by Lee Savino
“There, now that’s better.” The man crouched in front of her so she could see him, wiping the sweat from his brow. There was a cut on his face from her raking nails, she noted with triumph. “Now we can have a little chat.”
“Untie me, you bastard—” she started yelling, and the man stuffed his handkerchief into her mouth.
*
So far, Sebastian’s quarry was nothing like the courtly ladies the poets all went on about. Since meeting the mysterious woman in black, she’d shot at him, stolen his horse, and tried to run away from him twice. He’d been bitten and scratched and nearly got his balls kicked up his own ass.
“Damsel in distress…more like bloody distressing damsel,” Sebastian muttered. “Damn Tennyson. Leading us all on.”
He had to admit the sight of the Spanish wildcat, tied and helpless with her bottom thrust into the air, was an unexpected but pleasant reward for his heroic labors. He usually didn’t get to discipline a woman until he’d wooed or paid her. His fingers itched to draw up this one’s skirts and expose her pert bottom, so quick to catch his eye in the saloon and now fated to be blistered cherry red.
Too bad she seemed somewhat respectable. His cock stiffened in his pants, and after what the lady had put it through, it deserved some relief. If they’d met under different circumstances, in a brothel or a dark room between dances at a ball, he’d make her lick him up and down before sheathing his sword into her throat. Long as he was, most ladies ended up struggling to take him to the hilt. Eventually they all managed it, if not the first time, then after they’d received a bit of encouragement from the palm of his hand or a spanking implement.
But this lady wasn’t giving or getting any relief. He didn’t know her well enough for that. He’d have to get his jollies lashing her quivering bum with twelve whippy twigs all bundled together into Sebastian’s favorite method of punishment: the birch.
A twig snapped behind him and Sebastian whirled. Cage stepped out of the woods and eyed the set-up: the lanky lord standing next to the dark-haired lady, who was tied and struggling and grunting through a gag.
“There you are, Cage. Everything all right? Villains vanquished, and whatnot?”
Cage nodded, and gestured to the woman. “What’s going on?”
“We had a bit of a misunderstanding, but we’re working it out.”
Sebastian watched his hired man process this. Wrinkles formed on Cage’s forehead, and then the man shrugged.
“Fine. Don’t take too long. We have her servant—he’s worried about her. Helped us fend off the other three, and deserves our respect.” He pointed to the bound lady. “So does she. A woman dressed like that is in mourning.”
“Yes, and she’s going to actually be mourning, very soon. She needs a lesson in how to respect someone who is trying to give her aid.”
Cage pointed to his own face. “You’ve got some blood on your cheek, milord. Wounded in your rescue attempt?” Chuckling, the silver-haired guide stalked back the way he came.
After swiping his cheek and checking for red, Sebastian crouched in front of his captive. “You’ve disappointed me, little lady. I was attempting a gallant rescue, and I’m sure you were hoping to sit comfortably on your horse all the way to where you’re going. Looks like neither of us is getting what we wanted.”
*
Bound and gagged, her stomach pressing into the log, Francesca glared into the strange man’s blue eyes. What had the other man called him? Milord?
“Now I’m going to punish you for giving me so much trouble, and then you’re going to tell me why you walked into a saloon this morning and shot a man minding his own business at cards. The punishment will hurt as much as my Man Thomas would be hurting if your foot had found its mark. I find pain ensures perfect co-operation.”
At his words, her heart plummeted to her feet, and she renewed her struggles. The rope around her hands and feet held fast, so after a moment she stopped to conserve her energy.
“If the birching does its job and you cooperate, I will take you back to your man—who is unharmed and safe with mine, by the way—feed you dinner, and escort you to your next destination.”
Now that made less sense. Her confusion must have shown on her face, for he continued.
“I’m not an ogre, or an outlaw looking for an easy mark. I saw you at the saloon and thought you were in distress. I couldn’t let those men overtake you. For one thing, there were several of them, and only one—I thought—of you. Though,” his tone turned admiring, “I’d wager you’d take out one or two before they shot you.”
He held her gaze, his blue eyes assessing. “Of course, after this little session, I think you’ll learn to be more careful of who you try to shoot and steal from.”
His lips twitched a little, and she felt a surge of anger. Was he laughing at her?
“Now,” he said. “Stay where you are while I get ready.”
Tied to a log, Francesca had no choice but to stay where she was, and run through a list of English and Spanish insults that she could throw in his face, if he ever undid the gag.
Tied as she was, she had a chance to study her rescuer turned captor. She couldn’t stop her eyes from following his tall form as he went to a nearby willow and started cutting off small switches.
His body was lean, but still well-muscled from what she could tell by his nicely tailored clothes, He had broad shoulders and long, long legs. With white blond hair paired with angelic blue eyes, he could pass for an innocent choirboy. As soon as he announced his intent to punish her, she knew he had the heart of a devil. As much as she felt guilty for trying to steal his horse and leave him in danger, she couldn’t bear the indignity of being lashed to a tree or disciplined like a child.
He was a strange one, too. As he stood and stripped the leaves off the twigs, he whistled a cheery tune, glancing back at her once in awhile. He even gave her a little wink.
The nonchalance irked her more than anything else. She’d been chased and shot at and he acted as if it was a lark, even as he fought for her. What sort of idiot did that? From his suit and accent, she could guess: a foreign nobleman with a taste for a rustic vacation, who had enough money to treat life as a game. This blond was no more than a bored, rich fool, and she was his entertainment for the hour. As he returned to her side, bundle of twigs in hand, Francesca decided she would loathe him until the day she died.
“This, my lady, is a birch. As a boy, I knew it well, though I must say a bundle of hazel rods made for a much nastier experience than these fine twigs. Of course, it’s meant to chastise but not permanently mar your flesh.”
He stepped behind her and drew up her heavy black skirts, flipping up each layer until he found her drawers and peeled those down. Francesca’s face burned and she wriggled in her bonds at the humiliating circumstances.
The loathsome man let out a low whistle. “And what lovely, lovely flesh it is.”
*
Sebastian could hardly believe his eyes. He could tell by her face his mystery lady was young and fresh, but he’d never seen such a perfect pair of buttocks. Smooth and framed by the black skirts and stockings north to south, and bright white seamless drawers east to west, were a pair of caramel lobes, by far the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. He would have to be very, very careful. He’d only meant to scare her into talking, but now, with her man and Cage and the rest safe, a part of him wanted to push her. He’d prided himself on being all business up until that point, picking the twigs and stripping them of leaves, making sure they were smooth so they would stripe, but not cut her skin. But he couldn’t keep from brushing a reverent hand over her quivering flesh, admiring the delicious plumpness, ripe and ready for a man’s worshiping tongue or a pillowy welcome for a nice hard prick pounding into her back entrance.
Steady, Sebastian. Patience, temperance and self control was key. He would indulge himself and give her few chastising strikes, before getting to the bottom of who she was. Too bad he didn’t know the lady well enough
to reward her with a thorough tongue lashing once she’d suffered through a round with the rod. He always found a woman’s quim to be even more accepting when warmed with a spot of discipline.
Her bottom was going to be more than a little hot once he was done.
“As I said before, I was birched as a boy.” Sebastian went on talking as if he’d met the lady for casual conversation over tea, not in the middle of the Colorado wilderness about to lay a bundle of pain onto a lovely lady’s ass. “Hurts like the dickens but gets the point across. Or points, in this case. In this session, you’ll be learning how to behave. For the rest of the time we are acquainted there is to be no running, no scratching, no biting, and no kicking. Or shooting, for that matter. If you don’t learn after one session, I’ll be sure to pack this birch and keep it on hand for another.
It’s hard work on my part, I know,” he waxed on sarcastically. “But, ‘spare the rod and spoil the quim’ is what I always say.”
*
Every muscle in her body tensed as Francesca waited for the first lash to fall. Her first priority was to survive and see Juan safe. She could not get free from her bonds to get away, so her bottom would pay the price for her temper and she had to weather it.
She’d been disciplined by her father before, but the last time had been long ago, when she was a rambunctious child. Juan would say she’d lost none of her hotheadedness, she just learned how to reason her way out of things, or figured out how not to get caught. Cyro, her late husband, had always remarked that she could use a good whipping, but he’d been too mild mannered to attempt it.
Deep down, a traitorous part of her felt she deserved some rebuke. Stealing a man’s horse in the heat of battle was a shameful act, but even if she understood the consequences, she didn’t have to like them.
Grinding her teeth into the gag, she tried to communicate with her eyes: If you’re going to punish me, get on with it.
The blonde seemed to understand, for he nodded once and stepped behind her again, and laid the birch across her buttocks.
Her breath left in a rush, and despite her vow not to cry, tears sprang into her eyes. The bundle of twigs felt like a thousand tiny whips, covering most of her poor exposed rear. Her bottom cheeks clenched and unclenched as if they could drive away the sting.
“That’s one,” her blond captor said. She registered his lazy drawl even as her thoughts were still swimming through the pain. Bastard. He was enjoying this. A part of her felt this was fair chastisement for stealing his horse and leaving him even when he risked his life on her behalf. The rest of her wanted revenge. He laid the birch on her again and she gritted her teeth. She’d cut out his clever tongue. With a blunt knife. And make him eat it.
Imagining that gruesome entree got her through the next two strikes, but then the fire lacing over her buttocks overwhelmed her. Every time the birch fell, it seemed to strike every part of her bottom, leaving a sting she couldn’t escape, no matter how many ways she imagined having her revenge.
The whipping felt worse with her body tied up. Unable to move, all she could think about was the pain. The evil bastard whipped her bottom and the sensitive back of her thighs, until she thought she could take no more. Tears ran down her face and little noises escaped around the gag.
He stepped around to see her face. “I think that’s enough to give you a taste. Have you learned your lesson?”
She nodded frantically. Anything. She’d live to fight another day.
He pulled out the gag.
“Now, my dear, I have some questions.”
As soon as she caught her breath, she couldn’t hold back a torrent of Spanish. She cursed the blond’s parentage until his palm crashed down onto one throbbing butt cheek. Without the gag, she let out a humiliated yelp.
“None of that, now. We speak the Queen’s English or I gag you again. I can do this all night, you know. I’ll even get Cage’s strop, and give you a taste of leather. Not my preference, because we ride in the morning and your bottom will be raw. But a fitting punishment for a fiery young lady who shoots first and asks questions not at all.”
Finally, the man shut up. With her wrists and ankles chafing in her bonds, and naked, stinging rear waving in the air, Francesca decided to delay defiance and submit to the foppish fool, at least for now.
“Very well,” she croaked. “Will you untie me?”
“Not until you’ve answered satisfactorily. I think you’ll co-operate better knowing your bare bum is vulnerable to the lash.”
As much as it galled her, Francesca went with her plan to obey. Trussed and whipped, she was in no position to argue. She nodded. The man squatted in front of her, offering his canteen of water. He held it for he while she drank, and wiped her mouth. The gentle touch surprised her, as did his first question.
“Are you in danger?”
“From you,” she panted a little. The sting in her bottom was fading, mellowing into a painful throb. She shifted on the log, trying to give herself room to breathe.
“I mean you no harm,” he said, and tossed aside the birch. “At least, not anything beyond a light beating.”
Francesca sniffed. She would not describe that beating as ‘light.’
“What I mean is do you have enemies? Men who wish you ill?”
“No. Unless you mean the men following me—”
“None of them should be a problem anymore.”
“I don’t even know who they were.”
The flaxen haired man squinted into the trees. “The man you killed had partners.”
“I guessed he might,” she said. “But I did not know for sure.”
“Why did you shoot him?” His kind tone and gentle blue gaze, along with the emotions roiling through her with the pain of her lashing, undid something in her.
“He killed my husband.” Letting her head sag, she cried. She cried all the tears she’d held back during weeks of fear and waiting, the hard days ride and stakeout. For so long she’d been fixed on her goal, only to realize it gave justice for her husband, but in the long run made no difference. Cyro had been shot in the back walking home from a saloon. He was a good, kind man, chosen by her father for her to marry because he would take care of Señor De La Vega’s only child. Francesca had thought of Cyro as more of a guardian than a husband, and respected his gentle rule. His death was a senseless waste, and might destroy everything her father and husband had worked for—the ranch, the farm, and the lives and livelihood of all the workers and servants who’d been loyal to her father, Señor De La Vega, and her husband, Señor Cyro Montoya, and now her.
She didn’t say all that. She cried, tied with her whipped bottom on display, facing this strange captor whose demeanor was a mix of intensity, nonchalance, dominance and humor and gentleness. The man pulled out another handkerchief and wiped her tears away.
“Feel better?” he murmured, when all her tears were dry.
“Yes, thank you.” She did feel a lot better. Even the throbbing in her bottom had dulled to a tolerable ache, uncomfortable, but bearable. The pain had done its work: unlocking her vulnerable core and letting her emotions clear.
“You’ve had a long day. You said this man killed your husband?”
“Murdered him. It was clear from the witnesses that this man—Red Charlie-followed my husband home and shot him in an empty field. They found Cyro the next day with a bullet in his back. Red Charlie bragged about the easy kill.”
“I only saw this Red Charlie at the card game, but he didn’t seem a savory sort.”
“He was an outlaw. He deserved to die.” Something in the stranger’s stare made her bare her soul. “I thought I would feel better once he was dead. But I don’t. Justice has been done, my husband is avenged, yet I feel worse.”
He didn’t say anything, just held her in that intelligent blue gaze.
“My husband’s spirit can rest, but I cannot.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Go back to the ranch, and my home. There
is much work for me to do.”
The woods were silent but for murmurs in the distance—the sounds of Juan and this stranger’s men making camp. It was an odd confessional booth, but Francesca felt lighter, as if baring her soul to this stranger could make things right. Strange, to feel so connected to someone so quickly. She chalked it up to the emotions released during the spanking.
“Well.” The blond man rose and went to pull down her skirts and untie her. “My men and I will escort you and yours home. You will find that, if you don’t try to shoot or harm me, I am rather chivalrous. I am going to help you.”
As soon as she was untied, Francesca pushed away from the log, rubbing her wrists. “Why?”
“Because you looked like a lady in trouble. And I’m a fool with delusions of grandeur.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Comes from reading too much Malory.”
Francesca didn’t quite know what to make of his humor. Even during the punishment, he’d kept a jovial air, almost as if he was a spectator watching some fantastic entertainment. The attitude irked her, but she decided she could bear it. He hadn’t hurt her—at least, not the brutal handling and rape she expected. Other than the birching, he seemed to be trying to connect with her and prove he was on her side.
“May I see Juan, my vaquero? I wish to make sure he is well.”
“Of course. I will say this, I am going to help you, but at the first sign of disobedience, I’ll tip you over my knee and spank you in front of the men.” The look in his eye told her he’d do it. Pain she could bear, but not a public whipping. Not in front of Juan.
She nodded.
“One more thing. What’s your name?”
“Maria,” she half lied.
He waited a beat, then shook his head. “You and every other woman in this valley.” He rolled his eyes. “You Spaniards don’t believe in variety when it comes to honoring the Virgin Mary. Now come on, what’s your full name?”
She lifted her chin. “What’s yours?”
“Lord James Sebastian Chivington, the third.” He raised a brow and waited.
“Ana Maria Francesca De La Vega. The fourth.” She added the last with a touch of sarcasm and a proud toss of her head.
