by Paige Tyler
Furious, he shoved his way by the men outside and nearly wrenched the doors off their hinges when he jerked them open. Somehow Taos ended up right behind him, probably having just abandoned their horses in irritation.
Smoke rolled over them. The stench of liquor and sweaty bodies offended his nose. But nothing offended him more than the thought of Whiskey up on that stage. He shoved men aside, as did Taos. The few men who dared to look at either of them in challenge quickly realized their mistake. A fist to the jaw was damn good incentive to get out of the way.
When he caught sight of the stage, he froze. His stomach twisted. Outrage swirled through him. She was up there kicking her legs high. Damn fine legs. He felt gut punched. He stood there staring like every other man in the place at the dress molded to her breasts like a second skin, at the legs encased in sexy-as-hell black net stockings. His palms began sweating. His heart pounded.
“I’m going to—” Taos bit out beside him.
“No!” Morgan growled. “I’ll handle this.”
Whiskey kicked again, as did the other two women but he didn’t care about them at all. He fought down the lust firing through him, found the anger inside him and latched onto it.
“Get the hell off that stage, Angelina Wakefield!” he bellowed above the din of the crowd.
The other two women froze, looked nervously out into the audience. Not his woman, though. No sir, if anything she kicked her damn legs higher, flipped the skirt around even more. Defiant little minx.
“Aww, leave the women alone,” some man to his right commented in a drunken tone.
Taos punched him in the mouth and he fell over backward in his chair as the men around him moved out of the way.
Like it was a sign to start brawling, men all around the room began swinging fists. He’d seldom been in the midst of a bunch of drunken men when a brawl didn’t break out. There didn’t need to be a reason. He sure as hell didn’t want Whiskey caught in the middle of this.
He lost Taos somewhere in the crowd of flying fists and determinedly made his way toward the stage. Just as he grew closer and saw the women looking in concern at each other, she said, “Maybe if we dance again they’ll get distracted from fighting.”
Each of them, looking nervous, started kicking again, started moving back and forth across the stage. The piano man had joined them, but the piano could barely be heard.
Morgan stopped next to the stage and glowered up at Whiskey. “Get. Off. That. Stage!”
Now that he was closer he saw how they bent over at the waist every few steps and gave the men views they shouldn’t have of well-rounded breasts. Actually, her breasts were far fuller than either of the other women’s. Exposing herself like that made him angrier. “Whiskey!” he called out even louder, giving up on calling her Angelina.
She didn’t stop dancing, but she did meet his gaze. She was moving automatically, he decided, not even fully aware of what she was doing. He saw fear in her eyes, of the crowd of crazed men. Good. She should be worried about them. Not that he would allow any of them anywhere near her.
But a man leaning over the edge of stage where the three women had danced over to suddenly reached up and grabbed her leg.
She screamed, went down and landed hard on her bottom. As he tried to pull her forward, she fought to shake free, tried to kick at him with her other foot. “Let go!” she snarled.
The music stopped. Maybelle and Abigail hurried to help her but froze when Taos roared in fury and stormed to Morgan’s side.
He reached the man first and sent his fist flying first into the man’s jaw, then into his stomach.
The man dropped to the floor. But before he’d released Whiskey, he’d managed to tug her almost to the edge of the stage. She sat wild-eyed and frightened.
Morgan held her gaze and didn’t know which he wanted more: to shake her senseless or to crush her to him.
*
Whiskey stared down at Morgan on the main floor knowing he was furious with her, knowing he’d come to save her from one of the most foolish decisions she’d ever made. Her ankle hurt where the drunk had grabbed her and held her firmly. As scary as that had been, she knew something far worse could have happened. She was close to getting sick, real sick.
“Whiskey,” Morgan said quietly, looking steadily at her. Even with all the noise around them his voice was the only one she heard.
His big body was tense. He looked ready to unleash all of his strength in a second should another man try to get to her. The man he’d just hit was lucky his jaw wasn’t broken. He was lucky Morgan had controlled his rage enough to stop before doing real damage. She should be frightened of the fierce-looking marshal, especially of the anger flaring in his eyes, but she wasn’t. Oh, she knew she would pay some kind of price with him for what she’d done. It didn’t matter at the moment. All that mattered was that he’d come to rescue her.
She gave him a tentative smile and watched his shoulders relax just a little. His fists unclenched at his sides. Beneath the brim of his hat she saw the fatigue digging lines into his brow and around his mouth. She knew he had worked hard at the ranch today, yet he’d come to get her. Amazing. She felt a tiny crack form in her wall of resistance to him. Maybe they…
He braced his powerful arms on the stage’s edge and pulled himself up next to her.
On the floor below, men continued to curse and throw punches, toss furniture around. The piano made a loud, off-key sound as someone was thrown against it. Glass shattered. Ham’s big night was going to cost him in repairs. Her unfortunate big night was going to cost her as well, but hers would be a painful cost not monetary.
“Are you all right?” Morgan asked, his eyes holding hers, searching their depths for truth.
She trembled and glanced back to make sure her friends had gotten well out of the way of the drunken men in the room. When she looked again at him, she said, “That man didn’t hurt me. Not really.”
Relief moved over his face. The anger remained in his eyes and he stood, putting out a hand to pull her to her feet. “We’re leaving.”
Her heart raced and she thought about refusing, but knew it would be a mistake. From somewhere in the midst of the chaos she heard Taos yelling, knew he was pounding his fist into someone’s face. But he didn’t come to interfere with Morgan rescuing her. Instinctively she knew her brother and this man who claimed he was marrying her had come to some kind of agreement about dealing with her.
“I don’t suppose saying—” she started but slammed her mouth shut when he narrowed his eyes and tugged her up.
His gaze flicked across the room. “There’s not a damn thing you can say that will make this right.”
He pulled her with him toward the back of the stage. “You didn’t belong here. I already told you that.”
It didn’t matter that he was right. She tried to dig her heels into the wooden floor. “They’re my friends. They needed my help.”
“They shouldn’t have asked this of you.” He dragged her with him past Ham and the girls, straight to the small dressing room.
She knew in her gut what he intended to do. She struggled again. “No! Not here. Please. Not here.”
She saw him glance at Ham, saw the concern for her on her friend’s face, saw him foolishly consider coming over to protect her. Then, though Morgan still appeared furious with her, he shoved her inside the room. “Get changed into your own clothes. Then we’re going back to the ranch.”
He leaned close so only she would hear. “Trust me; you’re going to bed tonight with one very sore bottom.”
*
By the time they’d ridden back to the ranch Whiskey had been lectured about her improper behavior over and over and over. Taos had been in his best big-brother mode. He’d talked so much at the top of his voice that he was hoarse when they rode into the barn. Morgan hadn’t said two words since he’d lifted her up and slammed her onto her horse. He hadn’t needed to; his feelings were written all over his face, which she’d been able t
o see in the light of the full moon.
He was the first to slide from the saddle. A second later he pulled her down and said to Taos in a tone meant to be obeyed, “Take care of the horses.”
Taos slid to the ground as well and grabbed all of the reins, although he didn’t appear happy. With a quick glance toward her and then to Morgan, he said, “Check the pantry.”
He walked off. “I’ll be out in the bunkhouse for a spell. Maybe play some poker with the boys.”
Whiskey wanted to tell him no, wanted to tell him to come with them. But, in truth, she didn’t want that, not if… not if Morgan planned to… No, she didn’t want her brother to see or hear her being punished by his friend.
Grim-faced, Morgan took Whiskey by the arm and led her to the house. “Having to do this sure plays hell with my attempts to court you,” he said in disgust. He hadn’t been good at the courting thing anyway.
As they walked through the house, he stopped here and there to light the gas lamps, glowering at her to stay beside him each time. Faded light directed them through the sitting room back to the kitchen. She trailed along with him, grumbling in irritation. She’d tried to walk away once, but the look he’d given her had her heaving a sigh and staying put. He was pretty sure she knew that this would be more than a simple turn-her-over-his-knees spanking.
“Stay put,” he commanded, leaving her in the middle of the kitchen. He walked into the pantry and wondered if she would actually obey him. He didn’t hear any sounds of movement behind him, thank the good Lord.
He sensed that she knew she’d done seriously wrong, something incredibly dangerous. Her brother had certainly made that clear in his lecturing her from town to the ranch. Morgan hadn’t had to say a word, but he’d sure been thinking about what she’d done. If he hadn’t rescued her… Hell! He didn’t even want to think about what might have happened.
When he walked out holding both the foot-long wooden paddle he’d found and the worn leather strop, he saw her shudder. He understood her reaction.
“You couldn’t just—” she began, her gaze fixed firmly on the instruments of punishment.
He held them up and shook his head. “No, Angelina. You’ve earned far more than a simple spanking. Choose.”
She swallowed hard; her breasts rising and falling in a way that captured his attention.
“Can I choose neither?” she asked meekly.
“I could use both.” He continued to hold them up. He was upset enough to do it, too, but he wouldn’t. “Choose.”
She just stared at the implements, her eyes glistening. He’d already heard about her being disciplined by her brothers a few days ago after her arrival in town in a balloon. He’d spanked her sweet backside first. But each of her brothers had made her choose one of the implements he now held and then they’d proceeded to whale away on her butt. No doubt she didn’t want to feel either of them again.
“Last chance for just one of them.”
In a weak voice she said, “The strop.”
Relieved that she’d finally answered, he took the paddle back into the pantry. He didn’t want to hurt her, but she needed a sound lesson for this act of nonsense. He stood there a second, closing his eyes. If he’d gotten there too late… If one of those men had…
He drew in a steadying breath. He’d arrived in time. He focused on that reality, walked out again, and nodded toward the table. “Pull those britches down. Drawers, too. Then bend over the table.”
“Can’t they stay…” She looked at him defiantly for a second, her face turning red.
“Down.” If he was going to make it very clear to her about this matter, he intended to do it right. Her ass would soon be redder than her face.
She walked slowly across the room. Her hands were on the buttons of the britches. “It’s not proper that you see—”
“I’ll see a whole lot more once we’re married. Drop ‘em.” He moved behind her and used one hand to help her pull the garments down to her knees.
Heart racing, face flaming, Whiskey put her hands flat on the table as she’d done many times before. She thrust her bottom out at the same time she lowered her head and her long, coiled curls danced around her face. This was so awful. Being punished was always awful. Being stropped by the man she would marry—no, she still hadn’t agreed to that—was… was…
Her thoughts stopped as she sensed him raising his arm. Oh Lord, it’s really going to happen.
She sucked in a breath, heart pounding even more. She heard the familiar whoosh as the strop came down through the air behind her. When the leather landed fiercely across both butt cheeks, she jerked forward with a gushed, “Oooooo!” The first blow was always a shocker.
“I believe your brother made it real clear what a foolish thing you did.” Morgan hesitated, holding the leather against her sore bottom.
“Yes,” she said as she caught her breath. Just as she’d known even before she’d agreed to step foot on the stage, she would pay the price for it. Her butt would anyway. “You don’t need to go over it again.”
“I didn’t think so.” He sent the strop whooshing down again.
She arched downward toward the table. Even as fire laced where the leather had landed, she remembered how he’d told her there would be consequences when she went against him. She didn’t like the idea, never liked being thrashed. And she thought about Ace. He’d never once even threatened to spank her…and she had gone against his wishes a time or two. He probably never would have taken her over his knee. That would have been a good thing. Yet…
The awful strop lifted and sailed down two more times, briskly, painfully. She stretched her arms out further and curled her fingers around the other edge of the table. She bit down on her lower lip trying not to cry out.
“I don’t like doing this.” Morgan stopped, smoothed a hand over the areas he’d burned. “I’m not opposed to given a deserved licking, but I don’t like it.”
Her buttocks quivered at his gentle touch. Heat fired low in her belly. She wasn’t used to any feelings besides sheer pain during a thrashing. The daring side of her said boldly, “You could stop now. I understand the error of what I did.”
He stroked her bottom one more time and drew his hand away. “Not stopping yet. This ass is going to be a damn pretty shade of red before I’m done with this lesson.”
She braced herself just before the strop blazed a fever over her bottom. This time he didn’t stop to soothe her or tell her how much he regretted what he was doing. This time he delivered a “lesson” that she wouldn’t soon forget.
Tears trickled down her face. She sucked in desperate breaths, sobbed. Her feet danced; it was impossible to remain stoically in place. But she was determined to take what he gave.
The strop fell wickedly a dozen times, more. She lost count. All she could think about was how awful it felt. She thought he might have said a few “I’m sorry” type comments, but she wasn’t sure. She hurt, bad.
Finally, he broke her determination to suffer what she’d earned. She arched her head back and cried out, “Ooooohhhh please. Stopppp! Oooooohhhhh stop!”
Instead he put a hand to her lower back and held her in place. “Almost done. I don’t want you to ever try something so foolish again.”
“I won’t!” she promised in a frantic cry.
He laid down another fiery stripe. “You’ll remember this lessoning the next time you even think about it.”
“Yes! Oh yes!”
One final lash fell and she wriggled away from it, wildly kicked back her legs.
“We’re done.” He set the strop down beside her on the table. “You can stay put until you’re ready to get up.”
Get up! Stop showing yourself to him! Yet she couldn’t find the strength to move. She collapsed on the hard table, gave in to the wrenching sobs as she adjusted to having had her butt soundly thrashed. It was over with. The strop wasn’t going to burn her poor bottom any more.
She cried quietly, feeling the stinging pain s
ettle in. It would be a long night. No, she’d probably feel this stropping for at least a day or two. Morgan Rydell definitely knew how to give a lesson. She didn’t want another one anytime soon.
She didn’t know how long she lie there, but finally he picked up the strop and carried it back to the pantry. Then he returned to her side and said gently, “You ready to get up yet?”
Her face flaming in embarrassment, she eased backward and stood on shaky legs, her back to him. How could she face him?
As she sniffed back tears and wiped at her cheeks, he reached out and turned her into his arms. He gave her a regret-filled look and pulled her against him. Her backside burned something awful, pain still making her grind her teeth, making her fight to hold back more tears. And her breasts pressed against his muscled chest; her nipples hardened.
She felt him shudder against her and then he cautiously smoothed a hand over her back. She felt the hardness of his erection, which made her fully aware that she stood in front of him with her britches and drawers now hanging around her feet. How humiliating. How improper.
His hard ridge rubbed against her and her body came alive with more than pain. She tingled all over. She wanted… What? This was all so new to her, so strange. So wrong.
His breathing quickened, his chest muscles tightened. He bit out a moan of frustration and he set her away from him. “Go on up to bed.” His voice was husky and his eyes had darkened.
Confused by her body’s reactions, by his body’s reactions, she stood there awkwardly. She felt coolness on her lower, unclothed body. And she felt ashamed of herself for having put him in a position where he’d felt that he’d had to thrash her.
She lowered her head unable to look at him and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“I reckon you want me to say I’m sorry for giving you a licking,” he said quietly. “Can’t do it. You earned every bit of the stropping.”
She gave him a nod and bent down to tug up her drawers and britches, grimacing and groaning at the painful move. She sure didn’t want to pull them up over her tortured bottom.
