by Evans, Trent
“Can’t … breathe,” Sophie choked out. Her heels dug into the dirt, her whole body tense.
“Knocked the wind out of you did it, bad girl?” Arnaud turned her over, her face pressing into the dirt. “You’ve worse to look forward to Sophie, don’t doubt it. How could you be so stupid?”
The Lady finally reached them, her white steed snorting around his bit. The Lady slipped out of her saddle.
“Here, Arnaud.” The Lady threw the length of chain to the overseer. “Put her in these. Should cure our little runner of her need to explore.”
Sophie’s breath was slowly returning to her, and she coughed, trying to blow some of the dirt from her face. Her lungs ached, and her heart hammered in her chest. She tried to raise herself up, but Arnaud pressed a heavy hand to her back, pushing her back to the ground.
He unbound her wrists, but only for a moment, for he then brought her legs up and tied her ankles together. Then he bound both of her wrists to her struggling feet. She’d seen calves and hogs immobilized in the same way.
“Bastard,” she snarled, spit flying from her lips. “Stop! I don’t deserve this!”
She didn’t care if her struggling got her in worse trouble; she was going to resist, no matter what happened. Maybe if she proved too difficult the Lady would tire of her and send her back to her father. She knew it was a foolish dream, but it was all she had. She had to maintain a glimmer of hope somehow, else she’d fall prey to despair.
Arnaud cuffed her across the cheek, the hot flash of pain stunning her into silence, her ear ringing. She spit at him, but he was crouched too far back for her to hit him with it.
The Lady appeared in her vision, dropping to one knee directly in front of Sophie. The Lady grasped Sophie by the hair, hauling her head up, scalp burning. She stared into Sophie’s eyes a moment, the dancing, malevolent joy in them plain to see. But the hard line of her jaw betrayed the anger there too, just under the surface of her beautiful, cruel face.
“Let — me go,” Sophie grunted. It felt like her hair was being wrenched from her scalp, the pain worsening by the second.
The Lady slapped Sophie’s face, hard. Sophie gasped, grunting at the sting of the blow. She struggling vainly against the grip, and opened her mouth to yell. How she hated the cruel woman!
The Lady slapped her across the other side of her face, even harder this time, the crack ringing out across the empty field and stars bursting behind Sophie’s eyes. She tried to shake her head to clear her vision, but the Lady’s grip held her fast.
“Have you had enough, girl?”
Sophie felt the fist in her hair twist and she screamed at the searing pain. She was sure several strands had ripped from her scalp. “Yes, I’ll stop! Please, no!”
She started crying, ashamed and hating herself at the same time. The pain was what made her cry, but she knew the Lady would think it was from fear. The agony in her scalp was overwhelming, and she wanted to do anything, anything at all, to make it stop.
“Well then,” the Lady said, drawing near until their noses almost touched, her breath warm on Sophie’s tear-stained cheek. “I think it’s time we teach servants what happens to them when they disobey.”
Chapter Nine
House Westwood
“The men are inside, Marshal,” Taidon said, keeping his voice low. “But we don’t have much time. They can’t stay under the humbrae for long.”
Valery paced in the shadows just beyond the road, keeping eyes on the entrance to the manor. The road, lined with guttering torches to light the way, led straight up to the open manor entrance. Guards, perhaps fifty yards from where Valery and Taidon stood, were posted to either side of the maw of the open portcullis. The steel of the guards’ halberds glinted with torchlight.
Rather than watching the road, the guards seemed more intent on what was happening in the courtyard inside. A young woman, totally naked, was stretched up on her toes, her arms lashed overhead to the arm of a wooden gibbet. Her head hung between her arms, her long wet hair covering her face. She stirred, turning a bit, exposing more of her back. She’d been given a serious whipping. Welts and stripes of crimson were ribboned across her flesh, some of the marks wrapping around the ribcage on one side.
The whipping did not discomfit Valery; he’d given the same to his devoted Rayja many times before. What nearly stopped him in his tracks though was the beauty of the girl. Her curves, her lustrous hair, the aching vulnerability of her physique called to him in much the same way Rayja’s had the first time he’d spotted her naked, terrified form on the auction block in Druas.
He regarded humans as little more than food generally, but his body servant Rayja had awakened something in him. Perhaps there was more to the species than he’d always thought? The idea disturbed and fascinated him all at once. Now, this was another human, this whipped girl, who seemed to call to something within him (the iron bar of his erection the most obvious manifestation of it).
Some younger members of his race sometimes talked about a mystical connection that was present with certain humans, but the older, more experienced among the nocturne dismissed such an idea as mere agitation by ignorant, impetuous youngsters.
“Taidon, tell the—”
He saw a woman approach the nude captive.
“Is that her, Taidon?” Valery’s voice growled.
“It is, Marshal.”
The woman was striking, a blood red dress flowing around her willowy form. A high collar emphasized the graceful neck. Her hand stroked the tracery across the captive’s back, and the nude woman jerked. Valery could well imagine the gasp of pain such touch would elicit on raw, newly whipped flesh. He’d enjoyed the tactile pleasure of it often enough with his own body slave.
“Marshal, we should strike now.” Taidon’s voice was urgent, excitement just under the surface.
Valery scanned the manor’s defenses. Dozens of soldiers, each of them armed with crossbows, were arrayed on the battlements above.
“Not yet, Taidon. We stick to the plan.”
Valery was not about to needlessly sacrifice any of his men with an all-out assault if he could avoid it.
“Smash and grab only then,” Taidon muttered, not quite able to wash the disappointment from his voice.
Valery cracked a smile, the enamel of his teeth gleaming in the low light. “Cheer up, Lieutenant. If we succeed, maybe we’ll have more than one pheasant to bring in from the hunt.”
“You mean—”
“If we can do it, take any captives that present themselves. We’ll be traveling slower on the return trip, since we won’t be able to go near the roads. A few extra ‘companions’ on our journey won’t matter.”
Taidon nodded, his gaze firing with lust.
Valery had been impressed with his Lieutenant’s ability to drive the men onward. He’d never seen a strike group move across open country as swiftly as theirs had. They had paid for it of course; the men were uniformly exhausted. However, a short rest and the lifeblood of the last two of Laird’s captured patrolmen revitalized them enough such that Valery had confidence the mission could be completed successfully after all.
Now the idea of getting his hands on that unfortunate girl lashed to the gibbet added a new urgency to him; a fresh drive to complete the mission, and return to their home. While being in the lands of the humans both irritated and exhilarated him (so many targets, so much sustenance), he had an abiding need to return, to lay down with Rayja, and try once more to ignore the deepening — feelings — he seemed to have developed for her. Perhaps the distraction of the lush buttocks of a new whipping girl would divert his mind from the disturbing path his thoughts had taken with his body servant.
Corporal Endek appeared out of the shadows. Deep hollows shone under his eyes, his expression drawn. Regardless, he straightened his shoulders and stood at attention.
Valery looked the man up and down. “Corporal? Report.”
Endek nodded. “A single rider approaches from the south, Marsh
al. Riding hard.”
Valery looked back over at the courtyard. Two soldiers were helping the nude captive walk away, her arms supported across their shoulders. The cruel Lady was nowhere to be seen.
“Is the rider military or noble?”
“Neither sir, as far as we can tell. Possibly commoner. He should be here any moment.”
Valery turned to Taidon. “Well?”
Taidon turned away from the corporal, his voice soft. “Could be nothing, Sir. Should we proceed?”
“I don’t like this, Lieutenant. He could be a scout.”
Taidon shook his head slowly. “No humans know we’re here, Sir — at least none that remain alive. Most of our own kind don’t even know we’re here either.”
Valery turned his back on the corporal. “That’s all, Endek.”
The man hesitated. “Sir?”
Valery turned. “Corporal, what is it?”
“There is something else. There are two wagons, perhaps two hour’s travel behind the lone rider.”
Valery’s brow furrowed. “So?”
“They’re dressed in black robes, Sir.”
“Mendicants. Perfect,” Taidon said, clapping the corporal on a shoulder. “Well done.”
“Lieutenant?” Endek looked as confused as he was tired.
Valery nodded. “That’ll be all, Endek. Join the others, and tell them to pull back. We await developments.”
The corporal inclined his head, turning to leave.
“And Endek,” Valery said, his arms clasped behind his back. “You stayed too long under humbrae. It’s drained you. Don’t get sloppy. We need every man tonight.”
“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Endek stepped away, disappearing into the blackness.
Taidon stood close to the Marshal. “Do you think we should?”
Valery glanced back at the now empty yard, the guards’ attention sharp once more.
“I don’t think we have a choice, Lieutenant. We wait for the mendicants’ arrival.”
The sound of a galloping horse grew loud, and both of them turned to watch the rider pull his horse up just outside the portcullis. The lone man handed a sheaf of paper to one of the guards. A few words were spoken, but quickly the rider was admitted with a curt nod from one of the armed men. The horse and rider disappeared within the manor.
* * *
“Where is she, Miriam?”
The Lady looked up from the couch she reclined upon, her skirts in disarray. A girl knelt between Miriam’s spread legs, and Clayton could see the movement of her head beneath the fabric of Miriam’s skirt.
“So it’s no longer ‘Milady this’ and ‘Your Grace that’, is it Clayton?” Miriam lay her hand on the crown of the head that was busy between her thighs. “Slower dear, we have guests about.”
“Must you do that, while we talk, Miriam?” Clayton pulled the gloves from his hands, flexing the stiffness from his fingers.
“You came to my house, Clayton. I expect you’ll just have to endure my little indulgences, won’t you?”
“My daughter. Where is Sophie?” He took a step toward Miriam.
“She’s safe, Clayton. She’s not been permanently harmed, just as I promised.”
He grimaced. “Is she … ”
Miriam laughed, clearly enjoying a father’s discomfort at the topic. “Get right to the point, don’t you? Why don’t you have a seat? I can have Claire here attend to your needs too as soon as she’s done taking care of mine.”
Clayton gave a terse shake of his head. “That’s not why I’m here, Miriam.”
The Lady stilled the head hidden under her skirts. “Her precious maidenhead is intact, Clayton, though I can’t say the same for her virtue. Not that it matters, really.”
He let out a breath.
Thank the Gods.
He just had to get Sophie home; to heal, to recover. To move on. Maybe even Owen could help her, if her father couldn’t be there …
Clayton shook his head slowly, clenching his jaw. “I’m here to propose a deal. A resolution.”
Miriam drummed her painted fingertips on the blue silk covering the girl’s head. “You know, I’ve missed you—”
Clayton held up his hand. “Miriam, stop.”
“Why didn’t it work, Clayton? We were so good together. You should have come to visit before all … this.”
He sat down, his arms resting on his thighs. He didn’t even want to look at her for this. “I offer an exchange, Miriam.”
“What?” Her voice was quiet, but he could feel the calculation, the interest. She was always weighing risks and benefits; determining what she could get — or get away with.
He looked up at her, his gaze meeting her dark brown eyes. “Release her.”
“Why should I? She’s mine, as long as I will it. My right, and you know it. Tell me you rode all the way from McClearn for something other than this?”
“Take me in her stead. I will pledge you my sword, and my … life.” He looked away, a sick weight twisting in his gut. He heard her sharp intake of breath. Finally, he had her off guard. Would it be enough?
“Clayton, look at me.”
He met her gaze, though it was the last thing on Earth he wanted to do.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Steel was back in her tone. “Truly?”
“Aye. I’ll do anything to save her — from you.”
He saw her mouth twitch at that, and he exulted in it for the briefest of moments. He’d hurt her. Ah, how he wanted to hurt her more! She deserved nothing more.
She pushed Claire away, and the girl fled the room, clutching her clothes to her naked breasts. Miriam rose, smoothing the gown down her thighs, and walked to her dresser.
“Would you like to see our Sophie?” She poured a deep red wine into two gold-leafed cups, handing one to Clayton before returning to her chaise.
“I would be happy to show her to you. To show you she’s safe.” The confident lilt was back in her voice, and the tension steeled back into him once more.
“No.”
“No? What kind of father are you?” Her smile mocked him. “To journey all this way, and turn her aside? She’ll hate you for it when I tell her.”
“You’ll tell her nothing.”
“Oh? Is that so?” She stirred a long finger in the dark wine. “What makes you think I can’t do just exactly that?”
“Because, you’ll have me. You’ll accept the exchange.”
She was quiet for a short while, Clayton’s heartbeat loud in his ears. He hadn’t expected her to even consider it, really. Yet, what if she did? Could he go through with it? Subject himself to her? He grimaced, staring into the wine in his cup.
“How shall I have you, Clayton? Naked, in chains at the foot of my bed? In the stocks outside for the villagers to toy with you? Watch them pelt your spanked ass with their refuse?”
Chills ran down his spine; this wasn’t going as he’d planned. Still, even if this did come to pass, Sophie would be safe. He’d do anything to save her. He had no choice. Isaac and Owen would just have to improvise. He hoped they’d see the situation and know what to do. The only thing that mattered was getting his daughter free. He’d spend an eternity moldering in Miriam’s dungeon if that’s what it took.
“Do you remember what you used to do to me when I was late from my afternoon rides?”
He gulped, looking up. What was she doing? “We’re wasting time, Miriam.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What is your hurry? You’ll stay here as long as I will it. We have as much time as I want.”
His fingers tightened around his cup, and he took a drag from the wine, seeking to remedy his suddenly dry mouth.
“Well, Clayton?”
“I do. What of it? It was eons ago as far as I’m concerned.”
She propped her elbow on the end of the rich chaise. “I think you lie. You remember everything. You think of it often, don’t you?”
He laughed, sneering. “You’re flattering yourself.”<
br />
“Am I now? Do you ever wake at night, covered in sweat, that big cock of yours in your fist? Do you think of how my lips felt on it? How my eyes watered as you forced my throat?”
He lowered his head, a breath blowing past his lips. “Another time, Miriam. That wasn’t you. That woman is dead.”
“No, Clayton. Your wife is dead. This woman is very much alive.”
His gaze snapped up, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you speak of her, Miriam. Her torment at your hands is over.”
She grinned. “Pity that. I so enjoyed her jealous protectiveness. Foolish, though it was, I found it charming actually.”
He had to change the subject. This was too close. He felt the burning pain of his lost love fire in his chest. Hearing Miriam speak of her was like having the scab of the old wound clawed open again.
There was a knock at the door, and Miriam’s expression darkened. “Come.”
Her overseer Arnaud stepped inside, stealing a cool glance at him. He was a snake, a perverted coward. Perfectly suited for serving the now twisted soul that had at one time been Lady Miriam Westwood, a woman Clayton had once cared very much about.“
“Our scouts report mendicants have been spotted on the road south of Westwood.”
“And?” She swirled the wine in her cup, her lips a thin line of irritation.
“It is likely they will request accommodation, Mistress.”
“They always seem to, don’t they?” Miriam murmured, flicking a cool glance at Clayton.
He looked away, feigning as much indifference as he could manage. He pushed down the fear at the mention of his friends. Keeping a cool head was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated.
“Friends of yours, Clayton?”
He snorted, taking a sip of the wine, thankful for the slight ease the alcohol seemed to be providing for his nerves. “Perverted crusaders. They find no friends at the McClearn farmstead.”
Her eyes narrowed, watching Clayton, then she looked up at Arnaud. “Provide them whatever they require. They may stay the night if they wish.” She looked at Clayton, her eyes meeting his. “Tell the servants to make themselves available. I’m sure our traveling friars would wish to tend to their … souls.”
