The Highwayman's Lady

by Ashe Barker

  “I believe so, though we will be requiring an additional wet nurse.”

  “At least this is an event we can plan for, unlike the previous three unexpected arrivals. Our home will soon be packed to the gills, Beatrice. Shall I build a new wing?”

  “I daresay we shall manage.” Beatrice tinkles her trusty little bell and Masterson ambles in. “Would you bring us some port, please? I believe we might all benefit from a small libation.”

  * * *

  It is with a far lighter step that I ascend the main staircase an hour later. I came down to dinner near faint with trepidation, expecting to be ousted from my new home, sent packing in disgrace. Instead, I have encountered compassion, security, and unwavering support. I will sleep better tonight than I have for a while, knowing my future and that of my unborn babe is settled.

  I ponder Beatrice’s suggested solution as I make my way up the stairs. A tragic young widow—it is a part I can play, I imagine. Ultimately, it will not matter if my performance is convincing or not. If the earl and countess say it is so, there is no one around here to gainsay them.

  I enter my chamber and use the small taper that I lit on my way upstairs to illuminate more candles around the room. I am tired, keen to gain my bed this night, so I waste no time in loosening the fastenings and slipping off my fine damask gown. It was once Beatrice’s but the deep bronze shade did not suit her blond colouring, so it has been altered to fit me and is one of my favourites. I lay it over a small stool at the foot of the bed and resolve to ask one of the upstairs maids to see to pressing and airing it tomorrow.

  Next I remove my pretty silk stockings—another gift from Beatrice—my whalebone stays and the panniers secured to either side of my hips. It is not a fashion I particularly admire, but the gown requires such undergarments in order to fit properly, so I must endure. The style has been useful, too, in disguising my own changing contours. Clad now in just my loose cotton chemise that flows about my body, I sit down before the looking glass on my dresser and remove the pins from my hair. I shake the waist-length waves loose, then reach for my hairbrush.

  It is not there. I always leave it in the same place as I prefer my possessions to come readily to hand. One of the servants must have been in and moved it. I scan the top of the dresser but to no avail, then lean back to peer at the floor on either side of me.

  “Lose something?”

  I start to rise as the masculine voice echoes around my chamber, a scream erupting from my throat. The sound is trapped within my mouth by a large hand sealing my lips. The intruder has moved with lightning speed, one moment concealed in the darkness at the corner of my chamber, the next instant closing the space between us to pin me in my seat. One hand covers the lower part of my face, the other arm is around my chest, immobilising me.

  Terror grips as I claw at the hand across my mouth, convinced this madman intends to smother me. Is it some lackey of Sidney’s? Am I not safe even here, after all these months?

  I can see only the midsection of my attacker’s torso reflected in my glass and the horror in my own my own eyes as I fight for breath.

  “Be still, Imogen, I mean you no harm.” The voice is low, even, and familiar. I search my memory. Where have I heard that tone before?

  “We need to talk, you and I. I shall remove my hand now and when I do, you will not cry out. Will you, little Imogen?”

  Gray? No, it cannot be. Not here.

  “Imogen, I require an answer. Nod if you agree.”

  There is no mistaking now that rich, seductive timbre that has the potency to melt my very bones. I manage a small nod.

  The palm covering my mouth relaxes, then slides down to grasp my throat. I should be even more afraid, yet I am not. I turn my head, try to look up at him over my shoulder.

  “Eyes forward, Imogen. Watch.”

  I obey, of course. My gaze is fixed on our reflection as Gray loosens the ribbons holding together the two halves that make up the front of my chemise. He opens them wide to expose my breasts, then takes long moments to simply look at me in the mirror.

  “You are as beautiful as I remember, my Imogen. But are you a woman of her word, I wonder?”

  His words baffle me. “I am. Of course I am. Why would you think otherwise?”

  He slides his right hand down across my body to cup my left breast. His touch is gentle, his palm warm against my skin. He kneads the soft flesh with his fingers, a sensuous caress, the caress of a lover. My eyelids droop as I lean back against him.

  “Open your eyes, girl. I told you to watch.” His tone is sharp, almost brutal. My moment of languorous surrender evaporates as I stiffen, my eyes wide as I stare into the mirror. He said he meant me no harm, but every fibre of my being anticipates the worst.

  He grazes my nipple with the edge of his index finger and the traitorous bud swells and stiffens. Gray rubs harder, deliberately teasing the nub into pebbled hardness, then takes it between his finger and thumb and presses. It hurts, but not overmuch, the sensation more a nudge at the very edges of pleasure, really. He increases the pressure, twisting my nipple as he squeezes and pulls on it. Now the pain is real, unmistakable. I whimper, but manage to bear it by gnawing on my lower lip. It never occurs to me to ask him to stop.

  “Thomas was attacked two weeks ago, his inn searched, his stables burnt to the ground. They came there looking for me.”

  I gasp, shocked and scared. The pressure on my distended nipple intensifies but still I manage to gasp out my words. “Is Thomas all right?”

  “Aye. He was battered a little, but he will live.”

  “I… I am glad. Aagh!” I am unable to contain my squeal of pain as he ramps up the torture. “Gray, you are hurting me. Please…”

  “Are you glad? I wonder.”

  I am shaking now, my poor nipple throbbing in agony as he twists again. I lift my hands, instinct demanding that I wrestle his fingers away from my tormented flesh.

  “Put your hands down. Shove them under your bottom and keep them there.”

  I obey. I am able to do no other when he commands me in that tone that brooks no dissent. I struggle to gather my thoughts, trying to concentrate on what he has said, what appears to be the issue. “What are you saying? There is no need to do this. I liked Thomas. He was kind to me. Why should I wish him harm?”

  “Thomas was not the target.”

  “Or you? Certainly not you. Please, Gray, you must believe me.” I am writhing against him, unable to remain still as he twists and tugs my poor nipple without mercy.

  “Must I? It was the king’s militia. Someone told them they might find me at The Blue Man. Who could that have been, do you think? Who knew?”

  “I told no one. No one, I swear it. I came directly here after you left me at the coach in Harrogate and have not returned to Yorkshire.”

  “But maybe you told someone here. Your fine new family, perhaps.”

  “I…” I snap my mouth shut, try to recall exactly what I did say to Beatrice and Sir Phillip. I mentioned The Blue Man, but not Thomas. And we only spoke of it a few minutes ago. Nothing I told the earl and countess could not have occasioned an attack on Thomas or his tavern which took place a fortnight past.

  “Ah, I see by your expression my words have some truth to them. Perhaps you would like to elaborate, my sweet, treacherous Imogen.”

  I shake my head. “No, you do not understand. I did tell them, but only—”

  Before I can complete my explanation, I am hauled from my seat and shoved toward the bed. I stumble forward to land face down across it. My nipple is throbbing from the mistreatment it has been subjected to and for a moment I lie still, too stunned at this turn of events to formulate further protest. That situation soon shifts as he grabs the lower portion of my shift and pulls it up above my waist. My bottom is exposed and I know that can only mean one thing.

  “Please, there is no need to spank me. It is not as you think.”

  I try to roll away
from him, but he holds me in place with one hand planted in the small of my back. With the other he undoes the buckle of his leather sword belt.

  “Betrayal does not attract a spanking, Imogen. That is reserved for minor misdemeanours, or even for when you are very, very good. You will be getting a whipping.”

  “No!” I start to fight in earnest, but my efforts are worse than futile. Gray pauses in his preparations to pick up one of the silk stockings I took off earlier and had left on the bed. He uses that to bind my wrists together in the small of my back, ignoring my sobs and desperate pleading.

  “Gray, please, stop. Do not do this. I would never break my promise. I did not… not really. Please, you have to understand.”

  “Enough, unless you wish me to gag you too. I trust you will tolerate your punishment in relative silence. We would not want the entire household trooping in here, would we?”

  “No, but you have it wrong. Please, could you just—Aagh!” My entreaty is brought to a shuddering halt as the leather whistles through the air before connecting with my unprotected left buttock. Pain erupts, a fiery streak rushing across my skin. I gasp, dragging in precious air as I fight to weather the shock.

  The belt flies through the air again, this time to land across my right cheek with a sickening crack. I kick up with my heels, but the palm pressing against my lower spine ensures I am going nowhere. The third stroke catches me full across both buttocks, a river of white heat searing my tender flesh.

  I am hurting, have never in my life experienced so much pain, but despite the agony gripping my body, two things are happening to me that transcend all of that.

  The first, astonishing though it is, my quim clenches and drips with moisture. His assault is arousing me even as it reduces my body to a quivering, beaten shell. I hate this. I fear the whipping that I am sure I do not deserve. I dread the pain he will inflict on me, yet still I respond on a purely physical level.

  The second affect and quite overwhelming, is the surge of protective love I feel for my unborn and vulnerable child. Whatever is to come, I will survive this. I know I will because all those months ago he told me he meant me no harm. But my baby may not. So tiny, so defenceless.

  He lifts the belt again, the next stroke just a moment away. I must stop him. I find my voice.

  “I am with child.”

  Silence. I close my eyes, lie still, pray he has heard me and that he cares. He need only care a fraction as much as I do and it will be sufficient.

  “Pregnant?” His tone is softer. I dare to hope.

  I turn my face toward him, my eyes screwed tight shut though tears stream across my cheeks. I nod.

  “It is mine.” A statement, not a question.

  Again, I nod.

  “How long have you known?”

  “Two months, perhaps. I suspected…”

  “You are sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Very well. A spanking then, not a whipping.”

  “If you say so, sir.” I am so relieved that he has relented; I do not press my case at all. The spanking is undeserved for I did not betray him, but I will take it.

  “You will position yourself across my lap and you will remain quiet until I tell you we are done. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I murmur, rolling onto my side.

  Gray seats himself beside me on the bed and pats his knee. I shuffle awkwardly to my feet, still horribly sore from the three strokes with his belt and hampered further by my bound hands. As I stand my chemise drops back to cover my bottom, the fabric harsh against my heated skin. I hiss in pain, glance up to meet his rather amused gaze.

  “You will not wish to wear anything for the next few hours and I can promise you will not sit in comfort for days.”

  “Your mask,” I exclaim. “You are not wearing your mask.”

  His lip quirks in a lopsided grin. “I think we are rather past that stage, would you not agree?”

  In the months since we met I have somehow managed to quell any attempt on the part of my over-enthusiastic imagination to invent features for my masked rescuer. I could not have done him justice in any case—Gray is quite simply perfect.

  His deep mahogany eyes and rich brown hair I already knew, but I could never have conjured up the straight, aquiline nose or the sensual mouth that reminds me of the soft, lingering kisses he bestowed upon me with such generosity during the night we spent together. His lips part in a smile to reveal even, white teeth. His jaw is firm, and I detect the hint of a beard just starting to appear as though he has not shaved for a day or perhaps two. His countenance speaks to me of humour, and of passion, desire, and dominance. I blurt out the first words that occur to me.

  “You are handsome. I knew you would be.”

  His answering grin sets my quim to dripping again. “Thank you, but fair words will not lessen your punishment.” He pats his lap, his requirements clear.

  Stoic, I flatten my quivering lips and resolve to bear this as best I can. It will hurt far less than the whipping he originally intended and now he knows about the baby he will temper his punishment still more, surely. I stumble forward to lie down across his thighs.

  “A little further over. Lift up your bottom for me. I expect you to submit to this and present your derrière for your punishment.”

  I wriggle forward and place my feet on the floor, my bottom angled over his knee and duly raised to receive the spanking.

  “That is good. You may move, but each time you do I will stop spanking you and require you to return to this position before I continue. You will endure the spanking until I decide your punishment is concluded. I prefer you not to make a lot of din for the reasons I have already made clear, so if you wish I will gag you.”

  “No, sir. I will be quiet.” Such humble acceptance, such humility. What is it about this man that inspires my absolute surrender?

  “You are a brave girl. I am proud of you.”

  His words of approval warm me and some of the tension leaves my body. Some, not all. I may be brave, I am pleased he thinks so, but that does not mean I am unafraid.

  He lays his palm over my bottom and strokes me in large circular movements, first one buttock, then the other. I hiss again, the burn of the earlier leathering not subsided at all.

  “Open your legs, Imogen.”

  I obey, without hesitation. He slides his fingers between them to explore my moist folds.

  “You are wet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you are still wet after your spanking, I shall fuck you. Which do you think you will be, Imogen? Wet or dry?”

  “I believe I shall be wet, sir.” Sweet Lord, did I really say that?

  He chuckles and my belly clenches with desire. “Let us hope so.”

  He starts to spank me, not so hard at first but gathering intensity fast. My bottom is smarting already and the sharp slaps he peppers all over my buttocks and the backs of my thighs soon have me writhing against him. He stops frequently, saying nothing, just waiting for me to collect myself and settle into position again. As I start to let out mewls of discomfort, then squeals of real pain, he interlaces the fingers of his free hand with mine secured behind my back. The touch is comforting, grounding me.

  He increases the intensity yet more and I cry out.

  He stops. “Shall I gag you, Imogen? We are not nearly done yet.”

  I groan to myself. I know I cannot take any more without screaming out loud. Miserable, afraid, my inner resolve battered into submission, I nod my head.

  He uses my other silk stocking, rolling it into a ball and shoving it into my mouth. I bite down on it, desperate now for this to be over and hoping with my entire being that I am still wet by the end of it.

  I try to count, but soon lose my train of thought as the slaps blend one with another. I hurt everywhere, my bottom and thighs flaming as he punishes me. He is thorough, leaving not a sliver of my skin unscathed. My screams are muffled by
the silk in my mouth, but some sounds emerge even so. I am desperate for him to stop, for this awful episode to be over. I could work the fabric from my mouth if I choose; it is not secured in place. I could scream for aid and the household would surely come running. But I will not. Whatever he may do to me, I do not wish to have Gray captured, seized, imprisoned or worse.

  I can endure this. I will. As the last vestiges of resistance seep from my quaking limbs I sag, boneless, over his lap and give myself up to whatever discipline he chooses to mete out.

  A few seconds pass before I realise the spanking has stopped. His hand rests on my inflamed buttock, but he is stroking me, no longer slapping. It hurts and there is something else too. His touch brings me a deep, perverse pleasure. I rub my bottom against his hand, seeking more of the burning friction.

  “Spread your legs again for me, little one. Let us see if your fortitude is to be rewarded.”

  Oh, please. I part my thighs, sighing as he fondles my weeping slit. He slips a long finger into me and I squeeze it, hoping he will not decide even now that this is not to be, that I may not claim my prize.

  “So hot, Imogen and so tight. And so very, very wet. Despite your squeals, I do believe you to be one of those precious females who respond beautifully to pain. You and I will get on well, since I intend to thoroughly explore that aspect of your nature.”

  The gag excuses me from answering and in truth, I have no idea what I might say in response. He means to hurt me again and for my part, I have little doubt I will moisten for him most dutifully.

  “You may spit out the gag, then climb up onto the bed. You will kneel and lean forward to press your cheek onto the mattress, your pretty pink bottom in the air for me.”

  I work my cheeks and tongue to expel the fabric, then attempt to straighten my upper body. I am struggling to comply, so Gray assists me to my feet, though this time he tucks the back of my chemise up around my waist to leave my spanked bottom exposed. I am glad of his consideration.