doctor came?”

  “Aye.” Calum disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a pair of wool socks. Sitting cross-legged before her, he chafed her foot and leg to warm them before pulling on the giant sock. One of his, it came up halfway to her knee. “Ye were sleeping and he didnae want to wake ye up. He advised lots of broth tae keep ye warm.” Calum’s
brogue clogged his speech as it always did when he was really worried. “Ye gave me a right scare, wee one.” Bending forward, he kissed her knee and gave her an impish smile. He seemed relieved to have her awake.

  “I’m sorry.” She sipped her tea and felt the liquid revive her. Her body seemed so weak.

  “Ah, well, as long as you don’t do it again.” Calum shook his finger at her with a mock frown, and drew out her other leg to ease up the sock.

  He’d almost finished when she realized which foot it was. He handled it gently, but briskly, as if the action was routine. She wanted to recoil, but forced herself to sit still.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked softly.

  “No.” He eased her leg down, but kept it in his lap, rubbing the calf with long, careful strokes. His touch was heaven on the oft-cramped leg, and she melted a little.

  “Feel good?”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “Thank you.”

  He spent several minutes massaging her. With his big sock swathing her foot, she could relax without worrying about him staring at the cursed appendage.

  It didn’t seem to overly bother him. At one point he even cupped it in his hand and squeezed gently. She held her breath.

  “It’s not sore is it?”

  “No. It just aches sometimes.”

  “Has a doctor looked at it recently?”

  Her head jerked no.

  “Has a doctor looked at it at all?”

  Her gaze dropped and he bent his head to find her eyes. “Phoebe.”

  “I didn’t see the use,” she whispered. She’d spent her life hiding her curse, not flaunting it.

  “If you never let a doctor look at it, how do you know it couldn’t be fixed?”

  “It can’t be fixed.” She tried to pull her leg out of his grasp, but he didn’t release it. Instead, he rubbed her calf again.

  “Why not?” he asked in a reasonable tone.

  “Because it’s a curse.” Her cheeks heated with shame.

  “What do you mean by that, lass?”

  “My family said it was because I was born out of the clan, and it’s a sign of my wickedness.”

  To her surprise, he snorted. “Wicked, my arse. Sorry.”

  “It’s true,” she insisted. “My father lay with my mother against the clan’s wishes.”

  “What clan?”

  “The Wilson clan of Shreveport, Louisiana.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “My grandfather founded them.”

  Calum made a dismissive noise. “Is he the one who called ye cursed?”

  Phoebe nodded.

  “I don’t like him. You’re about as cursed as me.” He rose and stomped to the hearth. “Stubborn. Frustrating. But not cursed.” Dishing out a bowl of porridge, he handed it to her. “Eat that. I can’t have my best working lassie fainting in her bed.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No need to apologize. It’s as much my fault as yours.”

  Tasting the gruel, Phoebe found it good. He’d sweetened it with honey. “How is it your fault?”

  “I didn’t put my foot down and make you live here from the first.”

  “But I didn’t want that.”

  “I know.” He sat down across from her. “But it’s plain you’ve got some twisted ideas in your head. And if I had any sense, I would’ve kept you close so I could root them out. Now I intend to.” Leaning forward, he tapped the bowl and gestured to her to keep eating.

  She ate another bite. He stayed across from her, elbows to knees, fixed on watching her eat. She felt guilty; he must have put a lot of time into caring for her while she was sick.

  “How long was I sick?”

  “Two days.”

  “Two days!” Her spoon clattered in the bowl. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  He looked at her as if she’d told him that pigs fly.

  “You can dock my wages for the time I didn’t work.” Her voice shook a little; she couldn’t afford to lose money, not with a hut roof to fix, but she could offer to stitch more for Mrs. Martin to make up for it.

  “I’m not docking your pay.”

  “You must, though.”

  With a growl, Calum rose, picked her up out of the chair, sat, and plunked her into his lap. Picking up the bowl, he presented a heaping spoonful to her mouth. “Eat.”

  “But—”

  “Open, Phoebe. That’s right. Now chew and swallow.” She did and they both glared at each other.

  “You’re going to eat all this porridge, then take a bath and get back into bed. No lip.” His eyebrows bristled in warning. “I’m nursing you back to health if it kills me.”

  She blinked.

  “You know what I mean. At this rate, it might kill us both.”

  “I’ll eat the porridge,” she grumbled.

  “Thank you. And another thing, you want to pay me back for the time you missed, you live here. It’ll cut time off you coming in each morning, and I can wake to a hot hearth and meal.” His eyebrows went up as if waiting for her to protest.

  That did make sense though.

  “All right. I’ll move into the second bedroom.”

  “Thank you. My god, you’re a hard lassie to help. I’d throttle ye if I wasn’t trying so hard to get you well.”

  “You could always spank me,” she pointed out. “You seem to have no qualms about doing that.”

  “Oh, I will. I won’t do it until you’re feeling much better, but you give me lip about something that might cost you your life, or health, and I’ll beat your bottom red. You’re stubborn, but I am too. And I’m bigger.”

  She grinned. She didn’t feel afraid at all, just somehow, happy, sitting in the large Scot’s lap, eating porridge. It felt right.

  “You are big,” she said, snuggling to him. “That’s why I’m going to eat all of this, and get strong.” He looked shocked, but his arms slowly closed around her.

  “Good, lass,” he murmured, and she liked the sound of that as well.

  She sat and ate her whole breakfast, and he stroked her black hair, then gave her more tea while he drew the bath.

  He left her to it with fierce instructions to soak and then get out before the water cooled, wrap up and go back to bed, or “your bottom will pay, one way or another.”

  Phoebe soaked in the tub, watching the fire devour the great logs Calum fed it. She was warm and fed and snug as a bird in its nest. A baby bird, with a great big wolf prowling around, sworn to protect it. She could almost forget the monsters in the world that had plagued her all her life. They were nothing compared to her champion and protector.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to live with the handsome Mr. MacDonnell.

  The cozy feeling lasted only a night. The next day, she officially moved into the second bedroom. Tucking away her things in a drawer, she pulled out one of the mysterious dresses. It was a simple work dress, made of serviceable gingham, but in a blue that would match her eyes.

  “You can have them,” Calum said from the doorway. She startled, dropping the dress guiltily.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “If you can sew them to fit you, they’re yours.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Aye. Their owner is not coming back for them.” He turned away.

  Curious, she followed him.

  “Whose are they?”

  Her employer stared at the fire. “A family meant to move in here. But they never did.”

  She wanted to ask more, but she refrained.

  Over dinner she chatted about her sewing, and plans to drop off the rest of her goods to Mrs. Martin.

  Calum nodded absently throughout her talk, finally rousing to suggest she order more fabric and thread. “It’ll be a long hard winter, lass. The dark and cold makes things lonely, especially out here. You’ll be grateful for something to pass the time.”

  “Was it hard on you, these past few winters, living all alone?”

  He shrugged. She imagined him sitting by the hearth wo
rking on his woodcarvings or just brooding, much the way he was now. Wrapped in a fur robe with his long hair and bristling beard, he’d look like a great bear, hibernating, a big lodge for a cave.

  “Calum,” she said, and his attention snapped to her. She’d never used his first name before. Flushing, she soldiered on. “Mrs. Martin said you’ve always been alone here. Why did you never marry?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.” He met her wide-eyed gaze with his cool, grey one, then rose. “I’ll be back. Going to take a walk, look at the moon.”

  It bothered Phoebe as she cleared the dishes. He seemed so uncomfortable with the subject, but a man like him shouldn’t be alone. He was too handsome. And kind.

  She hummed as she sewed, imaging his great muscular form working in the yard, stopping only to push his hair back from his brow and wipe the sweat from his chest…

  A thought struck her and her humming stopped. She was in love with her Mr. MacDonnell.

  Her sewing things fell to her lap as she raised hands to bright red cheeks. The embarrassment was too hideous for words. A housekeeper in love with her employer! How pathetic.

  He couldn’t possibly ever love her. Yes, she knew she was comely, but her bent foot was a mark against her, a blight. No man would ever want to marry her, even if they could get past their disgust enough to lie with her. Certainly no man would want to sire her child.

  Best for her to live as a crippled spinster, serving her Mr. MacDonnell as long as he needed, living in the shadows until he took a wife, then leaving for another position so the memory of her would rightly fade…

  Her thoughts tortured her, and even turning in Mrs. Martin’s sewing order and watching the happy matron praise each item couldn’t cheer her, though she did her best to fake a smile.

  “I’m so glad you came in today. I was just going to send Mr. Martin on with a letter that came for you.”

  “For me?” A ripple of fear went through her before she cast it away. Mrs. Covey had promised to write.

  But as soon as she saw the thick scrawl on the page, she knew it wasn’t her kind old employer. It was from her family, as she feared, and laced with the usual insults and demands for money. This time, they had a new threat.