by Lee Savino
She’d been disciplined by her father before, but the last time had been long ago, when she was a rambunctious child. Juan would say she’d lost none of her hotheadedness, she just learned how to reason her way out of things, or figured out how not to get caught. Cyro, her late husband, had always remarked that she could use a good whipping, but he’d been too mild mannered to attempt it.
Deep down, a traitorous part of her felt she deserved some rebuke. Stealing a man’s horse in the heat of battle was a shameful act, but even if she understood the consequences, she didn’t have to like them.
Grinding her teeth into the gag, she tried to communicate with her eyes: If you’re going to punish me, get on with it.
The blonde seemed to understand, for he nodded once and stepped behind her again, and laid the birch across her buttocks.
Her breath left in a rush, and despite her vow not to cry, tears sprang into her eyes. The bundle of twigs felt like a thousand tiny whips, covering most of her poor exposed rear. Her bottom cheeks clenched and unclenched as if they could drive away the sting.
“That’s one,” her blond captor said. She registered his lazy drawl even as her thoughts were still swimming through the pain. Bastard. He was enjoying this. A part of her felt this was fair chastisement for stealing his horse and leaving him even when he risked his life on her behalf. The rest of her wanted revenge. He laid the birch on her again and she gritted her teeth. She’d cut out his clever tongue. With a blunt knife. And make him eat it.
Imagining that gruesome entree got her through the next two strikes, but then the fire lacing over her buttocks overwhelmed her. Every time the birch fell, it seemed to strike every part of her bottom, leaving a sting she couldn’t escape, no matter how many ways she imagined having her revenge.
The whipping felt worse with her body tied up. Unable to move, all she could think about was the pain. The evil bastard whipped her bottom and the sensitive back of her thighs, until she thought she could take no more. Tears ran down her face and little noises escaped around the gag.
He stepped around to see her face. “I think that’s enough to give you a taste. Have you learned your lesson?”
She nodded frantically. Anything. She’d live to fight another day.
He pulled out the gag.
“Now, my dear, I have some questions.”
As soon as she caught her breath, she couldn’t hold back a torrent of Spanish. She cursed the blond’s parentage until his palm crashed down onto one throbbing butt cheek. Without the gag, she let out a humiliated yelp.
“None of that, now. We speak the Queen’s English or I gag you again. I can do this all night, you know. I’ll even get Cage’s strop, and give you a taste of leather. Not my preference, because we ride in the morning and your bottom will be raw. But a fitting punishment for a fiery young lady who shoots first and asks questions not at all.”
Finally, the man shut up. With her wrists and ankles chafing in her bonds, and naked, stinging rear waving in the air, Francesca decided to delay defiance and submit to the foppish fool, at least for now.
“Very well,” she croaked. “Will you untie me?”
“Not until you’ve answered satisfactorily. I think you’ll co-operate better knowing your bare bum is vulnerable to the lash.”
As much as it galled her, Francesca went with her plan to obey. Trussed and whipped, she was in no position to argue. She nodded. The man squatted in front of her, offering his canteen of water. He held it for he while she drank, and wiped her mouth. The gentle touch surprised her, as did his first question.
“Are you in danger?”
“From you,” she panted a little. The sting in her bottom was fading, mellowing into a painful throb. She shifted on the log, trying to give herself room to breathe.
“I mean you no harm,” he said, and tossed aside the birch. “At least, not anything beyond a light beating.”
Francesca sniffed. She would not describe that beating as ‘light.’
“What I mean is do you have enemies? Men who wish you ill?”
“No. Unless you mean the men following me—”
“None of them should be a problem anymore.”
“I don’t even know who they were.”
The flaxen haired man squinted into the trees. “The man you killed had partners.”
“I guessed he might,” she said. “But I did not know for sure.”
“Why did you shoot him?” His kind tone and gentle blue gaze, along with the emotions roiling through her with the pain of her lashing, undid something in her.
“He killed my husband.” Letting her head sag, she cried. She cried all the tears she’d held back during weeks of fear and waiting, the hard days ride and stakeout. For so long she’d been fixed on her goal, only to realize it gave justice for her husband, but in the long run made no difference. Cyro had been shot in the back walking home from a saloon. He was a good, kind man, chosen by her father for her to marry because he would take care of Señor De La Vega’s only child. Francesca had thought of Cyro as more of a guardian than a husband, and respected his gentle rule. His death was a senseless waste, and might destroy everything her father and husband had worked for—the ranch, the farm, and the lives and livelihood of all the workers and servants who’d been loyal to her father, Señor De La Vega, and her husband, Señor Cyro Montoya, and now her.
She didn’t say all that. She cried, tied with her whipped bottom on display, facing this strange captor whose demeanor was a mix of intensity, nonchalance, dominance and humor and gentleness. The man pulled out another handkerchief and wiped her tears away.
“Feel better?” he murmured, when all her tears were dry.
“Yes, thank you.” She did feel a lot better. Even the throbbing in her bottom had dulled to a tolerable ache, uncomfortable, but bearable. The pain had done its work: unlocking her vulnerable core and letting her emotions clear.
“You’ve had a long day. You said this man killed your husband?”
“Murdered him. It was clear from the witnesses that this man—Red Charlie-followed my husband home and shot him in an empty field. They found Cyro the next day with a bullet in his back. Red Charlie bragged about the easy kill.”
“I only saw this Red Charlie at the card game, but he didn’t seem a savory sort.”
“He was an outlaw. He deserved to die.” Something in the stranger’s stare made her bare her soul. “I thought I would feel better once he was dead. But I don’t. Justice has been done, my husband is avenged, yet I feel worse.”
He didn’t say anything, just held her in that intelligent blue gaze.
“My husband’s spirit can rest, but I cannot.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Go back to the ranch, and my home. There is much work for me to do.”
The woods were silent but for murmurs in the distance—the sounds of Juan and this stranger’s men making camp. It was an odd confessional booth, but Francesca felt lighter, as if baring her soul to this stranger could make things right. Strange, to feel so connected to someone so quickly. She chalked it up to the emotions released during the spanking.
“Well.” The blond man rose and went to pull down her skirts and untie her. “My men and I will escort you and yours home. You will find that, if you don’t try to shoot or harm me, I am rather chivalrous. I am going to help you.”
As soon as she was untied, Francesca pushed away from the log, rubbing her wrists. “Why?”
“Because you looked like a lady in trouble. And I’m a fool with delusions of grandeur.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Comes from reading too much Malory.”
Francesca didn’t quite know what to make of his humor. Even during the punishment, he’d kept a jovial air, almost as if he was a spectator watching some fantastic entertainment. The attitude irked her, but she decided she could bear it. He hadn’t hurt her—at least, not the brutal handling and rape she expected. Other than the birching, he seemed to be trying to connect with her and
prove he was on her side.
“May I see Juan, my vaquero? I wish to make sure he is well.”
“Of course. I will say this, I am going to help you, but at the first sign of disobedience, I’ll tip you over my knee and spank you in front of the men.” The look in his eye told her he’d do it. Pain she could bear, but not a public whipping. Not in front of Juan.
She nodded.
“One more thing. What’s your name?”
“Maria,” she half lied.
He waited a beat, then shook his head. “You and every other woman in this valley.” He rolled his eyes. “You Spaniards don’t believe in variety when it comes to honoring the Virgin Mary. Now come on, what’s your full name?”
She lifted her chin. “What’s yours?”
“Lord James Sebastian Chivington, the third.” He raised a brow and waited.
“Ana Maria Francesca De La Vega. The fourth.” She added the last with a touch of sarcasm and a proud toss of her head.
A grin danced around Lord James Sebastian Chivington the third’s lips. “Pleasure, my lady. Now, do allow me to escort you to dinner.”
Sebastian led a subdued and quiet young widow into the camp clearing.
Her man, Juan jumped to his feet and rushed to her side. “Francesca…Señora De La Vega.” He switched to more formal address in front of the people watching.
Sebastian noted that the young widow—Francesca De La Vega-also assumed a formal role. Despite the wild ride and her previous ignominious position over the log, not a black hair was out of place. In the forest, surrounded by men who’d just saved her from a horrible fate, she was as calm and collected as the Queen at tea.
“I am fine,” she murmured in Spanish, and then glanced at Sebastian and switched to English. “What happened?”
“There were men following you from the town. Whatever you did upset them. But Señor Cage and Chivington here happened to be on the trail and helped me stop them.”
“Is that so?” she asked dryly, shooting a glance back at Chivington.
“It’s true, ma’am,” Cage answered, whipping off his hat and showing a thick head of hair shot with silver. “We’re lucky we happened to be along.”
“These were Charlie the Red’s compatriots?”
“Yes, ma’am, far as I can tell. And if some of the items collected from the bodies tell truth, Red Charlie ran with the Royal Mountain Gang. Next time you shoot into a card game, make sure you get all the players.”
Chivington bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too hard. He’d spent that last few months since hiring Cage putting up with the greybeard’s mocking, and it was nice to see the guide treated all highborn folk with the same cheeky disrespect.
“Just the players? Not all the witnesses?” Señora De La Vega asked. She could give as good as she got.
“Fair enough,” Cage chuckled.
“Sit down, Señora.” Chivington couldn’t resist settling onto a log by the fire and patting the place next to him. “You must be tired after the ambush.”
“Yes, do take a seat.” Cage grinned.
With a haughty expression, the little Spanish wildcat stalked right over and seated herself on the log. She couldn’t quite hide her wince.
“That reminds me, Señora De La Vega,” Chivington said, holding out her pistol. “You dropped this in the woods. I will provide you with more bullets and powder, if you need.”
“Thank you,” Francesca said stiffly, and Juan’s eyes darted between the two of them.
They sat around the campfire and shared a meal. Sebastian played the gallant, seating himself close to Francesca and went out of his way to be kind to her. He offered her a drink of water and bowl of food, and smiled when he could practically see her gritting her teeth. If Juan guessed why Francesca’s cheeks were a bright, angry red, he said nothing.
Other than a few cracks in her imperious mien, she held herself like a woman of good breeding, with an air of easy working power. She was used to leading and having her will wrought.
In England she’d pass for a duchess or maybe even a princess in line to be queen.
“How far is it to your home?”
When Francesca ignored Sebastian, Juan answered for her. “A little more than half a day’s ride. If we can, I would prefer to leave before dawn. Ana and the rest of the ranch will be worried for us.”
“We will escort you there. If any more trouble rears its head, we will be with you.”
“I thank you,” Juan said. “It will be nice to have allies. Perhaps, if my lady agrees, you can stay with us for a time as our guests. The valley is lovely this time of year.”
Francesca’s dark eyes shot daggers at her man. “I’m sure Lord Chivington has other places to be.”
Sebastian was surprised at how much he enjoyed hearing his name on her tongue.
“Oh, not at all. You can ask Cage here. I was just waiting around, spending my father’s money. Escorting you home will be my good deed for the year.”
His Spanish lady glared at him with her lovely, dark eyes.
“We are grateful for the help,” Juan put in.
“Yes,” Francesca bit out, as if the words tasted bitter. “So very grateful.”
Before they rode out the next morning, Sebastian approached Francesca.
“Here.” He held out some balm he kept on hand. Not much, but it would soothe her backside. “You’ve suffered long enough.”
She just glared at him, and turned her back on him. She took out a packet from her own saddle bag and disappeared into the wood.
Juan watched the exchange and chuckled.
“My lady is a healer from a long line of healers. She has balms and potions the likes of which most have never seen.” If the laughing man knew why his mistress needed balm, he didn’t mention it.
Sebastian waited until the widow returned to the clearing.
“You got your gun?” He handed her some bullets and powder. She started to reach for it, and he drew his hand back for a moment. “If trouble comes for us, I’d prefer if you turned tail and ran.”
“I will not leave the fight to the men.” Her eyes flashed.
“Don’t worry, my lady. My first choice is also retreat.”
“So you are a coward?”
“I find it’s wiser to live to fight another day.”
She snatched the offering out of his hand. “I am a good shot.”
He scoffed and she looked furious.
“You laugh at me? Ask Charlie the Red. He is not laughing.”
“That was lucky,” Sebastian told her. “You caught him and all of us by surprise. You were lucky none of those drunkards had their wits about them this early in the morning.”
“You were in the saloon,” she shot back. “Are you a drunkard?”
“Only before eleven o’clock in the morning. I’m usually dried out by noon,” he assured her with a wink. He watched her reload her weapon and tuck it into her sash.
“I mean it, Lady De La Vega. From what I learned from Cage, the Royal Mountain Gang is not to be trifled with.”
She glared at him, then gave a stiff nod. “I understand.”
“Good.” Sebastian briefly wondered if he’d have to watch his own back in a gunfight, then dispelled the thought. This lady would have honor, even if she was angry with him. “I’m looking forward to seeing you home safely. Or, if the Royal Mountain gang resurfaces, dying heroically in your honor.”
Her face crinkled in appalled confusion.
Sebastian continued, tongue firmly in cheek. “If I do die, will you promise to find a few poets to laud my courage? Nothing fancy, a few sonnets perhaps.”
“Englishman,” Francesca said when she’d overcome her shock. “If it comes to a gunfight, I can only hope your bullets aren’t as scrambled as your brain.”
For the rest of the morning, Francesca wouldn’t look at him. She rode ahead of most of the group, and Sebastian took the time to study her. She was a competent rider, at ease in the saddle. Th
e sun rose, but her body didn’t wilt, and she held her proud head as high as ever. She’d lost the mourning veil, but the hair tumbling down her back was as black as widow’s weeds. Black certainly became her, and he found himself imagining what her clothes would look like in contrast to more of her caramel skin.
After staring at his lady, thinking sinful, irreverent thoughts, Sebastian couldn’t keep from spurring his horse forward to fall in beside hers.
“Lovely day for a ride, isn’t it?”
She ignored him, and he got a chance to admire the front side of her. Her black brows and red lips added sensuality to the thin blade of her face. Even the dark circles under her eyes and slender body, a tad too thin, tempted him, if only because it spoke of her need for a protector.
Patience, Sebastian. You can’t jump into the first damsel in distress’ bed.
“Tell me about your ranch.”
Juan glanced back at the two of them, and Francesca seemed to weigh whether she should exercise courtesy or dig her heels in and fight.
She chose the former. “My father started the ranch, and claimed the land. He always wanted to farm it, but did not know how until Cyro came along. My husband is…was…a military man. After his career, he wished to settle somewhere peaceful. He moved to the valley and befriended my father. They impressed each other so much, father offered my hand in marriage, and Cyro accepted.”
She seemed calm about such an arrangement.
“I take it your husband, Cyro, he was older than you?”
“By twenty years. My father was an old man, wished to see me settled before he passed away.”
Now this put things in a rather different light. A passionate young woman married off to a friend of her father’s.
“How long were you married?”
“Five years. I was young, but he was good to me.” She sounded very practical, talking about her husband as if he was a business partner or a guardian. Sebastian filed this away for later.
“He was a good man, señora,” Juan spoke up.
“He was,” Francesca agreed. “And then they shot him.”
