She opened the door to his chamber and stood aside in the threshold so that he could pass. He stepped directly into the doorway and paused there, his body so close she could feel the heat from it. He looked down at her and she was horrified to feel herself blushing again. His chest was eye-level, sculpted muscles outlined underneath the tunic and linen undershirt. The thought of running her fingernails over his chest flashed through her mind and she blinked it away, swallowing. “Shall I send a maid to attend to you?” she asked, her voice cracking.
For a moment, she swore she saw that lewd look again, but all he said was, “No, that won't be necessary, Lady Camilla, my squires will attend to me.”
She backed away from him, bumping into the squires and drawing a deep breath as she moved out of the range of his presence. “Should you need anything, do not hesitate to send any servant for it,” she said breathlessly, still retreating backward.
A smile twitched on his lips. “I shall do that,” he said, his eyelids low, his voice sounding deeper than she'd remembered it. She turned and nearly fled to her own chamber, the imagined vision of her fingers on his chest again slipping into her mind, unbidden.
The castle came to life slowly the following morning, most still groggy from the harrowing events the day before and the late night that followed. Camilla found Father Bernard waiting for her after breakfast. “Would you care to pray with me this morning, my lady?” he asked.
Sir Balen looked at them sharply.
How could he possibly know that meant Father Bernard wished to speak with her in private? She frowned at the knight and nodded to Father Bernard.
In the chapel, she knelt beside the priest and interlaced her fingers. They were silent for a while, offering their own private prayers. Then Father Bernard spoke. “Sir Balen is a capable knight,” he observed with exaggerated innocence. Father Bernard was the only other person who knew that her husband was dead—she had not even told her sister the secret she kept so closely.
She blew out her breath, tensing herself for what she knew would follow. “Aye.”
“Seems like the sort of man who could manage a demesne like Falconworth.”
“What if that's his intent?” she snapped. “I'm not sure we can trust him, Father. You've heard men speak of him—the Savage Sword—he's a mercenary, he fights for any side that pays well. It would take absolutely nothing for him to pick up his sword and declare himself the new owner here.”
“Then mightn't it be better to save possible bloodshed and make him the rightful owner with a marriage contract?”
“Sir Balen?” she demanded. “Simply because he's good with a sword?”
“What objection do you have to the man, Lady Camilla?”
“Well,” she chuffed a little, “he's arrogant, for one thing,” she said.
“And you are prideful.”
“So it would be a volatile match, think you not? Did you hear what he said to me at the table yesterday? That he'd spank me if I were his wife!”
Father Bernard looked as though he were hiding a smile. “In truth, Lady Camilla, I doubt there is any husband who would not spank his wife for many of the things you do. That is part of your reluctance to pick a new husband, is it not?”
She glared at him. That he knew her so well was infuriating. She clenched the prayer rail and stared up at the cross on the wall. “Aye,” she admitted finally.
“Every week that goes by without you choosing a new husband brings you closer to the fate you wish to avoid. We both agree that Sir Edric would be a poor choice for you and for Falconworth. You have a duty as mistress here to give your vassals a Lord who will defend the demesne and help make it prosperous.”
“It is prosperous,” she protested.
“Yes, yes,” he said soothingly. “You have done a fine job, but it's time you had help. We cannot hide the fact that we've had word of Lord Falconworth's death forever. I'm surprised Lord Morholt hasn't caught wind already. And if he discovers that you knew and didn't notify him, you will pay dearly.”
She lowered her eyes and stared at the prayer rail. She knew Father Bernard was right—she owed it to her vassals to find them a capable lord. Yet the idea of giving up her sovereignty chafed her.
Father Bernard stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Think about it, dear,” he said. “Time is running out.”
* * *
“Send me the blacksmith,” Balen ordered, surveying the disaster that had been the curtain wall gate. When the smith arrived, he told him, “I need you to build me an iron portcullis that will serve as an outer gate.”
The man listened to his specifications and nodded enthusiastically. “I'll get to work right away, sir!” he promised. “I have all the materials I need.”
“You men,” he said, addressing the Falconworth men at arms, “go outside the curtain wall to the forest to chop down and bring back several large trees to construct an inner gate.” He sent another retinue of men to bring stone and mud. He needed to make the entrance impregnable and what it really needed was a gatehouse, complete with stone towers for defense. The last group of men he set to work tearing down a small portion of the curtain wall near the gate, to make room for the first tower.
“By our lady, what are you doing?” Lady Camilla demanded, interrupting their work.
He turned slowly and surveyed her where she stood, hands on hips, lower jaw jutting in anger. He was oddly aroused by the sight of her angry, and felt torn by a desire to either push her up against the wall and kiss her or spank that ungrateful attitude right out of her. “I am making room for the defense tower,” he said, mustering patience.
She blinked at him. “Well, sir,” she said, looking at the growing hole. “I should think you might ask permission before you go destroying property here.”
“Permission?” he asked, dumbfounded. “You think I require permission to fortify your non-existent defenses? Did I need ask your permission yesterday when I saved your arses from your sacking neighbors?”
Lady Camilla recoiled at his use of the word “arses” and huffed at him, her eyes flashing. “You,” she spluttered, “you are the crudest, most arrogant, and least chivalrous knight I have ever known!”
“Is that so?”
Lady Camilla's people were drawing close to her, flanking her as if they thought she were in danger. That irritated him, too. What kind of savage did they think he was? The elderly priest came hurrying over.
“Sir Balen, we are not ungrateful for the efforts you are making here,” he said, soothingly.
It seemed rather bold of him to contradict Lady Camilla, but she accepted his interference, looking slightly chastened. He narrowed his eyes at the priest—surely they were not lovers. A flash of jealousy tore through him before he assured himself that was ridiculous.
“Indeed,” Lady Camilla said through gritted teeth. “Father Bernard is right, we are grateful for your assistance,” she said, looking as though it cost her to say so.
He nodded coolly and turned his back on her, returning to work without another word. He heard an angry sniff before the sounds of her departure. After a moment of studied nonchalance, he sighed and shook his head. A sane man would just leave. She wasn't compensating him for this and his troop was expected up north for a mercenary job. But if he left, he'd never see the enigmatic lady again. Not to mention, he'd be leaving her defenseless, which was unconscionable. Nay, he must stay until her hired knight arrived, 'twas the only noble thing to do.
He sat at the head of the table again at dinner to purposely irk his hostess. He loved watching the way the color rose in her cheeks and her eyes flashed when she was angry. His ploy worked. She stopped mid-stride when she caught sight of him and then she marched over to the table and sat down, giving him a hard look. His balls tightened. Good lord, what this woman could do to him!
She gave her sister an equally hard look. “Tola, it is not necessary for you to entertain Sir Balen during the meals,” she said, causing the girl to blush.
&nb
sp; She turned her hard gaze back to him. “My sister is barely of marrying age, and is not to be courted by you or your men,” she said primly.
Though he had no interest in the young girl, being told he was not good enough for her gave offense. He scowled.
“I was not courting, nor were my men. We are far too busy trying to reconstruct your defenses,” he reminded her, eliciting a soft pink on her cheeks that made her eyes shine even more blue.
“Well, please inform your squires. She is not interested.”
Tola opened her mouth to protest, but shut it quickly under the forbidding gaze of her elder sister. He pushed his empty plate away and wiped his eating knife on his leggings, then stood without excusing himself or answering the lady's directive.
By suppertime, his men had made a good start to constructing the new wooden gate and they had begun laying stone and mud for the defense tower. When he arrived in the Great Hall for supper he found Lady Camilla sitting at the head of the table herself. He couldn't help but grin as he sauntered over and plopped onto the bench beside her.
“Lady Camilla,” he said politely.
“Sir Balen,” she said coolly.
A light meal of freshly baked bread and a salty cheese was served. She reached for the food as if she were the lord, but he beat her to it, serving her with a wicked smile. She pretended not to notice, but her blush was so pleasing to him that he felt his cock stirring in his leggings.
When they finished eating, he said casually, “I believe you owe me an apology.”
Her jaw dropped. “I could say the same of you!” she exclaimed.
“It does seem to me that you've forgotten the position you're in.”
“Exactly what position is that, Sir Balen?”
“You are sorely undefended, lady,” he exclaimed with exasperation. “If I took my men out of here tonight, which I am willing to do, you'd be wide open to another invasion.”
He watched the muscles in her jaw tighten and her full lips grow thin. She didn't answer.
“You have not offered me compensation, nor have I asked for it. I do not, however, think it is too much to expect your graciousness and an apology when I request it.”
“You request an apology?” the lady asked, seemingly dumbfounded. “I have an apology for you, then. Here's your apology!” She flung her ale into his face, momentarily blinding him.
He roared and jumped to his feet, his eyes burning from the spirits, his hair and face dripping. He snatched the fleeing Lady Camilla around the waist and pulled her sharply against his body, her soft bottom pressing against his thigh.
“Now that deserves a spanking,” he growled in a low voice in her ear. She lunged and strained against his hold and he jerked her back.
Her men at arms had stood, but so had his, so they were at an impasse.
“Stop fighting,” he commanded, still in a low tone only she could hear. Miraculously, she obeyed. In a normal tone, he said, “The lady and I have some business to discuss in my chamber,” and he began to propel her toward the stairs.
The entire hall had gone into shocked silence, taking in the scene. Her elderly knight blocked the stairs, his sword drawn. “Unhand her,” he demanded with authority.
Dear lord. He barely refrained from rolling his eyes heavenward. Well, he couldn't blame the man for doing his duty. There was no way Balen would take arms against a man old enough to be his grandfather.
“Call him off,” he said in her ear. “Don't make me harm an old man.”
“It's all right, Sir Thomas,” she said in a shaky voice. “Sir Balen is right, we have some business to discuss.”
“Nay, tis not seemly to go in a man's chambers, my lady,” Sir Thomas insisted, refusing to lower his sword.
“Her sister may accompany her to be sure her virtue is not questioned,” he said.
Tola hurried forward, her pretty face pinched with concern.
Sir Thomas spoke directly to his mistress. “He won't shed blood over this, Lady Camilla.”
“Won't I?” he asked darkly. “I didn't earn the name Savage Sword for nothing.”
“Nay, Sir Thomas, I shall not risk your blood over my… folly.”
Sir Thomas lowered the sword slowly. “If you do anything untoward with that lady,” he began.
“I assure you, I will not,” he cut in and led Lady Camilla past her knight, who eyed him with suspicion.
He could feel her entire body trembling, yet when she'd spoken, her voice had been clear and authoritative. He admired her pluck. He released her from his hold to allow her the dignity of walking up the stairs on her own, following behind in view of the part of her that would soon be the target of his palm.
* * *
Walking up the stairs in front of Sir Balen was excruciating. All she could think about was the fact that he was facing her bottom, which he intended to chastise momentarily. She took the stairs as quickly as possible and waited for him at the door to his chamber.
“You may enter,” he said as if he were lord of the castle.
She opened the door and stepped into his room, her gut clenched, her palms sweaty. Sir Balen entered, followed by Tola. She did not wish for her sister to witness her spanking, but she wasn't sure Sir Balen could be trusted. Of course, he had invited Tola's presence, so surely it would be all right.
Sir Balen sat on the edge of the bed and patted his lap. She closed her eyes slowly and then opened them again, disappointed when she found he truly was there, and he truly meant to punish her. His jaw was set and he had a look of grim determination. The front of his hair was wet and his eyes were reddened from the ale that she should not have thrown.
It's just a spanking.
He did not look particularly violent, which gave her some measure of relief, though this might be the most humiliating event of her life. To submit to this arrogant, self-important knight—to actually lie across his lap for his chastisement was unbearable. He was not her lord or master! At least she'd had the satisfaction of throwing her ale in his face in front of everyone. Though it hardly seemed worth this. The knot in her belly would not release and her breath was coming so quickly it made her chest heave.
“Mayhap I should have asked you first,” Sir Balen said.
She blinked at him, confused. “Asked what?”
“For permission to tear down part of your curtain wall.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. She had not expected any concession from him and to receive it now was her undoing. Her shoulders sagged.
Damn him. Now her actions seemed so unjustified—she had been in the wrong, and they both knew it. His manners were lacking, but hers had been far worse. Defeated, she blinked back the tears that sprang to her eyes.
As if he did not want to see her cry, he leaned forward and reached for her.
“Come,” he said sternly and pulled her across his lap, so that her torso rested on the bed and her waist was folded over his thighs.
She turned her head away from him, humiliated. She waited for the first blow, but it did not fall. Instead, she felt his hand brushing her calf, and she realized with horror that he was lifting her skirts.
“Sir Balen!” she protested.
“You shall not have the protection of your skirts,” he informed her firmly.
She felt the word “please” come to her lips but she bit it back. She would not beg. She most certainly would not beg. And Tola was there to be sure nothing untoward happened. She felt the cool air hit first her thighs, then her bottom and she squeezed her cheeks together defensively. He gave her one sharp smack and then another. She jumped each time, the offensive blow shocking her more than it hurt. But after about twenty spanks, it began to really smart. A slow burn had developed so that now each time his palm struck her bare skin, it was like fire. She began to make tiny whimpers, despite her best efforts to keep a stiff upper lip. She would not give him the satisfaction of her tears. At last the spanking stopped and he pulled her to stand and surveyed her face.
“Are
you happy now?” she spat at him, her lips trembling.
He shook his head and, to her dismay, pulled her back over his lap.
“No!” she cried, suddenly panicked.
He held her pinned over his firm thighs again, clamping one leg over hers to quiet her kicking. He gave her several sharp slaps, and then she felt his weight shift under her and gasped when she realized he was removing his sword belt. There was more movement and then she felt a hard, stinging blow. Pain and shock jolted through her body. It was not his belt—it felt too wide and hard. His sword scabbard. She jumped as it struck her again and again until the pain became too much.
“Please,” she heard herself say, though she'd promised herself she would not.
He continued to spank with the hard leather paddle. “Please what?” he asked.
“Please stop?”
He did not answer, but continued to bring the horrid implement down on her raw bottom again and again. She felt a sob rising in her throat and she tightened against it, thrashing against Sir Balen's hold on her. He merely spanked harder and she lost control completely, the sob escaping her lips, followed by wave after wave of sobs. She was crying like a small child. Her tears wet the blanket where her face was pressed and she took a mouthful of it and bit down, trying to muffle her sounds. She realized, after a moment, that the spanking had stopped. Her skirts had been replaced and Sir Balen's warm hand was lightly rubbing her burning, aching bottom.
Feeling tired and defeated, she wept, limply lying over this handsome, unrefined stranger's lap. The hand that was on her bottom moved to her back, lightly rubbing in a way that she found profoundly comforting. Why was he comforting her? He was the same man who had just completely broken her. He pulled her up and turned her so she was sitting on his lap, cradled in his arms. He pulled her head down against his chest, tucking it under his chin, and stroked her hair, her back, her arms. A fresh wave of sobs came crashing in and when she tried to stifle them, they turned into frantic hiccups.
Lords and Ladies: Two Medieval Spanking Novellas Page 2
