by Lee Savino
“Not while you’re bloody trying to kill me!” He caught her arms and shifted more of his weight onto her back, effectively pinning her.
She rattled out a string of Spanish curses, and then felt a gust of air on her legs. The man was drawing up her skirts.
“Stop fighting and listen.” He punctuated each word with a resounding slap to her bottom cheeks, and even through her drawers, she felt the sting.
It only made her struggle harder.
“Help,” she screamed.
“I am helping you,” he roared, unleashing a volley of smacks on her poor rear.
The pain registered and she panted a little, trying to get her breath back as his body weight pressed her into the ground.
“Now, will you listen to me? You’re in danger. I’m trying to help you.”
Shots in the distance cut him off.
Francesca froze. Was that Juan shooting? The invaders outnumbered him three to one. Tears filled her eyes, not only from her stinging bottom but from the thought that her recklessness might get one of her closest friends killed.
The funny speaking man cursed again. “They caught up with you, I wager.”
“Who?” she panted. For the moment, this flaxen-haired fool was her only ally, even if he did have her pinned to the forest floor with her skirts at her hips.
“Friends of Charlie the Red,” he mimicked her Spanish accent. The man pulled her up. “Stay close to me.”
As if she could do anything else. He propelled her along, back from where they came. Francesca stayed quiet and waited for her opportunity. As they moved forward, a riderless horse burst out of the bushes, running free. The man shielded her, then pulled her close to his side, his gun at ready in his other hand.
“That’s not one of ours…is it one of yours?”
“No,” Francesca said, keeping with her plan to cooperate. If she could get away, and catch that horse, she’d have a mount to get home. Or she could take the fine stallion this stranger rode in on.
“Cage should have things under control. He’s a cool head in a crisis,” the man muttered. “You were followed from the saloon. We’ve been riding all day, trying to warn you.”
Another burst of gunfire, and shouts. Francesca’s captor half helped, half forced her to the ground, and crouched close. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, he seemed to be trying to protect her. “Stay here. I’m going to go help.”
He started forward, but then a volley of firing drove him back to cover. Peering out of the bushes, he pointed his gun.
“My men have instructions to help you and yours. Was that your husband?”
She shook her head. “Hired hand.”
More shooting in the woods, and Francesca flinched. The blond went on in his British accent, “Cage is one of mine; he’s a good sort, a cool head in a crisis. He’ll help your man.” The man seemed to be trying to soothe her. It was a strange turn of events, to go from running for her life to crouching beside a tall Englishman, intent on saving her from her enemies.
“I know you have no reason to trust me, but I swear on my mother’s grave I’m here to help.” His tone went from serious to light. “Never fear, milady. We’ll vanquish your foes.” He winked at her, and she stared in shock. They were under siege and he was making jokes?
“Just trying to lighten the mood, sorry. Bad habit.”
Shots fired closer and they both cowered. The flaxen-haired man bent his tall body over her. One arm covered her while the other pointed the gun towards the racket.
“If I can get back to my horse, I can get powder for your gun,” he whispered as they waited for their enemies to stumble upon them. “As long as you promise not to shoot me,” he added in his joking tone. He had a twinkle in his blue eyes. Francesca huddled closer to him, finding comfort in the weight of his arm. She watched his striking profile as he scanned the horizon.
He certainly was handsome enough, tall and blond, well-dressed in a travel worn suit. His pale, patrician face and clipped tones spoke of English origin. He touched her with respect and confidence that made her heart beat faster. She hadn’t been in such close proximity with a man since Cyro, and her older husband hadn’t made her feel like this.
Perhaps it was just nerves from being pursued. She pushed her awakened feelings away, scolding herself. She didn’t have time for such foolishness.
After a few minutes, the Englishman rose. “I haven’t heard anything for a while. Let’s see if we can find my horse and the others.” He held out a hand to help her up. “After you, my lady.”
Sebastian stayed close to his gun-slinging Spanish rose. She’d gotten some color in her cheeks. He was looking forward to being properly introduced. He was about to tell her that, when a man stepped out with a gun pointed at them.
In one move, he thrust the lady behind him, and fired his own weapon
The scoundrel fired too, and threw himself behind a rock.
Sebastian went to fire again, and his gun jammed.
“Damn, damn and double damn,” he muttered, pushing the woman behind a bush.
Shots came at them and he threw himself over her.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said, feeling her quiver underneath him.
A bout of cursing from behind the boulder told him it was now or never. Rising, Sebastian charged. The man crouched behind the rock, reloading his own gun, looked up in surprise as a leggy Englishman in suit and vest leapt over the rock and landed right on top of him.
Francesca heard the struggles and rose just in time to see the blond man punch and then pistol whip her pursuer unconscious. He grabbed the man’s gun and stretched his hand out to her. She took it, with a little thrill, and they ran for his stallion.
“That may have been the last of them.” He settled his horse before turning to give her a boost up. The stallion snorted in displeasure at an unfamiliar rider but obeyed his master. “There were only a few of them, and with my party and yours, they’re outnumbered.” A smile wreathed his face, and his boyish good looks took her breath away. “We’re almost out of the woods. Quite literally. And wherever you’re going, I’ll get you there safe and sound, I swear it.”
Francesca nodded, then kicked his stallion into a gallop, leaving the startled Englishman falling backwards into the dust.
She intended to ride as far and as fast as the fine beast would carry her. A part of her felt guilty for leaving her would-be rescuer behind, to face potential danger alone. She reasoned he could take care of himself, and, besides, she hadn’t asked him to help her. With his handsome face and gallantry, he was a complication she didn’t need.
These thoughts flashed through her mind in a matter of seconds, for as soon as she reached the edge of the clearing, the stallion grew angry and bucked her right off.
Francesca fell off a horse for the second time that day, and looked up into the furious face of her fair-haired rescuer.
“Perhaps, my lady, I didn’t make myself clear. I know you don’t trust me, but there’s a certain level of cooperation I expect when I’m risking my life for someone.”
“All right,” she answered, then rolled and scrambled up, dashing away as quickly as she could in a final attempt to escape. She didn’t even know why she was running, except that he was upset with her.
“My lady, stop! It may not be safe.”
She tore through the undergrowth, hearing him crash after her. Her breath burned in her chest and she put on an extra burst of speed, but he caught her, driving them both to the ground.
“I’m really getting tired of this.” Again, the man subdued her by weighing her down, this time with his full length. His torso pressed into her back, his long legs tangled with hers.
“Please,” she gasped. “Just let me go. I have money, I can pay.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I’ll lie with you then, just don’t hurt me.”
“I don’t want that either. I just want to talk to you.” He lifted off of her, hoisting her into
a sitting position.
“Please.” She let out a sob, and made her body go limp until he turned her to face him. Then she kicked out, almost catching him in the sweet spot between his legs.
“Ha,” she cried, pleased her begging had caught him off guard.
“My lady, you are going to regret that.” Something flashed in his blue eyes, beyond anger, and she dug her feet into the ground, scuttling away from him on her bottom. He caught an ankle and dragged her back, then roped her ankles together.
“What are you doing?” she cried as he hauled her up. Half dragging, half carrying her, he got her to a freshly fallen tree resting a foot off the ground. Forcing her face down over the trunk, he ran a rope underneath, tightening it so her arms and legs and whole body wrapped around the tree. Trussed tight, her feet were on the ground, but she couldn’t move more than her head.
“There, now that’s better.” The man crouched in front of her so she could see him, wiping the sweat from his brow. There was a cut on his face from her raking nails, she noted with triumph. “Now we can have a little chat.”
“Untie me, you bastard—” she started yelling, and the man stuffed his handkerchief into her mouth.
So far, Sebastian’s quarry was nothing like the courtly ladies the poets all went on about. Since meeting the mysterious woman in black, she’d shot at him, stolen his horse, and tried to run away from him twice. He’d been bitten and scratched and nearly got his balls kicked up his own ass.
“Damsel in distress…more like bloody distressing damsel,” Sebastian muttered. “Damn Tennyson. Leading us all on.”
He had to admit the sight of the Spanish wildcat, tied and helpless with her bottom thrust into the air, was an unexpected but pleasant reward for his heroic labors. He usually didn’t get to discipline a woman until he’d wooed or paid her. His fingers itched to draw up this one’s skirts and expose her pert bottom, so quick to catch his eye in the saloon and now fated to be blistered cherry red.
Too bad she seemed somewhat respectable. His cock stiffened in his pants, and after what the lady had put it through, it deserved some relief. If they’d met under different circumstances, in a brothel or a dark room between dances at a ball, he’d make her lick him up and down before sheathing his sword into her throat. Long as he was, most ladies ended up struggling to take him to the hilt. Eventually they all managed it, if not the first time, then after they’d received a bit of encouragement from the palm of his hand or a spanking implement.
But this lady wasn’t giving or getting any relief. He didn’t know her well enough for that. He’d have to get his jollies lashing her quivering bum with twelve whippy twigs all bundled together into Sebastian’s favorite method of punishment: the birch.
A twig snapped behind him and Sebastian whirled. Cage stepped out of the woods and eyed the set-up: the lanky lord standing next to the dark-haired lady, who was tied and struggling and grunting through a gag.
“There you are, Cage. Everything all right? Villains vanquished, and whatnot?”
Cage nodded, and gestured to the woman. “What’s going on?”
“We had a bit of a misunderstanding, but we’re working it out.”
Sebastian watched his hired man process this. Wrinkles formed on Cage’s forehead, and then the man shrugged.
“Fine. Don’t take too long. We have her servant—he’s worried about her. Helped us fend off the other three, and deserves our respect.” He pointed to the bound lady. “So does she. A woman dressed like that is in mourning.”
“Yes, and she’s going to actually be mourning, very soon. She needs a lesson in how to respect someone who is trying to give her aid.”
Cage pointed to his own face. “You’ve got some blood on your cheek, milord. Wounded in your rescue attempt?” Chuckling, the silver-haired guide stalked back the way he came.
After swiping his cheek and checking for red, Sebastian crouched in front of his captive. “You’ve disappointed me, little lady. I was attempting a gallant rescue, and I’m sure you were hoping to sit comfortably on your horse all the way to where you’re going. Looks like neither of us is getting what we wanted.”
Bound and gagged, her stomach pressing into the log, Francesca glared into the strange man’s blue eyes. What had the other man called him? Milord?
“Now I’m going to punish you for giving me so much trouble, and then you’re going to tell me why you walked into a saloon this morning and shot a man minding his own business at cards. The punishment will hurt as much as my Man Thomas would be hurting if your foot had found its mark. I find pain ensures perfect co-operation.”
At his words, her heart plummeted to her feet, and she renewed her struggles. The rope around her hands and feet held fast, so after a moment she stopped to conserve her energy.
“If the birching does its job and you cooperate, I will take you back to your man—who is unharmed and safe with mine, by the way—feed you dinner, and escort you to your next destination.”
Now that made less sense. Her confusion must have shown on her face, for he continued.
“I’m not an ogre, or an outlaw looking for an easy mark. I saw you at the saloon and thought you were in distress. I couldn’t let those men overtake you. For one thing, there were several of them, and only one—I thought—of you. Though,” his tone turned admiring, “I’d wager you’d take out one or two before they shot you.”
He held her gaze, his blue eyes assessing. “Of course, after this little session, I think you’ll learn to be more careful of who you try to shoot and steal from.”
His lips twitched a little, and she felt a surge of anger. Was he laughing at her?
“Now,” he said. “Stay where you are while I get ready.”
Tied to a log, Francesca had no choice but to stay where she was, and run through a list of English and Spanish insults that she could throw in his face, if he ever undid the gag.
Tied as she was, she had a chance to study her rescuer turned captor. She couldn’t stop her eyes from following his tall form as he went to a nearby willow and started cutting off small switches.
His body was lean, but still well-muscled from what she could tell by his nicely tailored clothes, He had broad shoulders and long, long legs. With white blond hair paired with angelic blue eyes, he could pass for an innocent choirboy. As soon as he announced his intent to punish her, she knew he had the heart of a devil. As much as she felt guilty for trying to steal his horse and leave him in danger, she couldn’t bear the indignity of being lashed to a tree or disciplined like a child.
He was a strange one, too. As he stood and stripped the leaves off the twigs, he whistled a cheery tune, glancing back at her once in awhile. He even gave her a little wink.
The nonchalance irked her more than anything else. She’d been chased and shot at and he acted as if it was a lark, even as he fought for her. What sort of idiot did that? From his suit and accent, she could guess: a foreign nobleman with a taste for a rustic vacation, who had enough money to treat life as a game. This blond was no more than a bored, rich fool, and she was his entertainment for the hour. As he returned to her side, bundle of twigs in hand, Francesca decided she would loathe him until the day she died.
“This, my lady, is a birch. As a boy, I knew it well, though I must say a bundle of hazel rods made for a much nastier experience than these fine twigs. Of course, it’s meant to chastise but not permanently mar your flesh.”
He stepped behind her and drew up her heavy black skirts, flipping up each layer until he found her drawers and peeled those down. Francesca’s face burned and she wriggled in her bonds at the humiliating circumstances.
The loathsome man let out a low whistle. “And what lovely, lovely flesh it is.”
Sebastian could hardly believe his eyes. He could tell by her face his mystery lady was young and fresh, but he’d never seen such a perfect pair of buttocks. Smooth and framed by the black skirts and stockings north to south, and bright white seamless drawers east to west, were
a pair of caramel lobes, by far the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. He would have to be very, very careful. He’d only meant to scare her into talking, but now, with her man and Cage and the rest safe, a part of him wanted to push her. He’d prided himself on being all business up until that point, picking the twigs and stripping them of leaves, making sure they were smooth so they would stripe, but not cut her skin. But he couldn’t keep from brushing a reverent hand over her quivering flesh, admiring the delicious plumpness, ripe and ready for a man’s worshiping tongue or a pillowy welcome for a nice hard prick pounding into her back entrance.
Steady, Sebastian. Patience, temperance and self control was key. He would indulge himself and give her few chastising strikes, before getting to the bottom of who she was. Too bad he didn’t know the lady well enough to reward her with a thorough tongue lashing once she’d suffered through a round with the rod. He always found a woman’s quim to be even more accepting when warmed with a spot of discipline.
Her bottom was going to be more than a little hot once he was done.
“As I said before, I was birched as a boy.” Sebastian went on talking as if he’d met the lady for casual conversation over tea, not in the middle of the Colorado wilderness about to lay a bundle of pain onto a lovely lady’s ass. “Hurts like the dickens but gets the point across. Or points, in this case. In this session, you’ll be learning how to behave. For the rest of the time we are acquainted there is to be no running, no scratching, no biting, and no kicking. Or shooting, for that matter. If you don’t learn after one session, I’ll be sure to pack this birch and keep it on hand for another.
It’s hard work on my part, I know,” he waxed on sarcastically. “But, ‘spare the rod and spoil the quim’ is what I always say.”
Every muscle in her body tensed as Francesca waited for the first lash to fall. Her first priority was to survive and see Juan safe. She could not get free from her bonds to get away, so her bottom would pay the price for her temper and she had to weather it.
