by Renee Rose
“Look, I don't know—I don't play dice,” she said pleadingly. “But I promise you that what I spoke at the tavern was premonition, not anything I heard anywhere. I didn't know your men were there, and I didn't mean to reveal your secret. I just didn't like the soldier I was with and wanted to throw something in his face, that's all.”
The prince said nothing. Mayhap he'd never believed her. He might be planning her torture in hopes of learning who had informed. She rubbed her feet together nervously, the tension in her growing. “Do you believe me?” she asked, her voice cracking.
The prince's face softened suddenly. “Relax, Danewyn. I know truth from lies. You've told three lies to me. Four, if I count the fib that you have friends in London. The rest is truth.”
Relief swept over her.
He looked at Sir Ferrum. “Take her. Punish her for the lies,” he said with a dismissing nod. Sir Ferrum stepped toward her, and she stood to meet him, relieved to move away from the intense scrutiny of the Red Fox.
“Gently,” the prince called to their retreating backs, modifying his order.
Punish her gently? What on earth did that mean?
It had been incredible the way Danewyn knew the numbers on the dice Phillip had thrown, even predicting correctly before he threw. Even more incredible to Ferrum was that someone with that ability whored at a tavern in London, apparently with no family or friends to speak of. In the times of King Arthur, before Avalon disappeared into the mists, a woman like her would have been highly revered. Fortunately, Phillip was like that great king—unafraid to use magic if it served him. He understood how valuable a woman like her might be for his campaign for the throne. He would keep her—Ferrum saw his foster brother's strategy clearly.
He brought her to his tent. Sir Godfrey and his squire Henley were there, and he told them to take all their things and find somewhere else to sleep. Phillip hadn't said, but he assumed he was responsible for keeping her through the night. He led her back to the fire to confiscate a stool from the soldier who was perched on it and then escorted her back toward the tent, never taking his hand off her, but keeping it gentle.
She was smart. She didn't struggle with him—surely knowing she couldn't win any battle of strength—but he saw her eyes dart around as if she were measuring her escape routes. She took in the location of the horses and the men. He could practically sense her making her plans to get away.
He took off his sword belt and slipped the scabbards from it as he sat down on the stool with an arm around her slim waist. She was exquisitely beautiful. Her coloring was very light—clearly she was of Saxon or Angle blood. It was said the Angles had been so named because they looked like angels. If that were true, she was surely Angle born—he'd never seen anyone who looked so lovely. Her hair was a pale blond and her skin light. She had wide-set blue eyes that were angled down at the outer corners, giving her a childish, innocent look, with lashes that were so pale they were almost invisible.
He'd seen no smile from her since they arrived, although he'd seen a fake-looking one when she was trolling for men back at the tavern in London. The pinched, serious look to her face appeared to be a habitual expression for her. He had a strong desire to discover just what would ease that worry for her—to protect her from the life that had obviously given her hardship.
“Let's get your punishment over with, shall we?” he asked.
She eyed his belt as if she'd just realized what sort of chastisement he had in mind. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked warily, her chest rising and falling quickly.
“I'm going to give you a thrashing.”
She swallowed and stared down at him with her beautiful eyes widened. She looked so innocent, so childlike, that it pained him to have to punish her. Her eyes traveled from his face to the belt and back.
“Must you?” she asked, but her defeated look said she'd already accepted the inevitable.
“'Fraid so—you heard the prince.” He took her wrist and guided her gently across his lap. Her skirts were thick—offering far too much protection. He pulled them up over her legs to bare a pert little bottom. She squeezed her cheeks together when the air hit them. He rested his hand on the soft orbs.
He tried to remember whether he'd ever whipped a woman before. The way his cock had gone rock hard made him doubt it. He would surely have remembered such an experience. He doubled the sword belt and touched it once to her bottom to perfect his aim. Then he cracked it down with about a quarter of his strength. She jerked in response, but made no sound. He continued, giving her a few seconds between each stroke to recover before delivering the next one, watching the way the her skin turned from cream, to a light rosy blush, to a deeper crimson as the lines of the belt started to stand up in puffed striation. She still hadn't made a sound, but she wriggled plenty, which did not help alleviate his intense arousal for her. He ended the whipping with five much harder strokes—their foster father had always done it that way—to show how much worse it might have been. They got a sound out of her—she cried out with each one, her voice starting to take on the sounds of sobbing by the last one. He lifted her to stand in front of him and rubbed her hot cheeks. Her skirts were still up, so he was caressing her bare bottom, which was completely improper. He jerked his hands away and allowed the skirts to fall down to her ankles. The moment his hands left her skin, they itched to touch it again—her tantalizing curves igniting a hunger deep within him.
She had tears glinting on her lashes, and her chin quivered, but surprisingly, she didn't look angry with him, confirming his impression that life had been hard for her—as if she'd come to expect pain and humiliation. She lowered slowly to kneel between his knees and stunned him by reaching to free his erection from his leggings. “You don't have to do that,” he choked, but her mouth was already opening, and the part of him that desperately wanted her mouth on his cock disabled the part of him that knew it was wrong.
“You want it,” she murmured, and he gasped at the feeling of cold air on his moistened cock.
He let his head fall back and forced himself to breathe. “Aye,” he grunted, knowing full well she was playing him, and not caring in the slightest. She tightened her lips and rubbed up and down just over the head of his penis several times, then opened her mouth wider and took as much of his length as she was able. The head of his cock bumped the back of her throat, but she didn't gag or choke. She sucked hard on the out-strokes, using her fingers to massage his ball sac and the fleshy area behind it. His cock jerked in happy response to her attentions, and he groaned. Though he'd just had a whore several hours ago in London, he felt like a young man who'd never been touched by a woman before. It took her no time at all to bring him to the brink of ecstasy, and he warned her before he spilled his seed, but she kept him in her mouth, swallowed, then sat back on her haunches and studied him, still without a smile.
He stroked her head, then buried his fingers in her hair. It was starting to come free of its braid, and he worked to unwind it, the silky waves spreading over her shoulders like a mantle. “You didn't have to do that,” he said hoarsely.
She shrugged. “I chose to. And you wanted it.”
He shook his head. “Aye, but not like that.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?” she said, standing from her crouch.
“I mean, I would want it to be freely offered, not given by a woman I've captured and beaten, who has no other options than to suck my cock.”
He'd always had a habit of saying the exact wrong thing to a woman. This was no exception. A look of pure fury darkened her face, and she swung her fist in an arc, hitting him in the mouth. He allowed the blow to fall, partly because he figured he must deserve it, and partly because he thought it was amusing that she would try to hit him.
She packed more force than he would have guessed was possible for such a little thing. His lip split and blood ran down his chin. Her eyes widened when she saw the blood and panic flitted across her face. He snatched her up quickly when
she started to bolt. She thrashed around as he held her by the waist and he considered whether he ought to spank her again. He didn't want to. He sat back down on the stool and pulled her onto his lap, holding her tightly until she stopped struggling.
“I'm hopeless with women,” he admitted, hoping to soften her with his own humility. “I always say the wrong thing.”
He felt all the fight go out of her. She twisted to look at him.
“How did that offend you?”
She frowned, looking as though she wanted to hit him again, but seemed to reconsider. She pressed her lips together and looked away.
“No. You can't hit me and then give me the silent treatment.” He took her little jaw in his hand and turned her face back to him with his eyebrows raised in a warning.
She flushed, her shoulders sagging. She looked at him sullenly for another long moment before she said, “I meant that not as a bargaining tool—I gave it freely.” She shrugged. “To repay you for your gentleness with me.”
His heart lurched at that. Gentleness? He couldn't recall any woman had ever found him gentle. He had always been Ferrum the Giant—the rough, ugly ogre who terrified women with his scars, his size, and his lack of finesse. He swallowed and stroked the hair back from her face. “I apologize. I meant you no offense. I just don't want you to—never mind. I'll shut it before I offend again.”
At that, she smiled, reluctantly. It was the first genuine smile he'd seen on her, and it confirmed she was truly an angel from heaven. There was a dimple on one cheek, her teeth were white and straight, and the warmth that came into her face transformed it. She wiped the blood from his chin with her thumb, rubbing it on his tunic and then licking her thumb to wipe off the blood that had dried. Apparently dissatisfied, she leaned forward, her little pink tongue starting to extend. God's teeth. His breath hitched as she met his face with her warm, wet tongue, actually licking his split lip clean. He groaned and his hands tightened on her, the need he had just spent returning anew.
“You're not going to set me free, are you, Sir Ferrum?”
He shook his head to clear it and blinked at her. “It's not for me to decide,” he answered honestly, though he knew the answer was no. She studied him with keen intelligence behind her eyes. Though she said nothing, he was almost certain she was making her plans for escape.
He bound one of his own wrists to hers, so if she tried to work them off in the night, he would notice. Then he led her to his bedroll and lay down, pulling her down as he lowered himself. They lay facing one another, their bound hands between them. He watched her eye the bonds.
“Forget about escaping, little flower. You won't get away, and if you try it, the whipping I give you will be so much worse than the one you I gave you tonight.”
Her jaw set at that, confirming his suspicions. He was going to have to keep a very close eye on her.
Chapter 2
Escaping in the night was an impossibility. Sir Ferrum's eyes popped open every time she made the slightest move. Several times she'd found herself staring wordlessly into those dark depths, the directness of the gaze making her lose her breath. This man unsteadied her in a way she'd never experienced before. She truly had desired to suck his cock—it had not been to manipulate him as he'd accused. She'd felt his erection and knew how simple it would be to satisfy him. And though it had seemed perfectly normal in the moment, as she lay there bound to him that night, she questioned the desire. It was not one she'd ever had before.
She was brought into the Prince's tent in the morning after breaking fast. He was standing the way he'd been the last time—staring at maps on a makeshift table. He waved to the stool again. She sat, feeling nervous about interacting with this intense man. He pulled up a stool next to her. Ferrum settled in his same position against the wall of the tent, arms folded.
“I wish to use your Sight, Danewyn.”
She nodded. She truly had no objection to using her Sight if it could help. She was no friend to the king, not that she believed the Red Fox would be the savior everyone seemed to imagine he would be. Although, now that she'd met him, mayhap she did believe it. There was certainly something special about him.
“I want to know if King Benton knows—I mean believes—that I exist.”
She felt into the question and felt a clear answer. “Yes, my lord.”
“Does he know I am organizing an army?”
Again, she listened to the space inside the question for her answer. “He has heard rumor of it, my lord.”
“But does he believe that rumor?”
She did not hear a clear answer to that. She shrugged. “I cannot say.”
“Does that mean he is not sure?”
She felt again. “Aye, my lord.”
The Prince glanced at Ferrum and rubbed his beard.
“What else?” He sat back and crossed an ankle over his other knee. “Will I win the throne?”
She got the same prickling of the skin on her arms. She swallowed. “I have already said so, my lord,” she said.
Again, he did not fail to notice the change in her skin. He ran his finger over her arm as he had the last time. “I know, I'm sorry. I just liked your answer so well the first time, I wished to hear it again,” he said, and she couldn't help but smile.
He was a very disarming man. Mayhap it was his humility that made her bold. “What would happen if I just chose not to answer your questions?”
The Prince made a sudden move, and she flinched, expecting a blow. Ferrum lunged forward at the same moment, then checked himself. As it turned out, the Prince had merely been reaching for his eating knife, which he lifted to his teeth to pick a bit of meat out as he gave a hard look at Ferrum. She tried to decipher the meaning of the look. It looked… accusatory. And Ferrum looked guilty. She replayed the moment and realized if Ferrum had lunged, it had not been to protect his prince, for surely he required no protection from her. So it had been to protect her from the Prince. And that was probably considered treasonous.
After Ferrum had lowered his eyes guiltily, the Prince turned his steely gaze on her. “What do you think is the answer to that question?” he asked icily.
She swallowed.
“Answer me.” There was not a hint of softness in the man now, and she shivered at the implied danger in his voice.
“I-I don't know.”
“Make a guess.”
“I respectfully withdraw my question, my lord.”
“Ah,” he said with a note of “of course you do.”
“Does Benton know where to find us?”
She shook her head, still feeling chilled from their interaction.
“Is he mounting a campaign against us?”
She listened. She wasn't sure of the answer. “I'm not sure.”
The Prince's eyes narrowed. “Why aren't you sure, Danewyn?”
She swallowed and shrugged. “I just can't tell. Mayhap because you scared me just now.”
The Prince uncrossed his legs and sat forward on the stool, grasping her jaw in his hand. Her heart beat rapidly in its cage, but she met his gaze steadily. If he truly was able to tell truth from lies, he would know she spoke the truth. He released her face and sat back again.
She blew out her breath.
“You were afraid last night.”
“Aye.” She felt overwhelmed, suddenly, with the questioning. The truth was, she didn't know how to control the Sight. She didn't know what made it clearer or what made it disappear altogether. And no one had ever demanded she be able use it upon command before. A single tear escaped from the center of her eye and skated down her cheek.
The Prince reached for her face again, this time his touch gentle. He thumbed away the tear and then kept him thumb there, rubbing her cheek. His tenderness made her lose composure completely, and both eyes filled with tears, which started spilling immediately, wetting her trembling lips. He released her as she pulled away, and she dashed at her tears with the backs of her hands.
“You're dis
missed,” the Prince said softly.
Ferrum took hold of the nape of her neck when she met him at the tent door, and his large hand offered her comfort, even as it directed. She liked the feel of it—heavy and secure. Warm. Gentle, even with its massive size and power.
He led her through the camp on what seemed to be his morning rounds—checking in on the men and giving orders for the day. The men were curious about her, staring openly and leeringly, like customers in her tavern. Sir Ferrum introduced her every time as the Prince's Royal Seer, a title that made her uncomfortable, and not only because she had no intention of staying. She had always hidden her Sight, fearing negative attention. It was not something she would ever claim or flaunt, particularly because she had no idea how to be a Royal Seer or any such thing.
“Nay, Sir Ferrum, you jest. I heard she's a light-skirt from the tavern,” one of the men said.
“I heard you banged her in the back and then liked her so well you threw her over your shoulder and carried her to camp!” another man called out. The men roared in laughter.
Ferrum glowered. “Watch your mouth, man, or I'll beat you stupid. That's enough out of all of you!”
“Nay, Sir Ferrum, he heard it true, why deny it?” she called out so they all might hear, causing another roar of laughter and jeers.
Sir Ferrum gripped her upper arm and swung her around to face him. “Danewyn, shut it. Now,” he hissed, his expression one of warning.
She dropped a mocking curtsy, but kept her mouth shut as bidden.
He pulled her closer to him, leaning his scarred face toward hers to speak in a low voice. “You do not stir trouble with the men. You will keep your mouth shut unless you're spoken to, and when you do speak, it will be respectfully. Is that perfectly clear?”
His displeasure with her made her heart beat faster. She looked at him, not wanting to show how chastened she actually felt. “Or what?” she asked boldly.
