* * *
Barrett returned to his chamber before suppertime. Daisy had not appeared that afternoon and they had both missed the noontime dinner, so she must be hungry. He found her lying on her stomach on the bed.
His heart lurched. Had he spanked her too hard? He knew he had not, and yet it had been difficult to mete out a real, serious punishment. He felt even more protective than usual for her now. “The door was not locked, Daisy. Did you think I had confined you as punishment?” he asked.
She pushed to sit up. “No, sir. I suppose I am hiding,” she said.
His heart stopped. “From me?” he asked in a choked voice.
“No,” she said, climbing off the bed and walking to him. “Not from you,” she said softly, placing her hands on his chest.
He covered them with his own. “Nobody overheard your whipping, if that’s what you fear.”
She pressed her face against his chest. “You whipped me hard,” she said. It sounded more like an observation than a complaint.
He lifted her chin and smiled down at her. “I had to be sure my naughty wife learned her lesson.” He grew sober again, remembering how frightened he’d been. “Did you?”
She nodded and rubbed her backside. “Yes, sir.”
He reached behind her and squeezed her sore little bottom. “On nights when I’ve had to punish you soundly, you will give me your bottom hole to show me you’re sorry.” He had not planned any such punishment, but his cock hardened when he invented it in the moment.
She looked up at him searchingly. Of course she did not know what he meant.
Earlier he had not wanted her to offer sex as penance, and now here he was demanding she give him her most private entrance for his plunder. He shifted his aching cock in his leggings. “It’s suppertime now. At bedtime I will show you what happens to naughty wives.”
She bowed her head submissively, which only made his cock surge more insistently against his leggings. That he’d won her trust and respect meant the world to him.
He held out his arm. “Come, let us eat. You may sit on my lap if the bench is too hard for you.”
She took his arm and they went downstairs where she sat meekly on his lap, teasing his cock with the feel of her soft, round arse.
He made her fetch the butterfat after supper and asked her to bring it to him in their chamber.
She arrived, blushing, but not appearing overly frightened.
“Take off your clothes,” he instructed.
For the second time that day, she undressed under his watchful eye. He would never grow tired of seeing her in her full beauty. Her peach-tipped breasts bounced when she released them from the confines of her bodice, her hips swayed as she shifted to step out of her dress. She clasped her hands in front of her sex, as if to hide it from his view.
He sat in a chair near the dressing table, where the butterfat lay. “Come lie over my lap,” he said.
She obeyed, taking his hand and allowing him to guide her into place.
“Reach back and hold your cheeks apart for me, Daisy.”
She shot him a worried look over her shoulder, but complied.
He scooped a dollop of the butterfat with his fingers and rubbed it over her darkened hole, watching the way it puckered and released each time he touched it. “You see, when you’re naughty, Daisy, I will make your bottom sore all over. Not just your pretty cheeks,” he said, pinching her swollen flesh between his fingers and thumb and giving it a gentle shake. “Your bottom hole may be punished also. Or it may be pleasured. But this is for me to decide.”
She made a small mewling sound as he rested his thumb against her anus and tapped it.
“Which would you prefer tonight? Shall I punish your bottom hole?”
He’d pressed until the reflexive contraction of her opening released and he slid in.
She stiffened, her legs straightening out behind her, her back arching.
He slapped the back of her thigh. “Don’t fight me or I’ll have to give you another spanking. And I’m quite certain you don’t want that, do you?”
“No, sir,” she answered quickly.
“I didn’t think so.” He massaged the inside of her tight channel, working the oil into every tiny crevice, inside and out.
She moaned, holding perfectly still for him, her head held up, alert.
“Who does this little bottom belong to?” he asked sliding his thumb into the second knuckle.
“You, sir,” she yelped. “Ahhh…”
“Pleasure or pain, Daisy? Which do you prefer?” he asked as he pumped his thumb in and out of her hot orifice.
“Pleasure, sir,” she said. “Oh, please…”
He made circles with his thumb inside her arse, widening and stretching her tight hole to accommodate him.
“Oh, please,” she repeated, her voice rising in pitch.
He could wait no longer. Keeping his thumb embedded in her arse, he lifted her to her feet. “Back over the stack of blankets,” he directed.
She did not move, probably confused about how to do so with his thumb still intruding. He shoved his thumb deeper, using it to propel her forward.
She gasped, taking tiny, tight steps to the bed and stopping when she reached the side of it.
“Up,” he commanded, swinging his other hand to catch the back of her thigh.
She yelped and climbed up on the bed, crawling slowly forward to drape herself over the blankets.
“Good girl,” he praised, sliding his thumb out.
He washed his hands and scooped more butterfat from the dish, applying it liberally to his straining cock.
He crawled over her. “Naughty wives take it in their bottom holes,” he said, pressing the head of his cock against her tiny entrance. “Be a good girl and let me in or I’ll have to give you another spanking.”
“No,” she whimpered.
The lubrication and stretching worked their magic and her tight hole opened, allowing him to slowly push forward. He entered little by little, stopping and giving her time to adjust and watching closely for any panic or trauma on her part. “Reach down between your legs and touch your quim, Daisy.”
She obeyed, lifting her hips just enough to slip her hand down.
“I want you to tell me what it feels like.” When she didn’t answer, he prompted, “Tell me, Daisy.”
“It’s wet,” she whispered.
“Mmm, that’s just how it should be. What else do you feel?”
“It’s slippery.”
“I want you to stroke it, Daisy,” he said. “Find the places where it feels the best.”
He gave her a few moments to begin, then started to move in and out, gliding easily with the help of the butterfat.
Daisy moaned.
“Did you find a good place?”
“No… yes… I don’t know,” she said, her voice stretched thin by a wail.
“Give me your bottom, Daisy,” he growled. “You’ve been a bad girl. Show me how sorry you are.”
“Yes,” she cried. “I’ve been a bad girl. Take my bottom. I’m sorry!”
It took all his effort to hold back and not plunge into her with his full force. Her acceptance of his dominance fed his passion until he could no longer take it.
“Bad, bad girl,” he scolded, pumping his cock into her arse as his seed surged down his shaft. He spent inside her, then eased out and pulled her to her side, nested against him. He kissed her hair and snuggled her. “Good girl, Daisy. You did so well. I’m so proud of you.”
She held the hand he’d wrapped around her and kissed it.
Chapter Seven
With her husband’s permission, Daisy went out to check her traps the following week. She hadn’t thought he would allow her to go alone, but it seemed he trusted her not to leave and to be able to take care of herself, so long as the weather was not threatening.
Barrett had been touchingly sweet with her ever since the whipping. He had not pressed the issue of their consummation, seeming to
accept what she had given him as enough for the moment. She still didn’t know what to think of it all. The way he’d taken her had been intense—both discomfort and pleasure all tied up together. She’d been caught up in giving herself to Barrett—pleasing him, and she’d never once been afraid or reminded of her first, terrible loss of innocence. Mayhap he was right; it could be different with him.
She’d been willing to try, but he hadn’t pressed the issue, and she had no intention of initiating it herself.
She found one rabbit in her traps and she carried it back. As she approached the gates, she saw three riders entering. They did not wear the Rothburg tabard and she did not recognize them. When she arrived, the three newcomers were walking from the stables. She stopped cold, her heart leaping to her throat and choking her.
Wolfhart. She would recognize that evil rat anywhere. As if she were still that ten-year-old child screaming beneath him, terror flooded every part of her being, leaving her frozen to the ground, staring.
He sauntered up. “Greetings, lady,” he said, looking amused at her gaping interest in them.
He didn’t remember her. Of course he didn’t. He’d probably raped hundreds of women and children.
She forced herself to curtsy, bowing her head as they passed. She stared at their backs, her eyes narrowed, fear morphing to pure hatred. She would make him pay for her sisters’ deaths. She would make him pay dearly.
She picked up her skirts and raced up to the solarium to think and make a plan. She considered telling Barrett. He might love her enough to avenge her sisters. But to ask someone else to murder in cold blood, to damn his soul along with hers, wouldn’t be right. No, if she wanted Wolfhart dead, she’d have to do it herself.
She searched Barrett’s things for a dagger or other suitable weapon, but found nothing. She’d have to take one from the armory, or else steal a kitchen knife. And she would need to get Wolfhart alone—she might be able to kill him, but she certainly couldn’t kill all three of the men. How would she lure him away?
The only thought that occurred to her made her sick.
But she had no other choice. Squaring her shoulders and steeling her nerves, she went back downstairs to search the armory for a dagger. She found a small one that would require quite a bit of sharpening, but it would do. She stuck it in her boot, then went to the chapel and knelt before the altar.
Dear God, forgive me for what I am going to do.
God would not forgive. She imagined her soul literally tearing away from her body as she contemplated her actions. The blackness inside her was as horrible as it had been the day her sisters died, as if the eight years in between had never happened.
She sniffed, realizing tears were streaming down her face.
“Bless you, my child. Do you wish to confess?”
She jumped, tweaking her neck as she whipped her head around to see Father Albert, the elderly priest, standing behind her.
She tried to say “No, thank you,” but instead she just began to sob.
The priest pulled up a chair beside her, handing her a handkerchief and looking kindly, but unruffled by her tears, as if he was accustomed to administering to such hysterics. He made the sign of the cross over her. “God hears your prayers, Lady Daisy.”
She tried to speak, but only hiccupping came out.
“Tell me your troubles, child,” the priest said gently.
“My two sisters were raped and killed by a man here at this castle,” she said, her words barely intelligible between sniffles and chokes. “He took my innocence. And I mean to exact revenge.”
The priest said nothing for a long time. Then, at last, he asked, “If your mind is made up, why do you cry?”
She drew in fluttering breaths, trying to regain control of her emotions. “Because my soul will be forever lost,” she said.
He nodded. “Yes, my child. Our lord has decreed, thou shalt not kill, and yet you intend to take justice into your own hands. Do you not trust God will mete out the justice this man deserves? Or could you not bring your case to Prince Erik, or to your husband and ask for justice to be served here on Earth?”
“Why is their justice different than mine?”
The priest considered. “It would be fair and impartial.”
She shook her head. “I will not ask anyone else to kill for me. I would not wish their souls to be damned along with mine, which still would bear the stains of blood.”
The priest bowed his head. “I beg you to reconsider, child. Do not act in hatred or haste. Love thy enemy, find forgiveness, and pray to God for the justice that is richly deserved.”
She knew he was right, but her mind was made up. She stood up on wobbly legs and curtsied. “I thank you for your counsel, father,” she said, her chest as hard as stone. “But I must do this. Please pray for my soul.”
She returned to her chamber with a whetstone to sharpen the dagger.
* * *
Barrett walked back to the castle after checking on the rebuilding of the wall. Daisy had acted strange at the midday meal. Her eyes had been red, as if she’d been crying, but she denied it, redirecting the conversation every time he pressed her. He’d get to the bottom of it later. He didn’t intend to let her keep secrets from him, especially if something was bothering her.
As he entered the castle, he caught sight of his wife in the armory and he froze. Something immediately struck him as odd. She was speaking with Wolfhart, the mercenary knight who had shown up earlier that day, and her tone seemed secretive, almost… seductive.
“I might be able to sneak away after supper,” she said, her voice pitched low. “I will meet you here, if I can.”
Ice cold washed through him. His feet froze to their spot as he gaped in disbelief. Daisy, unfaithful? Impossible. She did not like men. Or sex. Nausea nearly made him retch. Mayhap she did, just not with him.
He turned, just as she looked over and caught his gaze. He closed his eyes to block her out, stumbling forward, finding his way up the steps to the solarium. The soft patter of her feet running behind him barely registered above the rushing sound in his ears.
He drew in deep breaths to calm himself. What a fool he had been. He thought she just needed taming. Here he had been forcing himself on a woman who found him repulsive. A damn fool.
“Barrett.” She caught his arm when he reached the door.
He pushed forward, resisting the urge to fling her off. He tried to shut the door in her face, but she flung herself forward. He closed his eyes and turned away.
“Barrett—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he said dully, keeping his back to her. He picked up her harp and her few items of clothing and strode to the door, placing them outside it. “I will not keep an unwilling woman. Our marriage is not consummated; you are free to go.”
“No,” she cried. “You’ve misunderstood. I am not unwilling.”
“I thought you did not like men. But now I see it is only me you do not care for.”
“That is not true!” Tears streamed down her lovely face. “I cannot explain now, but I hope that by tomorrow you will understand that I only ever cared for you.”
He looked away, disgusted. “Get out,” he said. “You are no wife of mine.”
Weeping, Daisy left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
He picked up the ewer and smashed it against the wall, shattering the crockery into dozens of pieces.
* * *
Daisy left her harp and things and ran down the steps, her vision blurred with tears. What had she done? If she lived past this night, her life would mean nothing. She had just ended her marriage, the only good thing that had happened in her life, in favor of revenge.
Would it be worth it? Would her sisters thank her for their justice?
She ran out of the castle and through the bailey, straight through the gates. She wore no cloak, and the wind whipped at her face with a satisfying bite. She ran into the forest, not stopping until her side contracted and she double
d over to catch her breath.
She should just keep walking. Walk until she froze to death. At least that way, she would die with a clean soul and spare Barrett the pain of ever seeing her again. But no, better to die avenging her sisters. Otherwise Barrett would never know why she’d betrayed him. The priest would tell him when it was all over.
She didn’t even dare think of the possibility of exacting revenge and living. How could she go on with a blackened soul? Nor did she dare think about what would become of her if Barrett never believed she loved him. She walked until her hands and feet were numb and her teeth chattered.
No. The priest had been right. Justice was best served by God, not her. And she refused to die without making sure Sir Barrett knew what he meant to her. She turned back. She needed to find the old priest again, to confess it all. He’d spoken wisely; he would know what she should do.
Darkness had fallen by the time she returned. She walked through the bailey, straight to the chapel, skipping supper. The old priest was not there, but the hearth was still warm and she sat beside it until the feeling returned to her hands and feet like shards of glass piercing her skin. Her stomach growled but she ignored it.
An odd sense of peace came over her after the emotional tumult of the day. She would not commit murder. Somehow she would get Sir Barrett to forgive her. It was not too late to put her world to rights again.
She heard the sound of the door open and her spirits lifted. The old priest would advise her.
“There you are, woman,” a deep voice said. The terrible deep voice that had haunted her nightmares.
She jumped to her feet in dismay. “Sir Wolfhart. Forgive me. I’ve had a change of heart,” she said, her blood racing through her veins. “I cannot keep my tryst with you.”
He walked forward, a terrifying leer on his face. “Of course you can. You are here, I am here.” He reached out and grabbed her head, bringing his mouth down on hers and forcing his tongue in her mouth as she screamed.
The Conquered Brides Collection Page 18
