The Lord’s Right
By
Carolyn Faulkner
Copyright 2015 Blushing Books and Carolyn Faulkner
Published by Blushing Books at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Published by Blushing Books®,
a subsidiary of
ABCD Graphics and Design
977 Seminole Trail #233
Charlottesville, VA 22901
The trademark Blushing Books®
is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.
Faulkner, Carolyn
The Lord’s Right
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-602-1
Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
Table of contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
Blushing Books
Chapter One
Thwack!
She knew better than to move while her father punished her. She was eighteen, an old maid, and this was hardly the first time she’d been bent over the old stump in the back with father’s hopelessly worn, but unfortunately wide belt finding its way unerringly across the swollen hillocks of her backside again and again.
It seemed she never learned, and there was no hope in sight that she’d ever leave his house—not that there was much of a salvation there, either. It wasn’t as if her husband wasn’t going to punish her just as her father had all her life. It would just probably be trading one man’s belt for another’s.
She groaned out loud with the next cut across the backs of her thighs. She was unable to stop herself from pulling against the leather straps he’d planted in the other side of the trunk just for her, since she tended to reach back and get her hands strapped.
“Da?”
Amber closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, recognizing Faine’s high-pitched voice behind her. She knew her face matched the angry red of her bottom and was glad the little girl couldn’t see her. It was embarrassing to be as old as she was and have her little sister see her being punished like this, but her father wasn’t about to ease up disciplining his daughters if they lived under his roof, and it seemed that she was going to be bent over this stump until the day she died.
“Yes, Pixie?” He never missed a beat of Amber’s punishment; indeed, it seemed that he put more of his shoulder into it now that he had an audience.
“Starr says she needs you and to come right away, please.”
If anyone in their family could get away with trying to order their father around—even somewhat sounding like it—it was Faine. She was the apple of his eye. Lawson and Twyla Cooper had had six children all together, but only three of them had made it through infancy. There had been two boys amongst the lost babies, and those were the children Lawson mourned the most. There would be no boys to carry on his name.
Amber was grown and should have been married with babes of her own at her more than generous breasts, but that wasn’t looking probable, considering that she seemed to be more of a boy than a girl in a lot of ways, for which Lawson only blamed himself. He’d allowed her to spend more time with him than he should have, instead of requiring that she stay home with her mother and learn the more wifely arts—which she would do, but didn’t enjoy—he’d allowed her to tag along with him, with the result that she could ride, fish, and hunt better than most of the boys—or men—in the nearby village of Sunder.
As a result, she chafed against the more stifled environment females endured, including cooking, cleaning and seeing to the little ones. Her reputation as a hoyden had preceded her, and no man in the area would have her. Who wanted to marry a woman who could show you up on horseback, and, almost worse than that, wasn’t afraid to do it?
No man had ever offered for her, and Lawson had long since stopped expecting anyone to. His attempts to tame her had always failed. She might conform for a short time, long enough for her bottom to stop smarting, but within days she was back at it again, and he hadn’t the heart—or the strength—to beat her constantly.
He’d decided, long since, that he had to pick his battles with his headstrong eldest.
If only she’d been a boy; she would have made a magnificent son.
Lawson drew a long, deep breath, and laid the last, fiery stripe across the rounded crest of the ruins of her bottom. It was one of the worst punishments he’d ever given her, but then, she didn’t usually risk her life.
As many heartaches as she caused, as much as he wished she were different and easier, he knew he couldn’t stand to lose her, and he knew he had to impress on her the fact that she couldn’t keep harassing the Normans.
They’d lost the war, and she just had to come to grips with that fact. Annoying them would only make things worse. Rumor was that they were going to be gifted with an overlord shortly, and there was a large concentration of Norman soldiers not far from the small village. Everyone knew where they were, and everyone with any sense was giving them a wide berth. Someone, however, had loosed all their horses, scattering them to the winds, and had made off with several skins of wine as well as other foodstuffs. Stirrups had been cut, and general mischief had been made.
Lawson walked up behind his daughter as she straightened her tunics and refused to face him. He knew she was probably not crying, but she never came to him for succor, whether it was after a spanking or for a bump or a skinned knee when she was a child. She’d never gone to Twyla, either, preferring, instead to run into the forest to cry alone. “You’ve got to stop doing this, Amber. I know my strap won’t be enough to convince you and I don’t know what else to do to get through that stubborn head of yours. But you’re going to get yourself killed or worse, if you keep teasing the Normans.”
It was as close to tears as Lawson himself ever got. Although Faine was his favorite, Amber was his firstborn, and at least as close to his heart, despite her annoying streak. And yet, he knew that his words fell on deaf ears. She turned and smiled at him, that fey smile his wife used to give him, before she died of childbirth fever after giving him the bright-eyed gift that was Faine.
“I’ll be fine, Da. Really. I didn’t do anything so horrible. I just wanted to let them know that we weren’t going to make it easy on them.”
“We lost, Amber. We’re the ones who are supposed to do as they say, not the other way around.” Being told what to do was never something that Amber was particularly good at. She’d always balked at it, and she’d earned more trips over his lap—or the stump—than any three of his children, and any five of his neighbors’ young ones, combined because of it.
Still he reckoned he couldn’t complain too much. She had a gift, that one. She had the touch—her mother’s gift—with animals, plants, and even some people. Plus, she had the luck of the Irish, or something like it. Someone, perhaps Twyla, had to b
e looking out for her, or she would have been dead several times over by now.
But the Normans would have absolutely no compunction about killing her. None at all, regardless of whether or not they knew she was a woman. He knew that she sometimes disguised herself as a boy when she went on her little raids. They’d string her up sooner than question her, especially if the men that were in the area now had been sent ahead to secure things for the man who would become their overlord.
Lawson had heard rumors of the soldier who had been chosen, and he hadn’t liked anything he’d heard.
But there she stood; smiling beatifically at him, as if she thought nothing and no one could possibly harm her when she should have known better. He didn’t think he’d ever felt quite so helpless to prevent a terrible tragedy, except when Twyla’d lay dying. He knew as soon as he turned his back that she’d be off again to do whatever she wanted, and that there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He thoroughly expected that, one day, she’d go off into those woods and he’d never see her again.
She needed a man, a strong one, to take her in hand and tame her. None of the men in the village—or in any of the surrounding villages, for that matter—were up to the task, in body or spirit. All he could do was pray that God wouldn’t see fit to take yet another member of his family away from him.
“Och, Da, there’s no fun in that, then, is there?” She popped a kiss on his cheek and ambled towards the woods, where he’d known she would head. At least Amber never held a grudge, against him, anyway. It was as if she understood that his discipline was the price she paid for doing exactly as she pleased while living under his roof.
Granted, she did make sure that the other girls kept the house running efficiently, and she had been the one to do that herself until Starr had become old enough to take over the reins. There was some friction between Starr and Amber, as Amber was the oldest and Starr couldn’t be married off until Amber was safely wed, which didn’t look like it was ever going to happen. Starr had had her eye on the son of the village smithy, who had his eye right back on her, but also on any other eligible girl in the area, and Starr had become less and less eligible as time had worn on and her elder sister had become longer and longer in the tooth.
She wandered into the woods, rubbing her bottom absently as she made her way. Amber didn’t have to think much about where she was going; she’d grown up here and the woods were her sanctuary. Her mother, along with showing her how to coax the best out of plants and beasts, had enchanted her with stories about woodland faeries and sprites and elves and such during her childhood, and she’d believed every single word, so much so that she’d spent a lot of her time—well, as much as she’d been allotted in between chores—looking for the little buggers, so far without success. But the forest had befriended her, nonetheless, providing a kind of solace that human kind could not. She had all kinds of hidey-holes and treasure troves hidden everywhere, that at first, when she was a child, contained childish trophies and special items. Now they contained potions and herbs, as well as emergency food, weapons, wine and water enough to sustain her and her family for a while, just in case. She’d rigged several simple shelters that were hidden to the naked eye, as well as constructing several traps that kept the family supplied with meat.
The chances were good that her trapping days were going to be limited shortly, because the lord of whatever manor they constructed certainly wasn’t going to allow her to poach on his territory, but she was going to keep it up until someone told her to stop, ignoring the fact that she might not be told so much as simply be hung if she was caught. She’d already curbed her usual forays for deer, which had severely limited the family’s diet. Amber had heard the rumors and had seen for herself that King William’s handpicked men were about, looking for a place to build a castle fortress for their new overlord, who sounded like a downright dreadful man, from what she’d heard about him.
But then, all Normans seemed dreadful to her.
Chapter Two
She appeared out of the thick forest in front of him like a wraith, and his horse, Tygan, reared unexpectedly, nearly unseating him. But for all the commotion she caused, she never acknowledged him, or his ill-behaved horse. She merely crossed what rough trail passed for an English road and entered the woods on the other side. Piers ruthlessly controlled his mount, embarrassed that he’d lost control of him in the first place—and in front of a common English wench, at that. Yet, there was something about her that intrigued him, and more than that, annoyed him.
He wasn’t used to being summarily ignored.
After swinging down from his mount, he followed her into the woods, catching up to her only a few steps in. He swung her around with a jerk on her arm and was amazed to see that when she whirled around she’d assumed a fighting stance and had a small blade in her right hand. If he hadn’t been so surprised, he would have burst out laughing. He was at least twice her size and he’d be willing to bet that he had a lifetime’s worth of battle experience on her.
But she wasn’t smiling, and a frightened woman with a blade could be dangerous.
And apparently she wasn’t afraid to use it, he surmised, when she stabbed at him and managed to draw blood from a small nick on his forearm, only because he was trying not to hurt her—why, exactly, he wasn’t quite sure himself.
His left eyebrow rose. This woman was growing more and more intriguing by the minute. He’d barely been on his own land for more than an hour, and already someone was challenging him to a fight—and that someone was a female, at that! What kind of welcome could he expect from the men of the area? Had his reputation not preceded him? Had no one in these backwards parts ever heard that they called him Cruel Piers?
Within seconds, once he put his mind to it and let himself forget that she was a woman, he had her clamped against him and completely subdued.
Well, as subdued as Amber ever got. He’d applied pressure to a point between her second and third fingers such that agony shot through her hand and she’d dropped her small blade, wishing desperately that she’d kept something more substantial on her person. But she kept her feet kicking and her head butting, however ineffectively. Her toes were—she was sure—breaking against his rock hard shins, and she was certain her forehead was going to wear the brand of his chain hauberk as she banged her head incessantly against it.
He switched her position and carried her at his side like a log, where she could do less damage to the both of them and simply thought for a moment. Part of him wanted to laugh, and part wanted to bury himself deep within her, and he wasn’t at all sure he liked either impulse. But the foremost thought in his mind was that this young woman needed to be taken in hand. She was wandering in the woods all by herself. She was obviously of marriageable age. Where was her husband? Or at the very least, her father? Why wasn’t she home, taking care of her babies? Or the house? Why hadn’t she noticed or acknowledged the fact that she’d frightened his horse, and then attacked him when he’d come to take her to task about it?
Obviously, whoever’s responsibility it was to see to this woman wasn’t doing a very good job of it. He wasn’t the type to shy away from doing what he thought was right. Whether the job was big or small, Piers never shied from bending his back to hard work. It was one of the things that made him so beloved by his men—he was always right there beside them in the thick of the battle, unlike a lot of leaders, who preferred to lead from a safer, more comfortable distance.
And this job was just right for him. He thought back to France, where the amiable Josette awaited his word to come join him, once he’d established himself here in this foreign land. She would make a most biddable wife. There was not a contentious bone in her body. She would be content to give him sons and run his household, as a woman should.
As he settled onto a fallen log and placed Amber face down over his lap, controlling her outraged protests with depressing ease, he said a prayer for her husband, if indeed there was one. From the way this woman was acting,
he needed it. With no more ceremony than if he was taking out his cock to relieve himself, he lifted her tunics, which he noted were worn, but extremely clean, to expose her already scourged bottom.
“Well, I can see someone’s already beaten me to it.” His mouth twisted in a wry smile at his unintentional word play. Someone had definitely already been at her bottom, and they’d done a nice job of it, too, but apparently it hadn’t taken, if its message had been to keep her at home. “Why’d you get the strapping?” He recognized the marks of a strap well, having used it himself in several instances, as well has having been on the receiving end on more than one occasion in his own youth. Then he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “And who delivered it?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to call him a Norman pig. It was glaringly obvious that he was a part of the occupying force that was scouting out possible sites in the area for building the castle fortress where their Norman master would live. But then she also had half a mind to pretend she didn’t know the French the Norman was speaking. Most hereabouts didn’t; it was only because of her mother’s wish that her girls be educated—and her father’s complete devotion to her mother—that she did. She could both read and write French and English, as well as Latin and Greek, plus she could do basic math and had a predilection for sciences, especially botany, which she’d already parlayed into an herb garden that had villagers from far and wide coming to her—however grudgingly—for remedies that only she seemed able to concoct.
While she was deciding, the man who, unbeknownst to her, would be her lord and master let her know in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t the type who appreciated being left waiting. He repeated his question in clear, unaccented English, just in case, but also applied several unforgiving swats to her exposed rear, to hurry things along.
The Lord's Right Page 1
