‘Lord Albert?’ Charlotte’s face became dark with anger. The grip upon Grace’s arms was no longer tender, but painful. ‘Oui, je comprend. I have always understood.’
Grace found herself flung from the cell.
‘I hate you!’ said Charlotte, shaking Grace until her hair was whipped back and forth like a blue-black curtain. ‘You have taken him from me! My love, my life! This is why you are being sent to the guillotine!’
Charlotte pulled Grace across her lap as she sat down upon the guard’s stool. ‘I hate you! Spread your thighs!’ A leather gloved hand beat down upon the upthrust hillocks of Grace’s bottom.
Envy, thought Grace as her buttocks shook with the force of the many blows. Sometimes the smacks were laid across the spread cleft; sometimes they were aimed at the left cheek and sometimes the right. Grace could feel the glow brought about by each slap, could feel her flesh become swollen.
Occasionally the leather fingers slapped into the spread ravine, hitting the rear bud or slipping deeper into the silky valley of her front slit.
The smacking stopped and Grace winced as she was rolled over onto her beaten buttocks.
‘Oui, it is painful,’ said Charlotte, and Grace felt the tickle of the leather gloves stroking over her mound. ‘But this…’ Fingers opened her and Grace felt the familiar shame. ‘This is pearled with your sap. And this…’ her nubbin was flicked, ‘is engorged with enjoyment.’
Lips closed around her bud and, to her endless humiliation, Grace felt it throbbing within the caress as she spiralled up to an inevitable climax.
With strong hands gripping her arms Grace was helped to her feet. ‘It is time,’ announced Charlotte.
Grace could not speak. She could hear the steady beat of a drum from above, and the rattle of the tumbrel wheels over the cobbles, and then an ominous silence.
‘They are waiting,’ said Charlotte.
‘But must I go like this?’ Grace gestured with her manacled hands to her naked breasts, with their rings and the gold chain slung from one to the other and to her shaven mound.
‘Of course,’ said Charlotte, with a shrug. ‘The people know you were one of the Versailles whores.’
‘Could you not allow me a simple shift,’ pleaded Grace, ‘something to cover my shame?’
Charlotte threw back her mane of red hair and laughed, her hands on the steep slopes of her hips. ‘Did you think of shame when you allowed me to tickle this?’ A leather finger slipped between Grace’s sex lips and tapped her still swollen nubbin. ‘No, you did not. We must go!’
Grace, her head high, turned to walk up the stone steps to her fate.
The Black Rose, dressed in rags like the people around him, held the folded whip beneath the hooded cloak. Head bowed, he listened to the beat of the drum and the rumble of the tumbrel wheels over the cobbles. She was drawing closer and he felt his cock thicken in the filthy breeches which were part of his disguise.
‘She is naked, so they say,’ said a harridan next to him.
‘What do you expect from a whore like her?’ said a companion.
The Black Rose eased himself closer to the platform, gritting his teeth to hear Grace spoken of in such a manner. He would take her, snatch her from the steps of the guillotine and they would disappear across the sea. He grinned under the loose hood. The Sheikh would delight in her; delight in her submissiveness, the way she wore her body jewellery with pride and took the taste of the lash gladly.
An inaudible groan whispered from his lips. In his mind’s eye he could see her shapely bottom offered to the Sheikh. The buttocks would be parted, of course, for the Black Rose’s customer delighted especially in a well-trained bottom hole. The moist labia, swollen and open, hopefully as smooth as silk, still shaven by John, would be lifted, the better to receive chastisement.
He frowned. How did that bitch Charlotte get her here? That was what puzzled him. Grace was left in John’s charge and he was not a man to take his duties lightly.
Beneath the cloak he fumbled with his breeches. The very thought of Grace being presented naked and shackled to the Sheikh was enough to make a man come. And the fortune he would get for her! The Black Rose chuckled. Given to the cause of the revolution? Never! The grin faded and he again moved closer to the terrible platform.
‘Stop pushing!’ said an angry voice beside him. ‘We all want to see the whore get what is coming to her.’
The executioner was there, his black hood making him look sinister. The Black Rose could hear the beat of the drum coming closer.
He knew the reason why Charlotte de Levis was taking Grace to her death. Envy, the curse of so many women.
The tumbrel appeared at the edge of the square and he saw Grace, manacled and entirely naked. She was standing very straight and proud, the sun glinting on the rings which pierced her erect nipples and on the chain looped through them and hanging low on her ribs. This swayed with the movement of the cart, somehow making her look more vulnerable.
Charlotte rode upon a white horse, her legs splayed across the stallion’s broad back. She smiled and waved to the cheering crowd.
‘Quite the heroine,’ he murmured to himself.
His eyes were drawn to her black boots and the short leather skirt. It took little imagination to know that she wore nothing to hide her sex and the horse was not saddled. He grinned. The horse’s pelt would tickle her spread sex lips. No wonder she smiled!
He was at the very front of the crowd, and the tumbrel stopped beside the platform.
Charlotte held up her hands to the cheering crowd, asking for silence. ‘This,’ she announced, ‘is the palace whore!’
The crowd booed and catcalled. He saw the shimmer of tears in Grace’s eyes.
‘She allowed all manner of debauchery, every perversion to be played upon her body,’ shrieked Charlotte.
The Black Rose gripped the whip under his cloak, wishing it was Charlotte’s neck.
‘She deserves to die!’
The crowd cheered as Grace was lifted from the tumbrel, her thighs spread by the executioner’s henchmen and held high above the crowd so that all could see her bruised bottom.
Suddenly the crowd fell back as a long whip lashed out, cracking convenient heads. There were cries of pain and anger. Grace was dropped in a heap as the whip lashed out at the executioner’s men. She found herself dragged from the platform and in sudden darkness under a foul smelling cloak. Unable to struggle in the heavy manacles and the iron grip in which she was held, Grace remained silent.
All around her she could hear the sound of people crying out angrily. They were furious that their afternoon’s entertainment had been ruined. Soon the sounds died away and the grip about her waist became less cruel.
She blinked as the cloak was swirled away from her. They were in a cool, shady courtyard. ‘Lord Albert!’ she squealed, and felt tears of joy fill her eyes.
The whip lashed down on her shoulders and again on her buttocks, making the punished flesh burn. ‘You little fool!’ he cried, and pulled her towards him by the chain which joined the manacles. ‘You put yourself and me in danger by coming to Paris!’ He grasped her chin and gave her a cruel and ravishing kiss upon the lips.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, bowing her head. ‘What can I do to make it up to you?’
The Black Rose grinned. ‘Come with me to Morocco.’
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Bride of the Revolution Page 24
