by Renee Rose
“If you wake and I am not here, stay where you are—I will return.”
She nodded.
“Don’t leave this tree. Not for anything. If anyone comes by, just burrow deeper. They will never see you in there. Understand?”
“I understand.”
He watched as she blinked at him twice before her breath deepened into slumber and her eyes drifted closed.
* * *
When he woke it was midday. He left his charge sleeping to search for edible roots or vegetables and to set a snare in hopes of catching a rabbit. It took several hours, but in the end, he was successful in both endeavors. When he returned, however, Corinne had disappeared.
He studied the ground for tracks but found nothing. He opened his mouth to call for her but stopped himself. Already one party had traveled the path they were on since he had been off hunting. He could not risk drawing attention to them. He set the food down and prepared kindling for a fire. When she still had not returned, he began to skirt the area.
Walking toward the stream and the path, he froze when he heard the sound of a group approaching. Only a moment later, the noise of splashing water carried, and he saw the flash of skin. The voices grew louder as he realized Corinne was emerging naked from the stream. What in God’s name had she been thinking? This was no time to bathe!
In a flash, he slid down the embankment, covering her mouth with his hand to muffle her scream as he yanked her back into the lee of the bank, the back of her dripping body crushed against his front.
The voices had quieted at her cry, as if the men were listening. She stood rigid now, her body trembling against his, the water on her skin dampening his clothes. She tried to turn her head, eyes bulging and frantic, like a filly about to rear. He swiveled her head so she could see it was him and darted his eyes to the bank to indicate the danger. She attempted a nod, and he loosened the hold on her mouth but did not release her.
The men were no more than 15 feet away now. She began to struggle to free herself and he turned her face toward his once more, giving her a severe look. She lifted her chin to point toward the ground about 5 feet away, where her clothing lay in a heap, visible to anyone who looked over.
Hell.
He gave a sharp shake of his head and yanked her even closer to his body. She seemed to accept his decision, melting against his form as if she wished to disappear. He softened his grip, listening to the voices as they grew louder, though he grew increasingly distracted by the sight of water droplets trailing over the swell of two perky breasts just beneath his eyes. Their breathing synchronized, the beat of his heart hammering into her back, meeting the thunder of hers.
Do not move. Do not touch her other than to keep her safe.
His fingertips did not listen. They began to make miniscule circles on her upper arm, the largest gesture he dared considering their position. He was acutely aware of the fact that she could not protest, nor resist. He could press his advantage if he wished. He did not intend to, though his cock strained in his trousers against her low back. Her skin was impossibly soft, and she smelled fresh after her dip in the stream. The temptation to lick her neck came out of nowhere, but the voices grew louder and he held his breath, stilling to listen.
He and Corinne stared at her clothing on the bank. He was certain she prayed as hard as he they would come no nearer. Just twenty paces away, a group of five men climbed down the embankment to drink from the stream. He saw them clearly, which meant if they looked, they would see him. The thought of how they would react to the sight of Corinne in her naked glory turned him ice cold.
Please do not let them look this way. Please, God.
It seemed an eternity while the men talked, drank, and washed themselves in the water, but at long last, they tromped back up the way they had come. Corinne sagged in his arms.
* * *
As soon as he released her, she darted forward to scoop up her garments. Perhaps it seemed foolish, but she was less concerned about her modesty than she was about the jewels she had taken the time to sew into her dress. If the men had seen the dress and taken it… she shuddered. She pulled on her silk chemise—the part of her clothing, along with her slippers, that still gave her away as aristocracy.
Jean-Claude climbed the embankment without a word, presumably to give her privacy, though he had just seen every inch of her. She swallowed, remembering the touch of his fingers on her skin. No man had touched her so intimately before. She ought to be furious, but in truth, she had enjoyed it—his protection, his strong arms, and even his inappropriate touch.
She pulled on the rough but now richly-endowed serving gown and laced it with clumsy fingers. Crouching down, she rubbed dirt over her slippers, covering the expensive fabric with wet earth, grinding it into the weave to dull their appearance. When she climbed to the top of the bank, she stopped short.
Jean-Claude leaned against a log, three long switches in his hand and a determined look on his face. “What did I tell you about obedience?” he asked softly.
She side-stepped downriver. “Oh no,” she said.
He lifted his eyebrows. “Do you wish me to leave you?”
Anger warred with panic. She stood rooted in place, no words coming to her lips. Too many near misses had worn her down, and she was too flustered now to think how to escape this dilemma. No. She did not wish him to leave her, nor did she wish to be whipped. Especially not by a peasant who seemed to enjoy lording it over her.
But it seemed she had no choice.
She tossed her head and marched back to him, standing before him with her jaw clenched. Not quite able meet his eye, her angry glare fell instead upon his throat, exposed by the open collar of his shirt. He lifted the hem of her dress, and she snatched it back, not wanting him to notice the jewels she had sewn into it whilst he was away.
“Put it in your mouth—so your cries are muffled.”
She gaped, daunted by his nonchalance about her cries. She cursed him inwardly, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a single sound. Still, she obeyed his orders, because she did not want him to touch the dress again and discover her secret.
He grasped her arm and tugged her over the fallen log, the bark rough under her hands and chest. He grasped her skirt again, and she prayed he would not feel the lumps, but he merely tossed it up over her back. She felt the warmth of his hand at the back of her thigh, fingering the silk of her chemise.
“Pretty,” he muttered.
The idea that he had never handled such a fine article of clothing somehow added to her humiliation—in the course of less than twenty-four hours, she had been so lowered that a common peasant now claimed to be her master, and even worse—she allowed it. Was she truly bending over a log and offering her backside for his punishment?
She gasped as he dragged her chemise up, exposing her bottom to the fresh air. Gooseflesh lifted across her cheeks in anticipation of her chastisement, and she shivered at the chill of the breeze on her sex. The first lick of the switch struck like a line of fire, scorching her flesh, stinging the surface with the pain of a thousand ant bites.
She bit down hard on the cloth filling her mouth, the dry muslin rough against her tongue. The second stroke was just as horrid, and the third came too soon, before she had even caught her breath. She started to moan but sucked it back, making a strange gurgling sound instead. Four, then five strokes whipped across both cheeks, and her legs began to tremble as if they might not hold her. She clung to the bark of the tree, leaning into her chest, ducking her head. She did not want him to have the satisfaction of seeing her cringing face. On the sixth stroke, the switch broke, yet he did not even pause, simply changing it for a fresh one and beginning anew.
She wanted it to stop. After each stroke she was certain she could not take another, and yet they continued to rain down on her quivering buttocks, leaving what she imagined were dreadful welts. She loosed an arm from where it was tucked beneath her chest and reached her fingers back to cover her poor, raw fles
h, but he caught her wrist before it even arrived, twisting her arm behind her back with an ease that troubled her. Who else had he thrashed? Why did he seem so comfortable tormenting her this way?
She pressed her cheek into the bark, the bite of the wood providing a welcome distraction against the insistent fire on her backside. She lost count after twelve and surrendered to the pain, all resistance leaving her body so it hung heavily over the log, her feet dangling uselessly. The second switch broke, and he used the third, breaking it after three cruel stripes. She prayed he would not cut another.
The fabric of her chemise slid down her thoroughly chastised bottom, even its silk an unwelcome touch on her swollen orbs. The skirts of the dress followed and a large, warm hand arrived in the middle of her upper back.
“It is over, Corinne,” he murmured.
Corinne. Not mademoiselle. She knew he chose his words on purpose. How did he even know her given name? Where had he learned it? The intimacy of it angered her. She hated him with all her passion. Irrationally, it became his fault Frenchmen were tearing their own country apart at the seams and she had lost her home and everything she owned. His fault she may never see Maman and Papa again.
She erected her back and walked a few paces away without looking at him. He diplomatically busied himself with striking flint for a fire. The sound of dry leaves crackling came as a relief, as if her body instinctively knew with fire came civilization. They would eat. They would be warm. She would survive this.
“Come, Corinne,” he summoned after a stretch.
She wanted to refuse him, but the smell of roasted meat had her belly churning with hunger. She stumbled over and squatted beside him, accepting what he offered—chunks of rabbit meat and vegetables, all bland and tasting of nothing but fire. Still, it filled her belly.
With nourishment she felt more like herself, which in this case was a curse. Her bottom still throbbed painfully, and the more she considered her predicament, the more she pitied herself.
One tear rolled down her nose, then another. She brushed them off, but the wretched Jean-Claude observed it. He rose and crouched beside her, putting a hand on her back.
“I am not crying over the spanking!” she bit out, even as more tears coursed down her cheeks.
“Of course you are not,” he soothed. “You are crying because you have just lost everything.”
She lifted her eyes to see if he mocked her, but his expression held only compassion. She lowered her lashes as more tears spilled, leaning her shoulder against his. In a flash, he pulled her in his lap, his arms winding around her as he settled onto the ground.
She marveled at the sense of comfort she derived from nothing more than a man’s strong arms wrapped around her. How long had it been since anyone offered her comfort? Since she was a child? Could she count the attentions paid her by servants? No, they gave out of duty. Jean-Claude gave freely, and the gentleness of his gift eased her ire.
Yet it troubled her to feel so safe curled on a stranger’s lap when her life was at stake, her parents possibly dead, and she had no idea what her future held. This is what is to be a peasant. To find the simple comforts.
He peered into her face and used his thumb to wipe away her tears.
She pressed her lips to stop their trembling, willing the tears to stop. “Did you steal the pig?” she asked to deflect the attention.
His eyebrows shot up and he laughed. “Yes. I tried to, but I did not succeed. It escaped and ran right back to its pen, but still they wanted my neck for it.” He shrugged. “I know, I should not have attempted it. I am not a thief. It was a stupid idea, one for which my mother never forgave me.”
She looked at blue eyes framed with the dark curling lashes ladies strive to affect. How ancient they seemed. He had already known a lifetime of hardship whilst she had been dancing court dances in Paris and Versailles. And yet he smiled easily. Her eyes dropped to his lips. What would it be like to be kissed on the cheek by a man like him? Different than the few kisses she had received at court?
“And you? Were you punished as promised?” he asked.
The mention of the word “punish” almost made her wince, eliciting a fresh throbbing of her hot flesh against his hard thigh.
“Yes. Maman was irate—she feared the queen would hear of the way I mocked her sheep, and Papa whipped me out of principle. But he was proud of me just the same. He liked when I took a stand on something and stuck to it. Maman called me stubborn, but Papa claimed it showed character. He always lamented I was born female.”
* * *
How could anyone lament Corinne was of the delicate sex? Because she was, in fact, more delicate, more female, it seemed, than any woman he had known. Was it her nobility? The regal way she held her neck? The way her slender fingers laced so primly?
A few strands of her dark hair stuck to her dry lips, and he hooked a finger through them and tugged them off. The bruise on her cheek made him angry, but even worse, she now had scratches on her face from the bark of the log where he had punished her. He should have been more careful—spanking was one thing, but marring her face was quite another.
“Will you be missed, in Gramont?”
He gave a shrug. “Not so much. I lost my wife two years ago in childbirth.”
She gasped, covering her mouth. “I’m so sorry. The child, too?”
He nodded. “Yes, the baby died with her.” Two years and it still ached to speak of her.
“And your parents?”
“Dead.”
“What do you do for trade?”
“I am the blacksmith.”
She raised her eyebrows, looking impressed.
He smiled. “Did you think I still ran about trying to steal pigs?”
She flushed. “I have heard of you. They say you are quite good. You do some silversmithing as well, is that true?”
He studied her eyes—gray like the ashes of a fire. No, darker. Storm cloud gray. He liked the soft weight of her in his arms, the proximity of her face to his. “I have done some silversmithing for your father.”
She looked at him appraisingly, as if adjusting her judgment of him.
“Did you think I begged in the village center?”
She had the grace to flush, pushing off his lap to stand. He hid his disappointment by jumping to his feet and putting out the fire.
“We should start walking again.”
“As you say.”
“If we meet anyone, you are my wife, Justine Armand. I have your papers. Can you speak like a blacksmith’s wife?”
“I can try,” she said, trying to speak like a peasant.
“Try harder,” he said drily, picking up the satchel he’d had the foresight to pack before he had run to Château de Gramont to save Corinne. In it he had the few francs he owned, the papers for himself and his dead wife, a tin cup, a cloak and flint. He handed Corinne the cup. “Go back to the stream and drink your fill before we depart.”
He watched her back as she departed, shaking his head. Irritation with her as a symbol of what the citizens of France were fighting against warred with the obligation to repay his debt. That, after all, was the only reason he would willingly subject himself to her company.
Except he knew that was a lie. He already liked the little aristocrat, as fascinated by her as he had been all those years ago at his execution.
She impressed him by walking all afternoon and halfway through the night without complaint. When they stopped at last, however, she stomped her feet when he refused to build a fire.
“It will call attention to us, which we cannot afford. It is summer—you cannot be so cold you require a fire.”
“I am freezing,” she insisted. “I’m not accustomed to walking for miles on end, nor to sleeping on the ground. All this time I imagined the nice warm fire you would make us when we stopped.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint, ma chère.” He patted the ground beside him cavalierly. “You may have my cloak, and if you lie beside me, I will keep yo
u warm. I promise I will not molest you in any way.”
She eyed him warily, her lower lip protruding. “If you do, I will cut out your heart.”
He grinned. “Will you? Now I wish to tempt you, just to see you try.”
“I hate you,” she sulked, sinking to the ground beside him.
He lay on his side, his head on his arm. “You may use my arm for a pillow,” he offered.
She glowered at his arm, but gingerly lowered her head to rest upon it, her back to his front.
“Can you feel my warmth?”
She inched back a little, until her body almost touched his. “Yes,” she murmured.
They lay silently together and he thought she would fall immediately to sleep, but instead she said, “My feet hurt. And my knees ache. And—” she stopped herself.
He smiled, imagining she might be thinking of her backside.
Indeed, she offered, “I had not been switched before.”
“It is horrible, isn’t it?” he said with genuine sympathy. “I would not have chosen a switch to punish you, except it is silent and I did not wish any passersby to hear us.”
“I will never forgive you for it.”
“No? I think you already have.”
“No. Never. And I shall never concede you are my master.”
He moved without thinking, as if Corinne were his wife, someone he had the right to tease. Pulling her to her back, he pinned her wrists above her head, straddling her waist. She bucked against him, and he saw real fear on her face, though her hips lifted to roll against his in an undulating fashion.
He grinned to ease her worries. “Shall I cut another switch and test your resolve?”
She wriggled harder against his grip. “Get… off… me!”
