Lords and Ladies: Two Medieval Spanking Novellas

by Renee Rose, Korey Mae Johnson

  “Shh… let it out. You'll feel better if you just let go,” he soothed.

  She gave herself over to him then, pressed against his body for strength, drawing from him everything he could offer. She cried for all of it: for the past four years of grit and determination holding Falconworth together, for the strain of rearing her younger sister, for her fears of letting her vassals down, for eight year's grief of being married with no husband, with no hope of ever bearing children. He rocked her slightly, stroking and shushing until her sobs quieted and she started to feel sleepy.

  “I'm sorry,” she said at last, not lifting her face to look at him.

  “So am I,” he answered immediately, triggering yet another wave of sobs. This one was shorter in duration and of a lesser intensity and once again he rocked her through it. “You have borne a huge responsibility managing Falconworth on your own,” he murmured. “I admire all that you have done. Your husband would be proud of you.”

  Her husband. Her dead husband for whom she needed to find a swift replacement. The thought of Sir Balen taking her husband's place set her heart to pounding again, though whether it was from fear or desire, she couldn't be sure. She scrambled out of his arms and to her feet, wiping the tears from her face.

  “Good night, Sir Balen,” she whispered, dropping a curtsy before turning quickly to the door. Tola stood against it, pale-faced and red-eyed, as if she, too, had cried during the spanking. She reached for her sister's hand and squeezed it, pulling her through the doorway. As she closed the door behind them, she was struck by what she thought she saw on the handsome knight's face.

  It appeared to be longing.

  * * *

  Damn. He should not have mentioned her husband. His arms felt empty without her cradled in them. He had never felt anything so right as the feel of her soft body on his lap. Over his lap. He hadn't enjoyed bringing her to tears, but turning her over his knee and baring her bottom for his chastisement had been a powerful experience—more than just arousing. Fulfilling—as if acting in the role of husband to her was something that had been missing his whole life.

  Dear God, he wished she did not have a husband. Eight years the man had been gone; he was probably long dead, but word had not reached her yet. Poor, brave Lady Camilla—running Falconworth alone. He was certain those tears were not all for the spanking he'd given her. Nay, she was under tremendous stress and all her defenses had crumbled at once. If only he'd had her trust to have comforted her more.

  He found her in the morning at the head table, looking subdued. She greeted him politely, but stood to leave when he sat down beside her.

  His chest ached. He had never felt so tenderly for anyone in his life, and to think that she might feel embarrassed or afraid of him now troubled him. He threw himself into the only appropriate way he could help her—securing her domain. He kept his men and hers on task all day. When they had used up the stone gathered for the defense tower, he sent the men to deconstruct an old abandoned curtain wall that stood outside the current curtain wall.

  “No wait—” he called them back. “Aldis,” he said, addressing one of his squires, “go ask Lady Camilla first, if we might use the stone from that wall.”

  Aldis strode off toward the castle and returned several minutes later. “She said she'd grant her permission, sir, but she said to ask you if you were afraid to beg permission yourself.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. He hoped it was humor and not true ire that prompted her challenge, but either way, it was better than her polite stiffness. “Is that what she said?”

  “Do you think I would risk your ire by saying such a thing myself?”

  He chuckled again and looked up to the castle to see her standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, watching as if to see his reaction to her challenge. Her dark hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders in thick waves. She wore a sapphire colored dress that accentuated her lifted breasts and narrow waist. He abandoned his men, sauntering toward the lady without taking his eyes off her. She turned and gave an order to someone behind her, but stayed where she was, waiting for him.

  A servant handed her a cup of ale, which she offered him wordlessly when he arrived. He drained the cup all at once, grinning as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. If she already thought he was unmannerly, he'd might as well play the part.

  “Lady Camilla.”

  “Sir Balen.”

  They stared at one another, an unspoken challenge between them fed not by anger this time, but something altogether different. Something that made his skin prickle with warmth.

  “I will pay you for your time here, Sir Balen,” she said, her voice throaty and rich like honey.

  “Nay, I will not accept your silver.”

  She put her hands on her hips again. “Why not?”

  He took a step closer. “Because, Lady Camilla, I rather like having you beholden to me.”

  She drew in a breath, but did not step back, accepting his invasion and gazing steadily at him through her dark lashes. “You take advantage.”

  He bent his head toward hers. She was close enough that he could smell the faint fragrance of lavender oil on her skin. Close enough for him to see the perfect clarity of her fair complexion, the pucker lines on her full lips. “Aye,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse.

  She twisted a lock of long hair and he detected a tremble in her fingers, though she continued to look at him boldly. When his own fingers began to tremble from the effort of not snatching her body and crushing it against his, he pulled back, giving her another savage grin before turning and walking back down to the men.

  “Be careful, sir, she'll blind you if she throws more ale in your eyes,” Aldis teased when he returned.

  “Nay, I doubt she'll do that again,” he said.

  Aldis and his other squire, Colton, chuckled, guessing what he'd done. “Sir Balen, did they never tell you that you can't win a woman's heart by slapping her arse?”

  He fixed the lad with a stern look. “Do not be vulgar when speaking about Lady Camilla.”

  Both of the young men looked surprised, unaccustomed to him enforcing their lessons in chivalry, though he'd taught them well enough. Colton held up his hands, palms out. “I meant no offense, Sir.”

  He glowered a moment longer, then softened. “What do you know about winning a woman's heart, anyway?”

  Colton grinned. “Nothing, but you promised us you'd buy us each a lesson in the next village, remember?” he drawled.

  Balen smiled, reluctantly. “So I did. Well, if Falconworth has such a teacher, I will make good on my word.”

  * * *

  Watching Sir Balen at work was like watching a stallion at full gallop—muscled grace in motion. Even more impressive than his beauty was his smooth command of both his men and hers. Somehow he had her free men and serfs alike eating out of his hand. Everyone obeyed easily and sought his approval, running to show him things, or carry out his orders. They worked with an organized diligence that was truly impressive, though part of her resented the way he'd usurped her command so quickly and easily.

  Over the next several days, Sir Balen and his men constructed an incredible inner gate of thick, solid wood and after a sennight, they installed a new iron portcullis outside the wooden gate. No battering ram would get through this new fortification. Building the defense tower was a slow process, but she saw it growing taller every day, its shape and usefulness coming into form.

  Sir Balen came to supper one night with a long tear running down both his tunic and his undershirt. He sat at the head of the table again, but she'd stopped protesting as she'd realized from his smirks that he was purposely doing it to goad her.

  “What happened to your clothing?”

  He shrugged. “Caught it on a bit of iron. I yanked at it, which only made it worse.”

  “That seems in character.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She gave him an innocent look. “Only that some
times a bit of finesse is more useful than brute force, don't you think?”

  He looked angry and for one moment she feared he would demand an apology again, but instead he shook his head and took a bite of bread without a word.

  “How long do you expect it will take to finish the defense tower?” she asked.

  “It could take another fortnight.” He took a hearty gulp of ale and looked at her. “But lady archers will not be allowed on this tower.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm and bit back the possible retorts that came to mind, using great effort not to rise to the bait.

  “Where did you learn to shoot, Lady Camilla?”

  “My brothers,” she told him. “I had four elder brothers. My mother died when I was quite young, so no one stopped me from running wild and trailing after my brothers and the other squires.”

  The obvious interest with which Sir Balen was listening gave her a tingle of pleasure. She picked at some crumbs on the table, looking under her lashes at him.

  “No one ever stopped you?” he queried.

  She smiled. “'Twas the brother closest in age to me who put a stop to it finally.” She looked down the table to see if anyone was listening and lowered her voice. “He caught me kissing one of my father's squires behind the stables and that was the end of it. I spent the rest of my days until marriage cooped up in the keep, embroidering.”

  Sir Balen rewarded the shared confidence with a grin. “No wonder you keep such a tight watch on Tola. How old were you?”

  “Thirteen. And it was a good thing I was caught, because I think that squire had more than kissing on his mind.”

  “You were in need of a good spanking then—” It seemed as though Sir Balen was going to say “then, too” but thought better of it.

  Neither of them had said a word about the thrashing he'd given her and she felt her face flush at the mention of the subject now. Irritation and resentment welled up, ruining the mood. Who was it who deemed Sir Balen worthy of determining when and which young ladies deserved spankings, anyway? Was this a king-appointed position? God-appointed? She ground her teeth.

  “Mayhap I was, Sir Balen. Fortunately you weren't there to mete it out,” she said tightly, getting up from the table and feeling satisfied when she caught a look of disappointment crossing his face.

  In her chamber that night, though, she regretted her temper. She still owed the knight a great deal, despite his brutish ways, and he did seem to be making an effort to appease her. She sent her maid, Lena, to ask for his tunic and nightshirt, so that she might mend it.

  Lena returned empty-handed and blushing. “He said aye, he'd give his permission for you to mend his tunic, but he wonders if you were too afraid to ask him, yourself,” she said.

  Camilla jumped to her feet with a mingled feeling of ire and humor at his challenge. Humor won out as she marched down the corridor to Sir Balen's chamber. His squire Aldis answered the knock and held the door open, but she refused to enter, planting herself in the doorway with her arms across her chest. Sir Balen swaggered over, looking pleased that she'd taken his bait. He stood too close—close enough that she could touch him if she lifted her hands. He was looking down at her with a glittering gaze.

  “Have you come for these?” he asked with mock innocence, fingering his tunic.

  She folded her arms across her chest and met his gaze solidly. “Aye.”

  She tried to think of something clever to add, but his proximity was disconcerting her. She could smell the outdoors on him, as well as his own distinct scent that she recognized from when he'd held her after her spanking. Her heart picked up speed as she met his gold-flecked green eyes. Holding her gaze, he slowly peeled off his tunic and undershirt as one piece, leaving her inches away from his firm, muscled chest. She drew in a breath. He was deliberately teasing her with what he must know was a physique to make ladies swoon.

  And it was working.

  Her legs were suddenly made of custard, barely able to hold her up, her breath had stopped in her chest and her mouth had parted of its own accord. Sir Balen's own amusement seemed to fade as he stared back at her, his eyes darkening and traveling to her lips where they lingered. She clamped her mouth closed and tried to step back, bumping into the door frame.

  “Ow,” she grunted.

  Sir Balen's hand shot out to catch her elbow. “Careful,” he said in a husky voice and she heard her own voice make a wavering sort of sound—somewhere between a squeak and a groan. She snatched the tunic and undershirt he was holding but he refused to release them, keeping a tension between them as she tugged and he held fast.

  She cleared her throat. “Sir Balen?” she prodded, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “Aye?” he said blankly in his deepened voice.

  Then he gave his head a shake and released his grip on the clothing, which sent her falling back against the door frame again, where she bumped her head.

  “Forgive me!” he exclaimed, the hand at her elbow pulling her sharply against him.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, startled to feel his firm body against hers. He made a low growling sound and cupped the back of her head, rubbing the place where she'd bumped it. The hand holding her arm wandered to her back and then down to circle her waist. Her heart beat so hard she was sure he could feel it where her breasts were pressed against his chest. She drew in a ragged breath, seeming to inhale all that was him.

  “Sir Balen,” she croaked, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

  A scraping noise came from inside the room where Aldis stood and she stiffened, realizing the impropriety of her position. Sir Balen released her reluctantly, casting a baleful glance in Aldis's direction.

  “I think you're the one who needs a thrashing now, Sir Balen,” she said, stepping back into the corridor.

  He gave her a slow, lopsided grin. “Are you going to give it to me?”

  This time there was no mistaking his leer.

  She grinned involuntarily. “I just might. You'd best mind your manners.”

  Sir Balen's chuckle followed her down the hall.

  * * *

  “Where is your sister?” Balen asked Tola. She had neither appeared for dinner nor the evening meal that day and he had not seen her about the keep since morning.

  “She took some things into the village,” the girl said absently.

  He frowned. “What sort of things?”

  She shrugged. “A blanket for a new baby, and food for a family that's suffered difficulties—that sort of thing.”

  “Did she go alone?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “On mount?”

  “Nay, sir—on foot.”

  “Shouldn't she have returned by now?” he demanded, his anxiety growing. “It's dark out!”

  Tola's brow furrowed. “Aye, 'tis unusual for her to be gone so long,” she admitted, increasing his fears.

  He stood up, taking a hunk of bread with him. “Which way to the village?” he asked grimly. He ordered his squire to saddle his horse and took off as quickly as he could, trying not to think of what might have gone wrong.

  “Lady Camilla!” he bellowed from the road in the center of the village.

  Heads came out of every building and in the dark it was difficult to discern if one of them belonged to the lady he sought.

  “Sir Balen?”

  He went limp with relief and urged his stallion toward her. She was carrying a baby in her arms, the sight of which stirred something deep in his soul—some unknown desire that had never before surfaced. His relief that she was unharmed was quickly morphing into anger at her lack of sense. He swung off the destrier and strode to her side.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, bewildered, bouncing her knees a bit to soothe the babe. The new mother stood in the doorway, watching them with open curiosity.

  “I've come to escort you back to the castle,” he said stiffly, not wishing to embarrass her in front of her vassals.

  “Oh,” she said, as if surprised. “
All right.”

  She entered the hut again and returned without the baby. He offered his interlaced hands for her foot and boosted her up to his mount, swinging up behind her. He could feel the warmth of her small body against his as he held the reins around her. She smelled like fresh air and that faint lavender scent. Her thick glossy hair looked like a warm mantle over her shoulders.

  She was so perfect in every way—dear God, if anything had happened to her, walking back alone in the dark… He grit his teeth. Her lack of care with her personal safety was a problem that required correcting. If he were her hired knight, it would be his duty to protect her. And in the absence of her husband, that just may mean chastising her for taking unnecessary risks.

  He didn't speak for the duration of the short trip back to the castle and she did not attempt conversation, either. He dismounted first and then took hold of her slender waist to lift her down, finding an undeniable pleasure in the feel of her weight in his hands.

  “I need to see you in my chamber,” he said firmly. “You may bring your sister, if you’d like.”

  “No!” She stopped short and stared at him in dismay, instantly guessing his intent.

  “Do not fight me, Lady Camilla,” he said in an undertone, not wishing to alert any of the servants.

  “But—” she spluttered. “You can't!”

  “Who's going to stop me?” he challenged her. “You can take it here, in front of everyone, or you can do as I commanded.”

  Seeing she had no option but to obey, her shoulders sagged and she gave him a look that wrenched his heart. It held reproach and something else—mayhap betrayal. He steeled himself against the pain it stirred in him. This had to be done.