The Highwayman's Lady

by Ashe Barker

  I stand before him, chastened, helplessly aroused, yet still afraid of what is to come. “Are you still angry with me? Do you mean to be rough?”

  He shakes his head. “I am not angry, though I might subject you to a spot of rough lovemaking if I feel so inclined. Is that what you want this evening, Imogen?”

  A tear trickles down my cheek. I make no attempt to stop it. “No, sir. I want you to be kind to me.”

  He catches the tear on the pad of his thumb and wipes it away, then cradles my face between his hands. “I am not a kind man, not especially, but for you I will try.” He brushes my mouth with his and I part my lips, seeking more from his kiss. He spears his tongue into my mouth, angling his head to deepen the contact. I yearn to wrap my arms around him and cling on, but I am still bound. As though sensing my wishes, he reaches around me to loosen the knot and sweep the silk away. Free at last, I reach up and tangle my fingers in his long, soft hair, releasing it from his queue.

  He breaks the kiss to grin at me. “Ah, such a wanton little minx. I trust you will provoke me on a regular basis in order that I may punish you soundly. We will both enjoy the fruits of it, though your bottom may be in a state of permanent discomfort.” As though to demonstrate his meaning he cups his hands beneath my buttocks and squeezes.

  “Aagh, sir—”

  “On the bed. Now.”

  I scramble to do his bidding, pausing only to tug the chemise over my head and drop it at his feet.

  Gray wastes no time in divesting himself of his own clothing, a performance I watch with undisguised curiosity. I had no opportunity to observe him back at the inn but do so now. Coatless already and barefoot I note, he flings his loose-fitting shirt over a chair then peels away his breeches. His cock springs free, jutting proud and thick, its solid, red-veined girth impressive even to my untrained eye. And utterly terrifying. Were it not for the indubitable fact that I have taken him before, I would back off in dismay. As it is, I kneel on the bed and chew on my lower lip in trepidation. Perhaps he was less aroused on that previous occasion. Perhaps spanking me so soundly has made him somehow more… more…

  “Turn around, Imogen and lean forward. I do not appreciate having to repeat myself whilst you sit there ogling my cock.”

  His tone has darkened, now incorporating that steely core that I have come to recognise as demanding instant compliance. He shall have it from me. I turn and position myself as instructed.

  “Now, shuffle back toward me, right up at the edge of the bed. Spread your legs wide. Wider. Offer me your wet cunt. Invite me to touch, to lick, to fuck you.”

  I do it. I do all of it, whimpering in my need. I want him inside me, I yearn for him, so desperate am I that I can all but taste it.

  I sigh in gratitude as he places the wide, blunt head of his cock at my entrance. I press back against him, only to shriek as he slaps my poor, abused bottom.

  “Be still. I will tell you if you are to move.”

  “Yes, sir. I apologise. I was just… oh!” I abandon my babbling as he drives his erection deep into me, filling me to the hilt in one powerful stroke. It is just what I wanted, exactly what I yearned for. It is—perfect.

  He withdraws, then plunges into me again. At this angle, in this position, he is able to penetrate me more deeply than I recollect from our night spent at the inn. My quim stretches to accommodate his unaccustomed width, the friction delicious as he strokes my inner walls. The fit is tight, almost too tight, but I would not have it other. I want to feel him within me, every hard, invading inch of him. I regret my pleas about rough lovemaking. In this mad, impulsive moment, my senses overwhelmed, my lust overflowing, I just want to be fucked, hard and fast and furious.

  “Gray, please…”

  “Am I not being kind enough, Imogen?” He slows his strokes, almost stopping.

  I mewl in frustration, gyrating my hips against him. He slaps my buttock again and I go still.

  “If you want it hard, you must say so. If you need to be used like a slut, you must ask me, my little wench. Or would you rather I treat you like a lady, fragile, delicate, likely to shatter if I thrust too hard?” He stops again. “Which is it to be, Imogen? Are you a slut tonight, or a lady?”

  “A slut, sir. Your slut.”

  “My slut. How delightful. Let us see how you shape up then.”

  He places his hands on either side of my hips to steady me, maybe even hold me still as he batters his cock in and out. Each stroke is long, direct, caressing and straining my inner walls, the friction building to a delicious crescendo. I pant and groan as the sensation mounts and I edge toward fulfilment.

  “Gray, sir, please!”

  “You are not to climax until I tell you.”

  “What? I do not understand.”

  “Yes, you do. You know what I mean this time and you will obey me.”

  I grind my teeth together, my cunt clenching, spasming wildly around his thrusting cock as I seek to elude the crest that threatens to engulf me.

  “Gray, I cannot. Please…”

  “Wait.”

  I whimper as elation, lust, and despair conspire to mix a heady cocktail as my climax looms ever closer. I am desperate to obey. I crave his approval, but it is too much.

  “Now,” he whispers. The command is accompanied by Gray reaching around and under me to rub my quivering, swollen bud and I am lost. My body convulses in wave after wave of sensual pleasure. I am swirling, drowning in it, panting as my inner walls clamp hard around him and he goes still within.

  He mutters an oath the like of which I have only heard once before and in a very similar situation as his cock lurches inside me. His seed is hot, bathing my cunny as it pumps into me. I breathe a deep satisfied sigh and slump forward onto the mattress. Gray follows, his weight pressing on top of me for a brief moment before he rolls to the side and wraps his arms around me.

  “I’ve missed you, little wench. So, now that we have the preliminaries over with, shall we discuss this bairn of ours?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The soft, pliant body snuggled against me stiffens. Imogen turns her face toward me, her expression hesitant.

  I drop a kiss onto her hair by way of encouragement. I do not mean to take issue with her over the pregnancy, nor do I intend to dispute the circumstances leading to it. She was a virgin when first I had her and whilst I cannot readily pinpoint the reason for my certainty, I would stake my life on there having been no other man since. The child is mine, of that I have no doubt, but this does not necessarily mean that I will be seeking a marriage licence and shepherding my little Imogen down the aisle with all due haste. Apart from anything else, my chosen profession makes for a most unpredictable future and I have no wish to sully the reputation of my wife and child, or worse still, implicate them in my crimes. It is but a matter of time until that tenacious officer in the red coat sniffs out my trail again, and I may not escape him on another occasion.

  “How did you find me? And why are you here? Really.” Her voice is small, but carries a tightness I do not especially care for.

  “Are you not delighted to see me then? I had the impression a few moments ago that you might be.”

  “Of course, but I had never expected… How did you know where I am?”

  “You told me. You said you were coming to Stirling to seek the support of your mother’s cousin, Lady Beatrice, countess of Kirkleven.”

  “Did I? I do not recall.”

  “You did. It was merely a matter of riding north. But enough of that, what about this babe you are expecting? When is it due?”

  “In five months’ time.” She pauses to glance at me over her shoulder. “Are you angry at me? Disappointed?”

  Her questions surprise me. Am I such a monster that she believes I might blame her for the trick nature has played on us both? “Of course not. It was a likely enough outcome, I daresay. Are you well?”

  “A little tired, I suppose. And I have been sick some
mornings.”

  “Thank you for telling me earlier. If I had hurt you or the babe…”

  “I know. At least, I hoped.”

  “Apart from not taking my belt to your arse, what else may I do to aid you? Do you need money? Lodgings?”

  There is a long pause before she answers. “No, I expect I shall be fine.”

  I do not believe her for a moment. She desires more of me, expects more, though she will not say it. I consider it best to set matters straight between us. “I cannot marry you, Imogen.”

  “Do you have a wife already?” Her voice is hesitant, as though she knows she must ask the question but dreads my answer. At least I may put her mind to rest on that score.

  “It is not that. But no, I am not married.” I pause, seeking the words to make her understand. “Imogen, you know what manner of man I am, what the future is likely to hold for me. I dance but inches from the hangman’s noose much of the time and will not elude him forever. You would be a widow before you know it.”

  “At least then it would be the truth, not a tale made up to protect my reputation.”

  I am losing the thread of this conversation. Give me an honest highway robbery to deal with any time. “A tale? What tale is this?”

  “That is what Beatrice wants me to do. She suggests we tell everyone that I am a young bride, tragically widowed within months of my wedding. I expect I shall have to wear black and look suitably sad for a few months, but we shall contrive to make the tale stick.”

  I consider this plan for several moments. “You have told Beatrice about the baby then?”

  “Yes. Just this evening, in fact. And Sir Phillip.”

  “Ah.” I find myself somewhat lost for words. “And did they take the news well?”

  “Sir Phillip wonders if he might need to extend Kirkleven to accommodate his expanding household, but on the whole they were sanguine enough. More so than I had dared to expect. I am to remain here and we shall put about the story of my poor, dead husband to discourage gossip, at least to my face. So you see, I shall be fine. Really.”

  Why does the prospect of my brother offering the care and protection I should provide leave such a sour taste in my mouth? Imogen is my responsibility and has been so since the moment I first espied her struggling for her life on the floor of her stepbrother’s carriage.

  “They asked about my baby’s father, naturally, but I did not tell them about you. Even so, Sir Phillip offered to seek you out for me. He believed you might like to know of the baby.”

  I consider that for a moment before replying. “He was correct on that score. And did the accommodating Sir Phillip say how he intended to find me?”

  “I… I told him the name of the inn we stayed at that night. I expect he would have started there. He has influence and I expect he is known in York. He could make the necessary enquiries without involving the constables.”

  “I daresay. Why did you not tell them of me though? You did not have to keep my secret. You never expected to see me again. Or did you?”

  “I swore that I would not and I owed you that after you helped me. Beatrice and Sir Phillip asked about my baby’s father, but I refused to say. They are not best pleased with me, but have allowed me to keep my secret. I do not wish them to think ill of me, at least no more than is absolutely necessary. I owe them the truth and I do believe I can trust them, but I gave you my word and I would not break it. I should not have revealed the name of the inn and I am truly sorry for that. And, you have spanked me so perhaps you can forgive me now.” She stops, lies silent in my arms for a few moments, then, “Please, Gray, I need you to understand. I did not betray you. I will never do that. It could not have been anything I did or said that caused the soldiers to come to The Blue Man. I did not breathe a word of it until today, yet the attack was two weeks ago.”

  “Shite!” I mutter the expletive into her hair, my stomach clenching at the injustice I have done her. “Why did you not say?”

  “I did. I told you there was no need to hurt me, that I had not betrayed you. You did not believe me.”

  She is right, I did not. But neither did I allow her sufficient time to articulate her defence. I was too quick to act, to condemn and to punish. Had we had this conversation before I took my belt to her delectable arse, I daresay she would have escaped unscathed.

  “I am sorry. I treated you unfairly. I should have listened.”

  “Yes, you were unfair, but not entirely. I did tell them about the inn. You should have let me explain. But… I could have made you hear. If I had wanted to, truly, truly wanted you to not spank me, I could have convinced you of my innocence. I told you I was with child to stop the whipping.”

  “Aye, you did. And it worked.”

  “I could not let you harm my baby.”

  Our baby, but I deem it unwise to remind her of that fact since I do not intend to assume responsibility for the bairn.

  “But… I wanted you to spank me.”

  My little Imogen never ceases to amaze me. “You gave the impression you did not, if I may say so. I recall I had to gag you to stop your squalling.”

  “I would have preferred you not to spank me quite so hard, sir, but I learnt during the brief time we spent together that I sort of like it. A bit.”

  “A bit?”

  “Well, quite a lot, I suppose. Really. Just not so hard. Or for quite so long.”

  I adopt my stern voice. “It was intended as a punishment.”

  “One I did not entirely deserve.” Clearly she is not impressed by my carefully cultivated dominant growl. I must work on that.

  “Very well, you are in credit to the tune of one hard, long spanking. Perhaps I might contrive to make amends by fucking you again and I will be less rough this time.”

  Imogen rolls onto her back. Her smile is soft, seductive, and completely artless. She has no idea how tempting she is, how delightfully and how innocently wanton. My cock responds at once and I shift into position between her thighs.

  “Are you sore? I was not especially gentle with you before.”

  “No, sir, not sore at all. But I believe I may scream anyway. Do we have that silk stocking still to hand?”

  * * *

  Imogen is sleeping, her beautiful brown hair spread across the pillow. I take a handful and twist it around my fist, though not hard enough to disturb her. I lean up on one elbow to watch her as she slumbers and wonder at the bizarre set of circumstances and sheer bloody coincidence that brought us here.

  I have never entertained even the slightest desire to sample the delights of married bliss for myself and I do not intend to do so now, however pressing the need. It is not that Imogen is unattractive, quite the reverse. If I were to consider taking a bride it would be she, without a shadow of doubt. The wench is quite lovely and shares my somewhat unusual tastes in the bedchamber. We are entirely compatible and I could become accustomed to sharing my bed with her on a permanent basis. I suppose I could even become quite fond of any children we might create between us. Indeed, I have been astonished at the way fatherhood mellowed my brother, so I know the potency of the domestic state. In the right circumstances. Which these are not.

  My reasons for not ensnaring Imogen in marriage to me are genuine and I find I regret the necessity. I could rather warm to the notion of remaining at Kirkleven with this little sweetheart at my side.

  I release her soft tresses and slide from the bed. It would not aid Imogen’s somewhat delicate status within my brother’s household if the maids were to discover me in her bed as they come to make up the early morning fires. The least I can do for her is leave that applecart upright, though I have yet to determine how I intend to deal with the inevitable confrontation at the breakfast table when Imogen realises that her elusive highwayman and the earl’s prodigal brother are one and the same.

  I had intended to enlighten her, but by the time I gathered my wits sufficiently after I fucked her for the second time this eve
ning, she was asleep in my arms. It seemed a pity to wake her.

  I dress as silently as I am able in the flickering light of the one remaining candle and exit the chamber with my coat dangling from one hand and my boots still under my arm. I shall no doubt find plenty of unoccupied chambers and may take my pick. I believe I may even be able to recall the location of the linen press if pushed, since I hid there often enough as a boy when I considered it necessary to evade my tutor.

  “If you would follow me, sir…?” Masterson’s tone drips with disapproval as the man emerges from an alcove along the hall. “I took the liberty of preparing the mauve room for your use.” He casts a meaningful glance in the direction of the door I just closed behind me. “If you wish it, I am certain the young lady will relinquish her accommodations to you. Shall I arrange to have her things moved in the morning?”

  “Damnation, man, do you always creep about so?” My tone is sharp and one that has been sufficient to stroke terror into many a breast in my encounters on his majesty’s highways.

  Masterson is unimpressed. He does not answer, merely eyes the boots tucked in the crook of my elbow. “Would you like me to assist you in carrying your things, sir?”

  “No, I bloody would not. The mauve room, was it? And you will leave Miss Bennett’s belongings where they are.”

  “Aye, sir. This way.”

  “I know the bloody way.” I move to step past him.

  He withdraws to make way for me, offering me a polite bow as he does so. “My apologies, sir. I thought you had perhaps become a little disoriented, confused perhaps regarding which chamber is yours.”

  I turn to face him and meet his cool gaze. “I would appreciate your discretion, Masterson, as would Miss Bennett, I am sure. You will agree, no doubt, that it is best my brother does not learn of this—misunderstanding.”

  “Of course, sir. That will be best. I trust the—confusion—is quite cleared up now?”

  I lean in, the better to fix him with a glare. I am well past the stage of allowing my conduct to be dictated by puritanical servants and will not be reprimanded in the upstairs hallway of my own family home. “You need not concern yourself on that score, Masterson. Now, go to bed. I shall.”