by Jaye Peaches
“Why? Are we at war? Who will dare touch me?” She tied her cloak under her chin and pulled on her riding gloves.
The horse, a sprightly mare, was saddled in the yard and held for her to mount with the help of a groom.
“Where will you go, my lady?” Sara asked from the steps of the keep.
Tilda waved her arm in a loose direction. “Down the hill. There’s a river, is there not, down there?”
“Be careful, my lady. The river should not be crossed.”
“Then, I’ll go into the woods.” She twitched the reins and the horse obediently trotted.
Tilda considered herself an accomplished rider. She was capable of jumping low fences and walls, a shallow ditch, and even logs. She refused the company of a groom.
“I’ve ridden alone many times,” she shouted over her shoulder at the worried Sara and cross Jacob. “I’ll not be gone long.”
The road leading from the barbican and portcullis went over a bridge connecting the curtain walls with a hilltop plateau where many villagers lived in thatched cottages and barns. There was no moat on the cliff side as the height provided sufficient defences, but on the side of the barbican there was a ditch and moat. The mare followed the path downhill, a steep incline in places and she met wagons being dragged uphill by oxen. The sun beat down on the backs of the men walking alongside. They saluted her with their whips, and she acknowledged them with an upturned nose. She had no time for niceties. They knew their place.
The green meadow by the river provided some grazing for a flock of sheep and goats, but she suspected it flooded in the winter and was not suitable for cultivating. There were beehives, and she steered away from the buzzing, choosing to take the lane leading into the forest.
The pines dominated, springing up between the ancient oaks and elms. Probably planted to replace felled trees, they offered a constant canopy all year round, while the leafy trees provided colour. She stuck to the path. It wasn’t her intention to get lost and warrant a search party. That would not please her lord. She was determined to demonstrate independence outside of his bedchamber. She was no fool or weakling, and if she was to be his wife, then he had to accept she was entitled to freedoms.
She ducked under a low branch, slowly noticing the trees were huddled tighter together and the path was narrowing. The birds, which had sung gaily, were quiet, and the leaves rustled ceaselessly. A fallen pinecone rolled across the path, then another. There were probably squirrels. And hares, or rabbits, and wood pigeons. Deer, too.
A four-legged creature shot across the path and the spooked horse reared slightly. Tilda screamed. What had she seen? Too small for a stag, too large for a rabbit.
An arrow landed in the distance; its flint buried in the bark of an oak tree. She pulled her horse up and turned. Behind, robed in a hood, his face cast into a black shadow, was a horseman. He carried a long bow and a quiver of arrows on his back. The sword was sheathed, the dagger was not. He held it aloft in his hand for a few seconds, then slotted it into its scabbard.
“Matilda,” the familiar voice growled. “What are you doing here?”
Tilda sighed with relief. “My lord. You did give me a fright.”
He trotted forward, drawing back his hood to reveal the golden locks of hair and the startling blue eyes.
“You are alone?” He furrowed his eyebrows. “Where is the groom, a man-at-arms?”
She lifted her chin. “I have no need of such company.”
He drew his horse alongside hers and snatched the reins out of her hands. “You’ve never ridden in this forest, along these paths, and you expect me to agree to you being out alone?” He pressed his lips into a deep frown. “I shall take you onto my horse, over this saddle and give your arse a walloping.”
She giggled, then stopped abruptly. He looped his bow behind his back, reached over and plucked her from her saddle. She squawked but could not prevent him from tossing her face down over the shoulders of his horse.
“My lord, please.”
He lifted up the end of her skirts, and stuck his hand between her legs. The coarse fabric of her riding gown was yanked upward, and a gust of wind brushed against her stockings and bare thighs.
Her head dangled by his stirrup, consequently, her hair unravelled from its headdress and pins and cascaded down, the swaying ends nearly reached the ground. She thumped his leg with her fist. “This is unfair, sir. You never ordered me not to ride in the forest.”
There was a silence punctuated by the neighing of her horse. She peeked up at him. His arm was raised above her crumpled skirts and, for a second, his face flushed. He lowered his hand and smoothed down the gown.
“I did not.” He helped her up and she perched before him, balanced on the saddle, and reliant on the support of his embracing arm. “There shall be no confusion going forward. You will not ride here without my permission, or without a groom.”
She bit back a retort—she was not a child. His requirement remained unfair and harsh, and overly protective.
“Don’t pout,” he said. “It is unbecoming of your fair face.” He retrieved the reins of her horse and turned both steeds around.
She snorted. “I can ride myself.”
“I like you up here. I can ensure you stay on the path.”
She clung to the mane. “I wouldn’t have got lost. I was following the path, and would have taken it back without deviation.”
“And if you encountered a fork, how would you know which to take?” He ducked under the same branch she had nearly struck with her head.
“I can recall the correct one. There are trees, like the one we just passed, that are memorable. And there was a badger’s set—look, there are the marks of the paws.”
He guffawed. “It’s not a badger’s. Those are pigs.”
“Pigs?” She’d seen a pig in the forest; was that the creature that had run off?
“Wild pigs. They escaped from a farm and bred. A useful addition to the dinner plate.” He kicked his heels and picked up the pace.
She glanced up. The sunbeams had broken through the canopy and lit up his brow and nose. The light magnified the firm jawline and thin lips. It was hard to believe that those lips were the reason why she was unafraid of his stern demeanour. He was capable of gentle kisses and nips, and yet, he had nearly punished her in the middle of a forest. Was he dangerously impulsive?
“Why did you want to spank me?” she asked.
“Want to?” He lowered the line of his sight and stared at her, bemused. “Why would I want to? I do so for your benefit, not mine. And it is discipline that you need. You’re far too haughty, young lady.”
Haughty! “You’re arrogant, sir.”
For a second, she thought he might sling her over his saddle. She held her breath. Gervais tossed back his head and laughed loudly.
“I am. You’re quite correct. It is a failing, but it will do me no harm.” The laughter died away. “It is your safety that concerns me, and if I have to behave inappropriately to maintain it, I shall. Now lean back and enjoy the fresh air and bird song. It is why you came out for a ride, is it not?”
She had forgotten the pleasure of riding, and with it was a new experience—the close confines of Gervais’s body shielding her. She rested her head on his broad chest, and to her surprise, detected a heartbeat. It was not a steady slow beat she heard, but a fast, adventurous one.
She reconsidered his remarks and concluded he had lied to her. He had wanted to spank her, and the excitement remained palpable. What the realisation meant she wasn’t sure. She might have to test her theory, but first she needed to determine if it was her presence that had quickened his pulse and not simply the thrill of the hunt.
“Where is your kill?” she asked, aware that he only carried a bow and arrow.
“I left it to be collected by Lionel. He knows where to find it. I don’t wish to have carcasses hanging from my horse. The smell deters other animals from approaching. And if you want to know why I have no dogs wit
h me, then they too can be a nuisance. Noisy and excitable. I prefer the quiet hunt, to stalk my prey closely. So closely, they can see my eyes at the last moment.”
His arms tensed as he spoke and she knew that hunting was a passion for him, something that might compete with her.
“Will we dine together later?” she asked.
“Yes. In my private chamber.” Without Lionel or Jacob, possibly the only other two occupants of the castle of rank.
“And then...” She slid her hand under his cloak and picked at the buckle of his belt.
“Ah, you wish to know what I have planned for your pleasure.” The trees were opening; soon they would be in the opening and in view of the castle walls high above.
She stayed quiet and still.
“I shall fuck you,” he said genially. “On my bed. You’ll be brought to my bed, and kneel on all fours, and I shall take you from behind. It is the position of supplication, and one that you shall learn to adopt in my company.”
Brought to him! How, and by whom? Her breasts tingled and to hide the shame of her blush, she burrowed her face into the fur lining of his cloak.
Gervais was no fool. “And the night after that, you will be on your knees by the fire, sucking my cock, until you are exhausted. You need to learn endurance, stamina. The hard fuck against the wall is a good way to test the strength of your fine legs. Something for another night. Sufficient planning for you?”
She gripped the pommel. The storm of butterflies in her belly was shameful, and yet, Gervais showed no embarrassed at uttering such uncouth words. He described what should be humiliating scenes of submission on her part. But to her silly mind and fanciful imagination, it was alluring. Desirable.
Gervais’s heart betrayed him. When he called to the two horses to trot faster, so did the beats of his heart. The hooves failed to hide what she heard. Perhaps being impulsive was no bad thing for either of them.
Chapter Fourteen
Three nights of fucking her. Just three, and the Zalim was close to bursting forth. If only she understood how powerful the need in him was. What she had achieved was remarkable, and he was full of praise for her, especially the long spell before the fire when he had kept her mouth on his cock. The first night, as promised, he had sent for her, instructing the iron-faced Lionel to bring her to his chamber dressed only in a robe.
He had whipped the robe off her back and pointed at the bed. She had remembered the position and pointed her bottom at him. The generous buttocks were faintly discoloured, but when he touched them, the inflamed heat of the spanking was gone.
The joy of fucking her that way was to have her hair in one hand, and her slender waist gripped in the other. Held rock steady by his firm grasp, he had the means to pound her. But then there had been periods of tenderness when he had rocked playfully in and out of her pussy, teasing the hole with his half-thrusts, while underneath, he cupped her breasts.
Coming was something she excelled at, and he was happy to see her lost in the thrall of an orgasm—as long as she kept his cock entertained.
The second night, ah, had been stupendous, and she had worked hard at sucking him. He’d rewarded her by letting her lie belly up over his lap, her legs adrift and in that vulnerable position he’d played with her wet cunt until she had been flushed and satiated. How quickly she had come when stoked with the combined mass of his fingers.
Then last night, he had risked much by claiming her against a wall the moment she entered the room. She froze, her fingers clawing at the tapestry hanging by the door. Her little breaths panting, her pert bottom pushing back against his erection, her eyes closed. The entry had been easy, a fulsome penetration and requiring no assistance. She gasped, and nearly pulled the tapestry off its hooks.
After a few savage thrusts, the point had been made. She whimpered, and her knees began to buckle beneath her. Extracting himself, he had collected her in his arms and carried her to the bed.
“Did I scare you?” he’d asked.
“No, Gervais.” That she used his name reassured him.
The gamble had paid off. He had shown her how unpredictable he could be and she had not asked him to stop. Her reaction to him pouncing on her when she came into the room had revealed she was of a stout heart and eager to please him, regardless of the suddenness. On the bed, she had begged him to continue and he obliged her, but with gentler thrusts, commanding the beast within him to hold back. He controlled those urges. She had passed the test without damaging their relationship.
He had tumbled with her on the bed into the early hours, then when fatigue swept over both of them, he had sent her to her chamber, where the sleepy maid could bathe and feed her.
The door had closed behind her with a soft click.
Three nights of fucking and he was doomed.
Gervais slept and the dreams were vivid. There was nothing he could do to stop them. He cried out, waking himself, and threw off the covers in frustration. His cock was huge, throbbing, and the Zalim wanted to use it. He locked his door and pushed the key underneath it. Lionel would know to release him in the morning.
For now she was safe. He had it contained. But what if he couldn’t keep himself in check? Perhaps he’d made a mistake. He had thought he wasn’t like the other men, those who failed the trials, now he doubted his arrogance.
He should have stayed with the Order. Hunting animals was never a good substitute.
Chapter Fifteen
Matilda watched Gervais hunt with Artemis, which she thought was a gyrfalcon—she wasn’t an expert on falconry. A beautiful creature with tawny feathers and wicked talons. He handled her with practised ease, sending her soaring into the skies before luring her back with a piece of meat swung on a string. His gloved hand, held aloft, guided the bird, while the other hand managed the reins of his horse. Matilda remained under the canopy erected to protect her from the sun’s heat. Gervais seemed impervious, but then he had lived in the dust of the African desert, as well as the cold tundra of the eastern lands.
The spectacle of bird and master was a lesson in itself. He spoke softly to the gyrfalcon, stroked her plumage, then when she cruised on the hidden breeze, he called to her by name, commanding the hawk to return. She always did.
Matilda was like that captive bird—beholden to her betrothed lord, held in his thrall by his whim and passions, except she wore no jesses or hood, and was free to leave whenever she wished. He had invited her to join him hawking, which pleased her, since most mornings he hunted alone in the forest. The bird flew on the open meadow by the river and was trained to spot rabbits. Once the little creatures were spooked, the arrows of the Lionel’s bow gave chase and brought them down. Gervais took no part in killing them, preferring to concentrate on his precious hawk.
For three weeks, she had accepted she was his, and each night he had shown her his physical desires were strong and indefatigable. The one occasion when he had demonstrated the full extent of his willpower, she had torn her nails through the threads of the tapestry on the wall, and submitted, briefly with no resistance. It should have shamed her, but it had forced her to admit to herself that her needs were equal to his. If only her heart was as confident.
She wrote to Geoffrey, beseeching him to wait for her. Gervais made no attempt to intercept the letters or forbid her to write. When the replies arrived, Geoffrey filled his letters with arcane poetry and florid descriptions of his affection for her. His leg healed slowly.
The truth she hid from both men. She was split in two. Her body was Gervais’s while her heart was twisted by Geoffrey’s sweet charms. Her boldness in writing to Geoffrey, far from riling Lord Baliol, seemed to amuse him, and he teased her, asking if she wanted Geoffrey to know what they had done in bed that night, or if she was pretending to be pure and unsullied. Blushing, she told Gervais her feelings for Geoffrey were genuine. Her body, though, was yearning for Gervais and it refused to switch its allegiance.
What happened if her need for Gervais outshone her affection for
Geoffrey? She had been promised the final choice was hers to make, but somehow she still felt that it wasn’t truly her own decision, that by the time she had spent three months with Gervais, her body would have won, and would never allow her to leave his side. Perhaps that was why Gervais was unperturbed.
Handing the gyrfalcon to his groom, he dismounted and joined her under the canopy for refreshments.
“Magnificent creature, isn’t she?” he said.
“Yes, my lord. Could I learn to fly her?”
Gervais lowered his goblet. “Not Artemis. No one flies her but me. However, I could acquire a smaller hawk for you.”
“Oh, please.” She sipped on her wine. “There is something magical about the way she flies so high yet comes to rest upon your arm.”
He laughed. “It’s the meat. I only fly her when she’s hungry.”
“And if she wasn’t hungry, would she fly away?”
Gervais turned to Matilda. “The art of falconry is to ensure the bird never leaves your side. The hood, the jesses, all remind the hawk that she is both captive and safe. When she flies off, she quickly realises there is no place to go that will offer her protection, food, and shelter, that if she chooses to live in the wild, she must learn to survive all of nature’s hardships. The cruel winters. The lack of prey. The competition from other predators. The best place for Artemis is by my side.”
Matilda swallowed the lump in her throat. “Is that how you wish to keep me, sir?”
His eyes sparkled. “Always.”
“How will you stop me flying away?” Her stomach contorted itself into knots. Why was she revealing herself to him so openly? The danger she placed herself in was entirely down to her lust. Geoffrey was pushed to the farthest points of her mind, barricaded behind walls, and all she could think about was Gervais’s metaphorical message to her womanly soul. If he conquered that place, surely he would win her heart, too.
He wanted her love, but only if he claimed all of her, could he learn to love himself. It was obvious now, three weeks into their betrothal, that he wished to understand more of her nature, what heated her sex and brought on the changes she needed to accommodate the rough wooing of her body. The gyrfalcon was a promising clue to how he saw his future wife’s status—protected in his arms. Yet, there was no mention of love in his analogy.
