God, he’d come to love the spunk in her.
“I’m helping. While it is quite impressive to watch you work, I think I should get quite bored doing nothing.” Her eyes had traveled across his chest and over the muscles in her arms, and she blushed, as if she just realized what she’d admitted.
He smiled. “All right, little one. I will set you free if you wish to work. But if you give me any trouble at all, you’ll be locked in our room for a fortnight. Understand?”
She shuddered. “Yes, sir.”
He unwound the ribbon from her wrists, sorry when he saw how raw they’d become from twisting against the binds while laboring. “You’ll stay right beside me. And if you even think of throwing a rock at me…” He raised his eyebrows and gave her his most stern look.
To his surprise, she giggled.
He grinned. He’d rather have her laughing at his authority than angry. He was determined to win her heart, even if he had to keep her chained to his side for a year to do it. So far, he’d found her enigmatic. One moment easy to manage, the next a feisty spitfire. Of course, she might be putting him on—simply pretending to soften until she had her opportunity to escape. She certainly had the intelligence for such a game.
That idea bothered him more than he’d like to admit.
Daisy set to work at a pace that wouldn’t last, picking up midsized stones, far too large for her to carry. Her face grew red from exertion, little beads of sweat forming at her hairline, despite the cold. She threw off her cloak and continued.
He watched her as he worked, his cock growing hard. Was it wrong to be aroused by a lady in hard labor? Probably. But it spoke to an animalistic need of finding a mate capable of survival. Daisy would not die in childbirth like his mother, one of the castle’s serving wenches, had. But more than her capacity to bear children, seeing her hard at work, without a single complaint reignited an old dream of his: leaving Rothburg and purchasing his own small property.
Without a strong woman at his side, such a dream would never come to fruition. He had enough silver to buy the property, but hadn’t had the lady. Certainly he could have picked any wench from the castle and she would’ve worked her fingers to the bone for him. But he fancied a loftier life.
As a bastard child, born of a serving wench but acknowledged and raised by a prince, he didn’t really fit anywhere. His father had promised him if he pledged his sword to his younger half-brother, the rightful heir, he would always have a place at the high table of Rothburg. And so it had been. He did not covet Erik’s title or his inheritance. His brother treated him as well as he would a full-blood sibling. But no lady at Rothburg would marry him. They wanted a nobleman. A true knight, rightfully born. Not a bastard. And while he had ventured out to make his own fortune as a mercenary, he had never even thought to take a lady from another castle as his wife.
Would it bother Daisy to have a bastard for a husband? He glanced at her again. She looked exhausted, still lugging heavy stones to and fro.
“Take a break, Lady Daisy. You’re looking tired.”
She ignored him and kept working.
He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Enough,” he murmured in her ear. “You’ll ruin your pretty hands.”
* * *
Daisy spread her palms to examine them. They were raw and swollen. What did Sir Barrett’s look like, then? He had been hauling enormous stones all morning with a bite wound. She picked his palm off her belly and opened it. He had hard callouses to protect his skin, but the wound looked swollen and bruised with angry red outlines on the dirt-filled punctures.
“Don’t worry, I can still spank with this hand,” he murmured in her ear, his words sounding less like a warning than a seduction.
The unnerving fluttering sensation started in her stomach again. Did Sir Barrett enjoy spanking her? She thought again about his words that morning when she’d pleaded he spank with his hand instead.
I would love to.
Did he mean he would love to accommodate her request? Or he really loved to spank? The muscles between her legs clenched at the memory of being upended over his lap, her bottom jiggling at the slaps from his bare hand. Those very same muscles had been affected—each stinging blow had spoken directly to her core, stimulating and vibrating. Her bottom, still throbbing from her whipping that morning, tingled as if his hand was still upon it.
“You men need a bit of refreshment?” a female voice called out from behind them. A serving wench stood behind them, one hand on her hip, the other carrying a bucket of fresh water and a dipper.
“Over here, Margrite,” Barrett summoned.
The girl sauntered over, looking Sir Barrett’s body up and down and licking her lips. “It’s so honorable to see the master works as hard as the men,” she said, her voice a sultry purr.
Daisy took an instant disliking to the girl. Why did she speak so intimately to Barrett?
He ignored it, and filled the dipper, holding it up to Daisy’s lips. She started to refuse, but he ordered, “Drink.” Even without her wrists bound, he served her.
She hardly knew what to think about that. She drank from the dipper, daintily at first, then deeply as she realized her thirst.
“That’s it,” Barrett encouraged.
When she finished, he drank from it himself and handed it back to the wench, who curtsied low enough to show her cleavage.
“They say it’s the reason you make such a good commander,” Margrite said, continuing her flirtation.
“Go on, Margrite, the other men are thirsty, too,” he said, giving her backside a slap.
She giggled and looked at him coquettishly over her shoulder as she scampered away.
Daisy’s jaw clenched. “Are you in the habit of slapping the backsides of all the women of the castle?”
To her great satisfaction, Sir Barrett froze and looked like a guilty boy. “Forgive me. I am not accustomed to answering to a wife. I suppose you do not take kindly to such a thing?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I most certainly do not.”
The moment of looking chastened passed. He stepped closer. “I was just trying to get rid of her. But you can punish me later if I gave offense,” he said with a wolfish grin.
Her neck and chest grew warm as a ridiculous vision of him offering his bare, muscled bottom up for her small hand rose in her mind. Her eyes dropped below his waist, peeking at the way his strong legs filled out his leggings. When they returned to his face, she found him smirking.
“Do you not have work to do?” she snapped, flustered.
He chuckled. “Aye, my lady. I will return to work.”
She watched him, admiring the huge bulging muscles under his shirt. She considered what Margrite had said. He probably did make an excellent commander. She rested a while, but had no inclination to sit, since her bottom still hurt too much, and standing around watching grew tiresome. Eventually she began to work again. Her muscles ached and her hands had been scraped raw, but she enjoyed being outdoors and exercising her body.
She had never been the sort of lady who relished sitting inside and spinning with the ladies. She had certainly done her fair share of weaving, but Prince Frederick, Princess Susanna’s father, had given her a fair amount of freedom. They’d pitied her, she supposed. When she’d come to their castle, she’d scarcely eaten or spoken for weeks. It had been a traveling minstrel with a harp who finally coaxed her out of her trauma. Prince Frederick had been kind enough to buy the harp from the minstrel, who gave her lessons over the course of a month before he left, rich enough to buy himself a new instrument.
After that, she’d learned every song she could from the traveling bards and provided music and song for the king’s table. It kept her apart from the others. Made her strange enough that no man should seek to wed her. That, and her longbow practice. She taught herself, at the tender age of twelve. Perhaps it had been foresight, because even then, she feared their castle would be sacked. Much more so after Eberhard, Princess Sus
She practiced on a target, day after day, until the squires stopped teasing her. Later, when she grew older, she took up hunting and trapping—always alone, though many a squire offered to accompany her.
A bell rang for dinner, and Sir Barrett appeared beside her, offering his arm like a gentleman. She almost asked if he intended to tie her wrists again, but bit back the impulse in time. She did not want to suggest it if he had decided it was not necessary.
He swung one leg over the bench in the dining hall and tugged her onto his lap.
She winced, squirming at the soreness.
“Do you prefer the hard bench?” he asked in her ear, mistaking her squirming as an attempt to free herself.
“Yes, I do,” she said, her stubbornness rising.
He pushed her off his lap and she grunted at the impact of her raw flesh with hard wood. Ridiculously, she found she missed his lap. Not because of her sore backside, but because she suddenly felt quite alone in a totally foreign environment. As much as she’d hated his manhandling, he’d made it easy for her to fit in at Rothburg. Her place had been simple: she belonged to Barrett. Now she sat facing the rest of the high table, seeing the curious faces for the first time.
She remembered the prince, Barrett’s half-brother. Beside him sat a pretty woman who must be his wife, the princess. A dozen other men and women sat at the high table with them.
“You’ve untied her,” one of the knights remarked.
“For the moment,” Barrett said, cutting a piece of meat and placing it on her plate.
“He’s really not a complete ogre,” one of the ladies-in-waiting said, looking sympathetic.
“How would you know?” Sir Barrett shot back, breaking a chunk of bread off the loaf and splitting it between their plates.
The poor lady became flustered, as if Sir Barrett had suggested she had carnal knowledge of him. “I wouldn’t know anything like that!” she exclaimed and everyone at the table laughed.
“Daisy, you are welcome to join us in the spinning room after the meal,” the princess offered.
“Not today, thank you,” Sir Barrett answered for her. “I cannot trust her to roam about unsupervised.”
The princess looked puzzled. “Why not?”
“She’s shown a propensity to try to either kill me, kill herself, or make an escape.”
Everyone at the table stared at her, and she flushed. She wanted to deny it, but of course, it was true. Now they probably all believed her to be half-mad. She shot Sir Barrett an angry look, and as usual, he grinned. Catching her nape in his large palm, he tugged her head forward and planted a kiss on the top of it. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he murmured so only she could hear.
God help her, she wanted only to crawl up into his lap and let him comfort her. She truly must be going mad.
Chapter Four
Barrett locked Daisy in his room after the midday meal. She looked so tired after eating, he didn’t want her to go back outside and work. She protested a little, but he showed her that she would have a view of him from the window and if she wanted to come out after resting, she could call to him.
When he returned to the solarium, he noticed a great many people loitering about in the tower stairwell and on the landings. At his doorway, he discovered the reason: the most beautiful music emanated from his room.
Smiling, he unlocked the door and slipped inside. Daisy sat on the bed, the harp between her legs, her fingers dancing along the strings and the sweet honeyed notes of her voice rising to match the music.
She did not notice him at first, but when she did, she abruptly stopped playing and stood up.
“Please don’t stop.”
She looked peevish. “Is it time for supper?” she demanded, ignoring his request.
“Yes,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
She looked away, toward one of the windows. “Please do not lock me in here again,” she said stiffly.
He frowned. “Why did you not call to me, as we arranged, if you wished to come down?”
She stalked past him, toward the door.
He caught her about the waist and hauled her back against his front. “Answer me when I speak to you,” he murmured in her ear.
“I felt foolish, all right? Your men already think I am fodder for their jokes—”
“That is not true,” he said, then amended. “Or perhaps I should say I will not allow any jokes at your expense.” He turned her in his arms, distressed to see tears glinting on her eyelashes. “Little wife,” he said, cupping her chin. “I would flatten any man who insulted you.”
She blinked rapidly, meeting his gaze and swallowing.
“You are my wife, subject to my rules and punishments like every wife here at the castle. If the men enjoyed our public difficulties, it is only because you are so beautiful and they are unused to seeing me attend to a woman. I’m certain they love seeing your fire as much as I do.”
Her lips moved, then closed again. She swallowed. “My fire?”
He showed her the swollen bite mark on his hand. “Aye, your fire. Tell me, which is more exciting to watch—the training of a new colt, born in captivity, or of a wild stallion?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m a wild stallion and you’re taming me?”
“Well, mayhap a mare,” he said with a grin.
She rolled her eyes. “I thought you said you weren’t trying to break me?”
He chuckled. “So I did. And I meant it. I am trying to woo you, little bride.” He grasped her braid and tugged her head back, nipping at her neck. “And I will not stop before your heart is won.”
“My heart or my body?” she asked drily.
“Your body already belongs to me,” he reminded her, traveling up her neck to take her earlobe into his mouth. “The little matter of our consummation will soon be settled. Nay, it’s your heart I aim to capture and keep for my whole life long.” He touched his fingers to the fluttering pulse at her throat. “I think that excites you.”
She pulled away, stumbling back. “No, sir. It does not. I assure you, men do not excite me.”
He gave her a wolfish smile. “I’ve never seen two women together, but it might interest me to watch.”
She gave him an effectual shove. “I’m not interested in women, either, you boar!”
He laughed. “Mind your manners, or I’ll have you over my knee before supper. In fact,” he said, scooping her up by the waist and carrying her kicking and thrashing to the bed. “Let’s see how your little bottom fared after that thrashing I gave you this morning.”
“Stop,” she squealed. “No more spanking! No, please!”
“Good,” he said, wrestling her to his lap on the bed. “I’m glad you’ve finally learned to fear my punishments.”
“Stop it, you oaf.”
He delivered a slap to her wriggling arse. “Now I am an oaf? I wasn’t planning on spanking you, but if you keep it up, you will soon be sorry.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded, craning her neck to look over her shoulder. “Not… the other thing?”
“What other thing?” he asked, hiding his smile as he pushed her skirts up to reveal her pert, round bottom. He ran his roughened palm lightly over her skin. She bore marks from the whipping that morning but it did not look quite so tender as it had hours before.
Daisy had stiffened, her struggles ceasing as she lay over his thighs, panting, seeming to wait to see what he would do.
He took his time, lightly stroking her baby-soft skin, tracing circles around her twin globes, trailing his palm down the backs of her thighs. After a moment, he smelled the scent of her arousal. He pulled one of her thighs open and lightly brushed a finger along her slit.
She jerked and tried to close her legs, but he had anticipated her move, and held her thigh open.
“You’re wet for me, Daisy,” he murmured.
“I… I don’t even know what that means,” she said.
“I know, love. You don’t know anything about passion yet. But I will teach you. Little by little I’ll win your trust until you believe that what I offer you is something altogether different than what you’ve known.”
“Please,” she pleaded, sounding distressed.
He gave her bottom another pat and pulled her skirts down. “Let’s go down for supper,” he said, lifting her to her feet.
She hurried to the door without looking at him, but to his satisfaction, did not open the door. She stood facing the exit, waiting for him.
He smiled. Either she feared going out without him, or she was growing fond of him. Probably the former, but he’d take what he could get.
* * *
Sir Barrett had a bath sent up to his room after supper. To Daisy’s annoyance, the same serving wench from outside, Margrite, was one of the women who carried up buckets of warm water. She paced a small path near the window where she’d watched her… husband all afternoon. It seemed impossible she could be married, and yet Father David had pronounced them man and wife. She now had a husband. She belonged to Sir Barrett.
How odd that the thought did not distress her nearly so much today as it had the day before. The bedding part, yes. She still did not want to have anything to do with coupling, not even the electrifying things he had done to her the night before. But she liked Sir Barrett, despite it all. He had spanked her—three times already. He had tied her wrists and made a spectacle out of feeding her on his lap. He had locked her in his room like a prisoner of war and yet… she could not hate him. She could not even dislike him. In less than two days’ time, he’d already become familiar to her. Here at Rothburg, he was the only person she knew. But more than that, she felt close to him. As close as she’d felt to her sisters, God rest their souls. He knew her darkest secret, after all.
Margrite and her cohort clomped into the room again, carrying two more buckets, which they emptied into the wooden tub in the center of the room. “Is that enough for you, my lord?” Margrite asked.
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