by Evans, Trent
Clayton leaned an elbow on the pommel of his saddle. “You didn’t come here to talk about the Frontier or my draft animals did you Isaac?”
Isaac chuckled, the epaulets on his broad shoulders gleaming in the morning light. “Alas, no. I’ve something to propose, actually.”
“Go on.” Clayton had wondered why his friend had decided to slum with the yokels in the hinterland. Wyndhaven, with its intrigues and opportunities, was the proper place for a trader like Isaac Galt. Still, a part of Clayton was glad to see his old friend, if for no other reason than to distract him from his failure to protect his own flesh and blood.
Isaac lowered his voice. “Before I do, I need your solemn word that this will remain between us and the wind.”
Clayton sighed. “I should have known. This is farm country, Isaac. We don’t piss around out here about things. Let’s just hear it.”
“What are you prepared to do about this? You know it cannot stand.”
Clayton shot his friend a sharp look. “Dictating to me how to run my affairs now? What do you know of it?”
“I’ve heard enough. It pays to be privy to information in my line of work.”
“My options are bad and worse, Isaac. I’m at her mercy, and she knows it.”
“So take Sophie back. I know you can. I’ve seen what you’re capable of doing.”
Clayton tried to ignore the searing memories. The blood, the rush of the kill, the pain. His heart was suddenly racing, his pulse loud in his ears. His mind wanted to forget those memories; his body could not.
Isaac sat forward in his saddle pointing at his friend. “You’ve got no choice, Clayton.”
He shook his head. “Choice is the one thing I do have, Isaac. The problem is that I can’t bear to make it.”
Isaac shook the reins of his steed, the white horse accelerating to a trot. “Be honest with yourself, you old fool. You must act, else you’ll never see her again.”
Clayton, shaking his own horse’s reins to keep up, looked at his friend. “She has me, Isaac. I’ve nothing to fight her with. But I’ll be damned if I give in to her demands — noble right or not.”
“So what then? Appeal to the Council?”
Clayton cursed under his breath. “A waste of time. They only care about the damned Frontier. They’re shitting in their drawers from tales of bogeymen and the whispers of old women. They’d never move against a noble. It would be lip service only — then nothing. Meanwhile Sophie would suffer for it.”
“She’s suffering already, Clayton.” Isaac’s voice was grave.
“Aye, I know it — and it’s tearing me apart.”
Isaac pulled his horse to a stop and looked at his friend. Galt’s gaze was hard. “We’ll help you.”
“I know what you’re about.” Clayton turned his horse to face Isaac’s. “Your boy needs to stay away from my daughter.”
“That’s not really the problem right now is it, Clayton? For God’s sake man, don’t let that witch do this to you! What would you rather have? Owen courting Sophie, or your daughter at the mercy of Miriam?”
Clayton stared at his friend, shaking his head, hoping Isaac couldn’t sense his desperation, his hopelessness.
Isaac looked down a moment, then cast a sidelong gaze at Clayton. “How is my boy?”
Clayton was surprised that Isaac had refused to visit his son. Perhaps it was simply a father letting his progeny make his own way in the world, but he knew if it were he in Isaac’s shoes, ten thousand horses couldn’t have dragged him from his injured child’s side. “He was sore for a week after her soldiers got done with him. Rory’s wife patched him up as best she could, but he might scar. Only time will tell, but he’s a strong lad. It would’ve been even worse for him if the soldiers had taken him back to Westwood.”
He saw a pinched look cross Isaac’s countenance for the briefest of moments, then the former military man clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. “That wasn’t your fault either, Clayton, so don’t go saddling yourself with it too.”
“It’s not that simple.” Clayton ran a hand through his gray-flecked black hair.
“What is this hold Miriam has on you?”
He was stunned at the words, feeling a humiliating flush he hoped Isaac’s keen eye wouldn’t discern in the bright sunlight. “Isaac, I —”
“Just tell me, damn you! I’ve already said enough to get me hanged if you decide to wag your tongue about me. I want to know what this harpy has on you, so we can figure out a way around it.”
Clayton felt a surge of admiration for his friend. He knew Isaac hadn’t a clue what he was in for in crossing blades with the Westwood family, but he knew his friend would be at his side no matter the cost. He blew out a breath, and dismounted. He paced for a minute, Isaac watching him in silence. “She and I — before Elizabeth — were involved.”
“Gods,” Isaac muttered, shaking his head.
“Miriam wasn’t the way she is now. She was fair, even sweet, at times.” Clayton gazed across the broad field stretching out in the valley below. “But something’s happened to her over the years. Her heart is as black as night now.”
“What does she want from you?”
“That’s the trick isn’t it? I’m not really sure.”
“You’re lying. What was it you just told me about not pissing about?”
Clayton scowled at his friend. “She wants … me.”
“So if you lay with her, she’ll let your daughter free? What’s so hard about that choice?”
He turned on his friend, rage surging through him. “So, you think I should just fuck her and be done with it? Just like that, eh?”
“Clayton, wait.” Isaac held up a hand.
“That’s the perfect plan isn’t it, Isaac? Listen to the woman who paraded her wares in front of me any chance she got? Even in front of my own wife? The same woman who’d constantly sent me missives inviting me to lay with her, as if my marriage were a mere inconvenience to be worked around? Should I give in to the woman who asked me to her bed before Elizabeth’s body was even cool? The same woman who could absolutely crush me if she so chose? What if I did, and she wanted more? What then? You haven’t seen what goes on at Westwood, Isaac —but I have. Her soul is corrupt, sick.”
“Stop, I didn’t mean to anger you. We need to talk rationally about this.”
“I am talking rationally, Isaac!” he said, beating his chest with a hand. “The problem is you aren’t listening! She has me right where she wants me, and we both know it. Nothing short of armed confrontation is going to change that.”
Isaac’s gaze locked with Clayton’s. “Then let us talk about that.”
“You daft prick. She has more men at arms in her goddamned bodyguard corps, than all the farm militia in the valley combined.”
“What about the Korsgaards? There’s no love lost for the Westwoods there I can tell you.”
Clayton shook his head. “Max Korsgaard is on the Frontier, so he can’t very well help us here, even if he were so inclined! The captain that Max left in command of the Korsgaard garrison is as cowardly as he is incompetent. Without Max, there won’t be anyone to lead their men.”
“The Holstenborgs, then?”
Clayton grunted. “Dirk Holstenborg would be a possibility, yes. There is a small problem though. His wife Sandra is perhaps the closest friend Miriam has. He’d have no choice but to sit it out, and his snake of a wife would likely find out beforehand anyway. No luck there.”
Isaac dismounted from his horse, and walked to his friend. He clasped Clayton’s shoulders in a strong grip, a grim smile on his face. “Then let’s talk about how we do this my way.”
Chapter Four
Westwood Manor
“What’s she done to deserve this, Miriam?” Sandra, her rouged lips pursed, glanced over at her friend.
Miriam strolled over from her great mirror and stood close to her friend, Miriam’s shapely dark-haired form a pleasing visual contrast to the slender fair figure of the
Countess.
“Oh, she still has this silly idea that she gets some say as to what, or more to the point, whom she lays with,” the handsome lady said, wagging a long beringed finger up and down dismissively. “She’s being shown the error of her ways.”
“I see. Not content with her station in life is she?”
“Not exactly,” Miriam said, staring down at the subject of the conversation. “She serves passably well, especially at table. But she still can’t get used to the fact that this is a house run by a woman, and that as a servant of the house, she is expected to serve that woman’s needs — all of them.”
“Missing a boy back home or some such?”
“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but the girl seems to be averse to women. Sad, but true. Isn’t that right, dove?” Miriam said, raising her voice slightly.
“Ah, not a good attitude to have here at House Westwood, girl,” the Countess said, her voice soft. “You’d be wise to shape up quickly”
“She has this odd notion of only being attracted to men, and says she’s never been with a woman before!”
“How selfish of her! What a bizarre thing for a girl to think, Miriam!”
“Isn’t it though?” Miriam lit a few more candles about the dim room. “It’s as if she thinks it matters that she’s only attracted to men. Servants do just that — they serve. She just needs to come to grips with the fact that a major part of her duties here in my house, indeed the most important duty, is attending me. Until she gets that through her thick skull, I am just going to have to train her in proper behavior at this manor.”
“Well, I can hardly make anything between these bars and the fact that she’s tucked away in this corner, love. Perhaps we might get a better look at her?” The Countess’ clear blue eyes sparkled brighter in the fire-lit bedroom.
“Oh, I suppose we can, Sandra. She’s in there to think, to decide if she’s going to accept the truth of things.” Miriam stooped down, her movement graceful, her hands smoothing the wrinkles out of her deep green silk dress. Her friend, clad only in a sheer white gown, lace décolletage only partially concealing jutting breasts, knelt down as well, face slightly flushed, eyes intent.
“She’s only been in there a half hour. It’d be a shame to spoil the lesson by letting her out too soon,” Miriam said, considering, fingers toying with the golden lock affixed to the hasp.
The ‘she’ in question, was a naked girl, someone Sandra had never seen before. She looked perhaps nineteen or twenty, and was very fair of skin (though the low light betrayed just how fair). The girl was in a small cage ensconced in a corner of the noble’s luxuriously appointed bedroom. The round steel bars of the cage were closely spaced, dull gray in color. She knelt — or to be more accurate — was forced to kneel tightly over, her body practically bent double, the cage being scarcely more than three feet in height. She faced away from the two ladies, so it was impossible to make out much more of her countenance. A thick rope of her dark brown hair was wrapped casually around one of the bars crossing the top of the cage.
“You couldn’t get some more light over here could you, Miriam?” Sandra asked, keen on getting a better view of the girl.
“Oh certainly, Sandra.” Miriam retrieved a large glass-shrouded candelabra and set it on the nightstand next to the forlorn little cage.
The splash of warm yellow light illuminated the pale, broad orbs of the buttocks planted solidly on her heels, the vulnerable soles of her feet visible beneath the lush curves. In the cramped confines of the tiny cage, her posture prostrate, the dusky crack of her bottom yawned open, clearly exposing the wrinkled whorl of the anus, the perineum, and the dark, fur shrouded contours of plump labia below.
Indeed, the cage was such a tight fit that the girl’s ample bottom pressed against the sides and back of the enclosure, flesh slightly bulging into squares within the rigid confinement. The bars crossed the bottom of the cage too, and one could see that they must have galled the smooth planes of the girl’s shins terribly.
Even in this closely crouched position with the girl’s bosom pressed to her thighs, Sandra could see that the captive nude was possessed of full breasts; their soft, pale curves bulged invitingly out to either side, contrasting with the delicate pattern of the girl’s rib cage.
The girl’s arms were bent behind her, reaching up and around one of the bars crossing the top of the cage, the delicate wrists clasped in metal cuffs. Sandra could see that the girl wasn’t entirely naked either, though what she did have on hardly afforded any protection from the gaze of the two noblewomen.
The cuffs were clipped to a fine, silver linked chain stretched taut to a ring embedded in the back of a broad belt. This belt clasped her lower waist, stretching round to pass just above the dimples of her bottom. The black leather was tight, the flesh bulging slightly both above and below, and made the swell of the girl’s voluptuous bottom even more pronounced.
Sandra thought she knew with some fair certainty why this particular girl was subject to the attentions of her friend Lady Westwood. The majestic raven-haired mistress of Westwood Manor was well known among her wide circle of friends for her feverish penchant for well-fleshed lasses, especially those blessed (or cursed) with a big, round bottom. She knew Miriam would make the girl wish she’d never been blessed with such bountiful buttocks.
“Ah, those shoulders must be a trifle uncomfortable by now, Miriam,” the Countess said, turning her head to her friend. “How about having her out for a spot? Just to get a look at what you’re working with”
“She has a lot longer to look forward to in there, but I suppose there won’t be any harm in having her out for a little tea-time stretch,” Miriam said, winking at her friend. “She’ll no doubt be grateful for it.”
The willowy mistress gazed at the prostrate servant a moment longer; a fingernail leisurely drawing a light furrow into the skin of one of the girl’s buttocks. Miriam fished a necklace out of her deep cleavage, from which (much to the delight of the Countess) hung a tiny golden key. She opened the small lock at the hasp, carefully tucking the key back between her breasts.
After unwinding the rope of the girl’s hair from the crossbar, Miriam unclasped the chain from the ring at the back of the girl’s belt, letting the chain slide down to the floor of the cage. She then pulled the girl’s arms straight up behind her. This allowed her to swing the heavy top of the cage up on groaning hinges. As the girl’s hair fell to one side of her back, the dark leather of two straps could be seen emerging from around the front of the girl’s face. The straps diverged, one reaching around the base of the skull along the hairline, the other snaking higher up the back of the skull, submerged in her thick hair.
With a hand clasped firmly to one of the girl’s upper arms, the olive color of her hand clashing with the creamy whiteness of the prisoner’s flesh, Lady Westwood helped the girl straighten. The fingers of Miriam’s other hand lightly played about the crimson tips of the plump breasts as the girl stood, her movement halting, and stepped out of the cage. The Lady used another key to pop open the metal cuffs, hanging them on one of the cage’s bars.
The girl immediately started to whimper and twist, her knees rubbing together, toes wiggling, rubbing the abraded skin of her wrists. Her soulful green eyes were near to overflowing with tears, the lips pulled back in a rictus by a thick black rubber-coated bit clenched between white teeth. A bit of saliva could be seen at the corners of her mouth, as well as at the lowest part of her bottom lip. Straps crossed her cheeks tightly from either end of the bit to wrap around the back of her head.
“Pins and needles, dear,” Miriam said matter-of-factly in response to Sandra’s questioning look. “She’s been in there a bit, as you know,”
The Lady made no attempt to comfort or assist the girl, merely content to observe her discomfort as circulation returned fully to her lower limbs. After a minute or two, when the girl’s wriggling had subsided, Miriam guided her over to the foot of the huge, richly appointed bed
, and bade her sit upon the magenta duvet cover.
“Don’t get too comfortable now, Sophie,” Miriam said, standing before the sitting girl, her arms crossed below the swell of her bosom. “Once the Countess has had her look at you, it’s back in your cage. You still have a lot to think about, and you aren’t getting out of your quiet time that easily.”
“Yes, I see why you picked her, Miriam. Very nice, indeed.” Sandra pressed on the girl’s arms clutched protectively around her bosom. The bright pink bands of cuff-abraded skin on her wrists emphasized the pallor of her breasts. The Countess’ fingers moved up to trace the length of the bit, touching the girl’s soft rose lips.
“Might we pop this out too, Miriam? These lips do look enchanting, and I can’t really see them pulled back so.”
“Of course, my dear.” Miriam unclasped the buckles at the back of Sophie’s head. The bit loosened, and fell away trailing dark straps, landing with a wet slap on the girl’s pale thigh. The corners of the unfortunate girl’s mouth were inflamed, almost blood red. The straps left fading furrows crossing both cheeks. Both women watched a moment as Sophie worked her mouth and lips to try and return some sensation to the numbed flesh. The bit had apparently been just as galling as it looked.
“Hands up, now. No, behind your head. You know better than to cover up,” Miriam said, her dark brows furrowed momentarily. The nude laced her fingers behind her head, widening her elbows at a barked command from the Lady.
The girl was well built, even tending toward powerful. Strong shoulders contrasted against the slender muscles of her arms. The breasts were full, hanging heavily on her chest. The nearly smooth areolas were wide and brown, accented with prominent, dark nipples. The belly was soft, but smooth, the inky depth of her navel a pleasing counterpoint to the pale planes of her abdomen. There was the slightest curve to her belly down to the rather prominent curls adorning the pubis. Her hips flared wide from the narrow waist, and she looked as if she might have to watch her weight when she was further along in years. But now in the prime of her youth, her hips merely advertised her luscious femininity.
