The Hunted Bride

by Jaye Peaches

  She stomped, carrying her skirts with her, and behind her back he chuckled.

  “This is so unseemly, little Tilda. I shall take even more delight in colouring your bottom. It will not go well if you continue with the display of recalcitrance.”

  “If you want, then why not take me downstairs to the dungeons and have me there instead. Would it not suit your mood better?”

  He caught her arm and held it firmly. “Do you know what is down there?”

  She turned on the narrow step and found her chin level with the top of his head. From above, with his tousled mop of sunshine hair, he appeared younger. However, staring up at her, the sharpness of his eyes was unnerving in their maturity. He kept his grasp of her elbow and guided her down the stairs, past the entrance, and further to the bleak lower floor that sank beneath the ground and into the stone of the cliffs. He lit a torch and approached a blackened door.

  “Come, I’ll show you.” He unlocked the door with a different key. The creak was ominous and through the gap, a rush of icy air escaped and brushed her.

  She was stuck close to his side. He lifted the light high and she waited for her eyes to adjust. The smell was dank and unpleasant, the kind that came with suffering. The opposite wall was dripping with damp and she spied chains hanging from hooks. Gervais swept the torch in a circle and she glimpsed a wooden post in one corner, and a grim table with manacles in another.

  “What is this place?”

  “A prison for the condemned. Did I not tell you the previous occupier of this castle was a traitor? Well, this is where he conducted his treasonous acts on the king’s loyal followers by whatever means took his fancy.”

  She shivered. “And you left this untouched?”

  He lowered the torch and the flame lit up his disapproving face. “A reminder not to others, but to me, that evil lurks in hidden places.”

  He grasped her hand and hurried out of the dungeon, locking the door behind him.

  “So you see, my lady, why I prefer the upper floor,” he said, his voice lighter and less frosty.

  “Yes,” she said. “You’d best take me up there, then.”

  She showed no resistance when they ascended for a second time. Neither did she argue when he told her to undress, or bend over his knee. Draped, positioned, and held in place by his steady arm, she separated her legs and braced herself for what she deserved. A well-earned spanking.

  He’d chosen not the bench this time, but a stool, and she clung onto the legs. The smacks were relentless and covered every inch of her bottom from crease to just below her tailbone. It seemed more painful than the first spanking and although she kept still for the first part, she couldn’t hold steady forever. She squirmed, kicked, and attempted to cover her bottom with a flailing arm. He ignored her cries and pinned the culprit limb behind her back.

  Throughout his lengthy disciplining, he lectured with an authority her father often lacked. She stuttered apologies and weak little pleas of mercy.

  “Oh, my lord, I’m undeserving of this,” she wailed.

  “Will you wear the harness all next week, day and night?”

  “A week!”

  He curbed her screeches with a string of well-aimed slaps on her inner thighs. “Keep these legs parted.”

  “It will be impossible.” The tears were not a contrivance, neither were her sniffles. However, she was not able to curtail the need that rose within her clenching quim, and she humped his lap, aching for relief from both the spanking and the heat pulsing in her veins.

  “If I command it, it shall be possible,” he said.

  The smacks ceased, and he circled each roasted arse cheek with his palm.

  “I will fail you; I know I will,” she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

  “Do you think that if I had gone into battle thinking I would fail I would come out alive?”

  She shook her head. She’d not considered his arrogance had kept him alive. But how could she contain her vanity and provide him with the meekness he desired; the only battle she fought was with herself.

  He patted her bottom. “Does it sting sufficiently?”

  “It throbs, sir. Like a fire, like a battalion of hooves has trampled over my bottom. Like...”

  “Good, then you may sit upon my knee.” He eased her up and swung her about.

  She gingerly lowered herself onto his lap and stuffed her hands between her warm thighs. Perched there, she gnawed her lower lip, and tried to ignore the bulge that poked her sore bottom.

  “Am I naughty,” she whispered. “So naughty and wicked, that I desire you even when you punish me?”

  “The truth is that you need spanking, and probably regularly, and if it draws out your lust, then I shall enjoy capitalising on it. You fear failure because you wish to be a proud noblewoman without faults. It is your weakness, and I think that is why you put up barricades, even to those who serve you. You are also a sensual creature with an insatiable lust for bodily pleasures, even those that cause you pain and humiliation. But a desire for the lewd is not the same as rudeness.”

  “No, sir,” she said, and wriggled her bottom harder.

  “You can be kind to people. I know this, I have witnessed it. You can also be obedient.”

  “Yes, sir.” Meekness came with benefits. His cock was an erection girded with iron blood. “I will obediently submit to whatever you wish, my lord, in the hope you will not regret choosing me as your betrothed.”

  “I don’t regret it for one second.” He kissed her mouth, a dainty peck, then when she parted her lips, he sank his mouth onto hers and delivered the longest, most breath-taking kiss of passion she could possibly conceive. By the end, her hair was bundled into his fist and he tilted her head back and peppered hard kisses on her neck and cleavage.

  She slipped into a daze, and for the first time in her life, accepted her body belonged not to her, but to a man who harboured dark desires, ones she had yet to fathom. He alluded to them as he fucked her, moving her from stool to bench, then bent over the table. He used his hands, deviously and sometimes roughly, and always his cock was buried in her orifices, whether it was her mouth, her willing cunt, or that wilful hole that liked to resist then yield to him, bringing them both immense satisfaction.

  Eventually, he achieved a lengthy, vigorous climax, one to match her own, and emptied into her. She flopped across the table, spread-eagled and messy. The robust table had held them both, and she ventured it had been chosen for such a purpose, as had the other furniture. She opened her eyes. He was there, panting above her head, his knees either side of her hips, one hand bound to her hair, the other holding her wrist behind her back, just as he had done when he spanked her.

  “Ye gods,” he said, breathless. “Are you alright?”

  He asked the question as if he himself had awoken from a dream.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “But I would like some room to breathe.”

  He laughed. “Agreed.” He removed himself off the top of the table and brought over his cloak. Their clothes lay strewn about the room, including the shirt he had used to tie her wrists together while he fucked her on the bench. She remembered bits and pieces, fragments that in retrospect might never come together to create a complete picture.

  He helped her off the table and slowly, they dressed. He watched her like his hawk, as if aware she might collapse in a heap of exhaustion, which she felt close to achieving.

  “I can walk,” she said. “With your help.”

  He aided her down the stairs, across the courtyard, and to her chamber. He summoned Sara.

  “Take good care of your mistress. You must know that she might be delicate in body, but she’s strong in heart. Remember that, Sara, when you bathe her. Do not judge me.” He paused by the door.

  Matilda, finding her legs steadier, curtsied low and rising, offered him a beaming smile. “You judged me perfectly, sir.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “You survived a week of harnessing, you should be pro
ud of yourself.” He stretched out on the bed with one arm tucked under his head, the other tucked around her shoulders.

  Matilda wriggled closer and used the tip of her forefinger to trace the musculature of his lithe frame, noting the puckered white scars and strange claw marks above one nipple. Three deep lacerations scratched into his flesh, so deep they had left a permanent mark.

  “A week of profound torment,” she said lazily.

  He guffawed. “I kept it slack during the day, and without the phalluses to impede your movements, and you did admit you found the gentle rub between your thighs... What was the word?”

  “Torturous? Unbearable?”

  “No, no. You said indulgent.”

  “Undignified, I think was the actual word.” She had thought of many others, but kept them to herself.

  “You tolerated it to such an extent, the mere tightening of the straps brought you whimpering to your knees begging for my cock.”

  It had, and the shame of that moment lived on.

  “My lord, it was a sufferance I bore for your pleasure,” she said, her finger now moving along the line of each rib.

  “If that is the case, then I shall burn it, and—”

  She propped herself up one elbow and stared down at him. He was grinning, his eyes sparkling with amusement, his teeth flashing in the light of the solitary candle.

  “I don’t believe you would, sir. I think you know it will bring me to my knees at the mere sight of it.”

  “Then, we shall keep it for special occasions. Perhaps our wedding night?” He raised his eyebrows.

  She lowered herself into the crook of his arm and fell silent. A week of constant arousal, fed by the salacious use of a simple harness, and she had succumbed to its effect on her libido without protest. There had been no guests to the castles to admire her grace and fortitude, and if the servants suspected her dreamlike expression was due to lack of sleep, they were half-correct. The visits to her lord’s bedchamber had crept longer into the night, allowing her, like now, to probe him a little with conversation. Eventually, sleep would mean her departure. He refused to countenance her presence in his bed while he slept, and that was one condition of marriage she would request—they woke together at dawn in the same bed.

  Marriage remained a distant goal for Matilda. Gervais was her lover, her teacher, and master, but not her husband. And while she appreciated the tender moments when he spoilt her with affectionate words and caresses, they were infrequent.

  Geoffrey’s letters were arriving more often.

  Her distant admirer continued to fill his missives with poetry. He was now ambulatory but unable to ride. He wished she was with him, and hoped that ‘upon his recovery, she would renew their courtship and bring to him great hope for the future.’ In her replies, she made no mention of her situation, her location, or why she could not visit him. She referred all of his enquiries to her father. It had been his decision to place her in this quandary; he could deal with the complications.

  Both men assumed they would be marrying her.

  It didn’t help that she knew so much more about Geoffrey and his family than the man to whom she was formally betrothed.

  She cleared her throat. “My lord. Our future lives, if intertwined, depend much on our pasts, do they not? You know of my mistake, my poor mother, my brothers and sister, yet of you, I know nothing. Is that not unfair?”

  Her finger had resumed its occupation, and she grazed it along his firm stomach and circled his navel. Under its touch, his belly rose and fell as he inhaled deeply.

  “My family.” He sighed. “My father is a lesser relative of the Picardy Baliols, who acquired great wealth in West Francia. Educated, he prefers the role of administrator, safe in his borough to the north of us. My older brothers are scholars, and I was expected to be one, too.”

  Matilda had seen little evidence of books in the castle. Her education had been limited, but unlike many of her sex, she at least could read and write.

  “I can’t imagine you as a scholar. You’re too energetic.”

  “I rebelled, and consequently, was barred from returning home. I discovered a band of mercenaries on route to the east and joined them. From them, I learnt my true craft, and never looked back.”

  “And your mother?” She felt another sharp intake of breath.

  “She bore a daughter, and together they passed on within days of each other. I had no recollection of her myself.” Gervais caught her wrist, stilling her. “I think you should go now.”

  The dismissal was sudden and disappointing. “Could I not stay a little longer?”

  “I’m tired.” He yawned expressively.

  She climbed off the bed and collected her robe. The disappointment grew into resentment, and seeing the abandoned harness lying on the rushes, she thought again of what it meant to be trapped and used for no purpose other than entertainment.

  “I thought we were making progress, sir. But I see I am mistaken. Father Mark and you have more in common than you realise. Both of you take delight in my flesh with little consideration for my soul.” She strode to the door, and somehow, in a flash of movement, he beat her to it, blocking her exit.

  Gervais stuck out his arm and leaned on the stone wall. “Say that again.”

  “Your hearing is quite excellent, I believe. I need not repeat it.” Her heartbeats drummed against her breastbone. His eyes, no longer glazed over, were wide awake and fearsome.

  “You accuse me of disregarding your feelings. I have respected them—”

  “In a cursory manner. You take, sir, and I yield, but what will become of me when you grow tired of me? Will you truly know me, or will you be like the priest, seeking out your next conquest, safe in the knowledge none will melt your icy heart?”

  She thought for a moment he might spin her around and remind her of obedience. He had not mentioned discipline since the last visit to the tower. However, with the colour draining from his face, he lowered his arm and blinked.

  “You think I am like that charlatan, that I amuse myself with you for no other purpose than to turn you into my whore?” He spoke with disbelief. She had touched a rawness that she had not anticipated.

  “That is the problem, my lord. I don’t know what your purpose is, other than to marry me, which seems to me a lure, a bait to trick me into your bed. You claim I am free to leave you and marry Geoffrey,” she spat out the name in defiance of his wishes, “but what if you change your mind and Geoffrey cares not for me anymore? I shall be a spinster forever. Who would want me then?”

  She ducked past him and ran out of the door, her tears landing on her cheeks. She had not intended to express her anxieties so vividly and now that she had, she could not take them back. Together, she and Gervais had weaved a tangle of emotions and it seemed neither of them had the means to unravel them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Gervais lay sleepless and troubled. Matilda’s teary eyes had affected him profoundly, more than he considered wise. Although she had brought up the name of his fellow suitor, it was the reference to the priest that had irked him. She hadn’t been the priest’s only victim, and she knew she was not alone in succumbing to his wiles, which led Gervais to wonder how the priest had managed to continue his debauchery undetected and unpunished.

  Why had the Abbess allowed Father Mark to foster relationships with the young novices of her abbey; shouldn’t she have known he was unsuitable for the post? Unless the woman had prior knowledge and ignored it, or even aided him. Or perhaps she was simply a fool who couldn’t see what passed by the end of her nose.

  The impact of that priest’s behaviour on Matilda endured. If she despised the predatory priest, what would she think if Gervais revealed to her his entire past? In his opinion what the priest had done was contemptible, given the man’s position of trust. Gervais was part of an order, one with rules that exacted terrible retribution on any man who broke them. For though he had witnessed evil, seen men who would do anything to satisfy their h
unger, his order, the brethren that met in secret and conducted their affairs without shame, were above reproach when it came to ensuring the sanctity of their rules. Those who joined were chosen carefully and after long deliberations and physical trials, and if the grand master suspected the order was in danger of insurrection or infiltration, then he acted swiftly. Annihilation was often the best policy for dealing with the worst offenders.

  What troubled the order and Gervais was the myths that the brotherhood was corrupt; falsehoods that accused it of atrocious acts of cruelty. It was in the end why Gervais had revoked his oath and returned home to live a quieter life. The order’s long arms could only reach so far, and those that decided to hunt without its watching eye were likely to be the source of those far-fetched stories. It was said that those expelled from the order for excesses of greed, and who continued to hunt, were more dangerous than those who lived by its rules. The priest was a man like those renegades, but still living within a righteous community while deceiving those who trusted him. So where was he now and who was he preying on?

  After a fitful night’s sleep, Gervais penned a few letters in his neat handwriting, sealing each one with his coat of arms. He handed them to Jacob and instructed him to use the fastest riders.

  “I want answers back before the end of the month,” Gervais said.

  He needed the answers to convince Matilda to stay with him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “She’s not a gyrfalcon, although closely related to that kind. I can see why you thought she was.” Gervais stroked the hawk’s breast with one bent finger. He clucked his tongue and the hooded bird swivelled her head around. “She’s a saker. Saker falcons breed in the east and winter in the heat of Arabia. I brought her back with me. She was too well trained to leave behind and then... I could find no other to replace her.” Stepping back from the perch, Gervais took Tilda’s arm and led her through the mews to another perch, and a smaller falcon.