He heard her yelling after him, hurling curses laced with various animal parts—all in all, not very creative—and he smiled.
She didn’t have a chance.
23
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER Lord Beecham brought his captive some warm scones, sweet butter, apricot jelly, and a pot of tea he had made himself.
“The scones are not completely fresh. Mrs. Toop made them yesterday, at the inn, just for this special occasion. However, I did build a fire in the fireplace. The scones are all softened up, nice and hot.”
“What did you mean by dessert?”
He loved her mind. “Discipline, my sweet. Everyone seems anxious for me to teach you more about this very interesting topic. Perhaps you have become too predictable in your approach, too unimaginative. It is time to infuse new ideas, give new perspective.”
“What do you mean by everyone?”
“I must keep my sources private. I believe there is a fear of possible retaliation.”
“Spenser, you must let me go. If you do it now, I swear not to hurt you.”
“That’s nice that you’re calling me by my given name again. Does that mean you are no longer trying to hold me at arm’s length?”
She jerked on her arms. Nothing happened. She was becoming very red in the face.
He patted her cheek, sat down in the chair beside her bed, and said, “Would you like butter and jelly on your scone?”
“I would like to feed myself.”
“All right.” He released one hand. He watched her flex her fingers, bend her wrist back and forth.
“Would you like butter and jelly on your scone?”
She nodded. At last her attention was on the food and not on killing him.
She ate two scones, both slathered with the apricot jelly, then lay back against the pillow and sighed. “That was delicious. Thank you. Mrs. Toop makes the best scones in the area. Now, I should like to be back at my inn by luncheon. May we leave now?”
“Would you like some tea now? Lemon? Milk?”
She got the very same look in her eyes as when she had confronted all those drunk young men from Cambridge in her taproom. It was blood. She had blood in her eyes.
He never should have given her the tea, particularly with added milk. She threw it in his face. Then her face scrunched up. “Oh, dear, I didn’t think. I should have taken a drink first.”
“Probably so,” he said, and rose to clean himself off. “That,” he said to her from the far side of the room as he dipped a cloth into the bowl of warm water atop a commode, “will gain you punishment, Helen. What do you think? Level Five?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That was nowhere near a Level Five.” She realized what she had said and closed her mouth fast.
“All right,” he said, a man so agreeable, so reasonable, so ready to compromise, that the air reeked with it, and if she could have, she would have kicked him across the room. “What do you think is fair? Level Three?”
“You will not make sport of me, Spenser.”
“At least you are still using my given name.”
“If I call you Lord Beecham, it is horridly embarrassing. I am lying here in my nightgown, on my back, with my arms and legs tied down.”
His eyes nearly crossed. He closed them and patted his face dry. He pulled his wet shirt out of his britches and unfastened it.
He knew she was staring at him. He wasn’t wrong. There was lust in her eyes if he wasn’t mistaken—and he wasn’t. That was nice.
When he was naked to the waist, he spread his shirt over the back of a chair to dry, then walked back to the bed. “You like me, Helen?”
“You are a man. What is there to like?”
“You were staring at my chest. Now you are having a very difficult time keeping your eyes on my face. What do you think? Do you like the way my manly parts are put together?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“If I give you another cup of tea, do you promise to drink it and not hurl it at me?”
He saw it was a struggle, but finally, she managed to say, “Oh, all right, I promise.”
He kissed her mouth, straightened, and poured her another cup. He didn’t add milk or sugar. He helped her sit up. He handed her the cup.
She drank slowly, not looking at him. When she finished, she handed him the cup. “This is madness, Spenser. You cannot keep me here tied down to this damned bed.”
“Why not?”
He nearly laughed at the utterly blank look on her face. Finally, still staring at him, she said, “Well, I don’t know. It isn’t right, I guess. Besides, there is nothing more about discipline that you could teach me.”
It was amazing how very certain she could sound. “You think not, do you?”
She retrenched; he saw it, and was amused by it. A little over a month ago he’d had no idea that a Miss Helen Mayberry even existed. Now he could not imagine not having her here, near him, tied down to his bed.
She cleared her throat. She took another sip of her tea. “Didn’t you tell me that you wanted to give me everything I could possibly want?”
“Not that I remember.”
“You did, or something very close, something that was vastly romantic and utterly outrageous. You said you thought we would deal well together. I am not dealing well right now. I am tied down. I don’t like this.”
He gave her a slow sweet smile. “All you have to do is tell me you will marry me and we will be on our way to Vicar Lockleer Gilliam within the hour.”
“I could agree, then leave you and Vicar Gilliam alone at the altar.”
“You could, but that would be very disappointing, Helen. Your father gave me a fairly complete list of all your weaker points, all your pesky little character flaws, your minuscule little foibles, as he called them. He never said you were a liar.”
“I’m not, blast you.”
“Good. Will you marry me?”
She chewed her bottom lip. He saw that her lips were chapped and he frowned. He walked over to the dressing table and began opening the drawers. He found cream in the second drawer.
He sat beside her on the bed, dipped his finger in the thick white cream, then began to rub it into her lips. She just stared at him, not moving. She had a free hand but it just lay there beside her on the bed.
“Thank you,” she said when he was finally finished.
“You’re welcome.” He kissed her again, tasting the cream that was rather like licking the bark on an oak tree. “Now, will you marry me?”
“No.”
“Very well, are you ready for your Level Three punishment for tossing your tea in my face?”
“It isn’t more than a Level One.”
“Just what do you consider a Level One punishment?”
“It is being left alone for two full hours, in a darkened room, with no one to talk to, no water to drink, nothing to eat. I usually use the tack room in the back of the stable. It is quite dark.”
He sighed. “Well, it isn’t at all titillating, but I suppose what’s fair is fair.”
He pulled the draperies closed. He firmly tied her other wrist again to the headboard. He pulled the covers to her chest, patted her cheek, then kissed her mouth. He rose, looking down at her for a moment. He began to whistle. He removed the tray and left her alone. She heard his whistle as he retreated down the hallway.
He did not come back.
Helen decided as she lay there that this simple punishment was much worse than she had ever imagined. It was a Level Three, at the very least. She would have to reevaluate her discipline scale.
Surely nearly a day had passed when finally the bedchamber door opened. Helen could have leapt on him, she was so glad to see him.
He pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down, stee pling his long fingers, tapping their ends together, rhythmically, slowly. She found herself staring at those fingers of his, remembering where they had touched her, and she shuddered, not enough for him to notice, but enough so that she felt it to her toes. And speaking of t
ouching, why wasn’t he all over her? In the normal course of things, he couldn’t wait to be all over her. Here she was, laid out like an offering, and he was just sitting there, tapping his wretched fingers. What was wrong with him?
“One of the most efficacious disciplinary techniques I have ever discovered is what I call, as of this moment, ‘not quite ecstasy.’ ”
Helen’s heart began to pound, slow, deep strokes. Her face was alight with excitement. Spenser cleared his throat. “You see, Helen, you and I together are something I have never imagined happening in my life. I touch you and you become utterly wild.”
“I am not the only one here with no control. What do you do when I touch you?”
He nodded. “A good question. It is quite possible that I lose a good deal of my flawless technique, not that you would notice, since you want me so badly. I have considered this and discovered that it makes me smile, even laugh. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“Since I have never even observed this flaunted technique of yours, I don’t know if laughter is strange or not.”
He sat forward, knowing he was going to goad her but good. “Well, you see, dearest, you are so utterly, well, I do hesitate to use so uncomplimentary a word, but it applies perfectly here and I wish to be honest. You are very easy, Helen. Compliant and submissive also apply. Perhaps even docile? There is no challenge to you at all. I have but to look at you with just a dollop of interest in my eyes, and you begin licking your lovely chops. I kiss you—all it takes is just a meager little kiss—and you’re ready to hurl yourself on your back and pull me down over you.
“You have, in short, given me no reason to assay a bit of my masterful technique. It is a bit depressing, all this utter easiness of yours, and it presents no challenge at all, and I do not believe one should be wasteful with one’s abilities and talents.” He sighed. “But, dearest, since I admire you so much, I am trying to adapt.”
He waited. He enjoyed the waiting, anticipating what she would do. He loved her outrage, and that was just what she delivered to him. Her face was flushed, her eyes glittered, and her lips became a thin line with cream on them. He wanted to kiss her silly, taste the tree-bark cream, but he merely sat there, his fingers steepled. He wasn’t about to unsteeple them and let them touch her, anywhere. He waited.
Then she looked him straight in the eye and said, “You are right about all of it. I am a creature with no will or control at all. It is very possible that any man could make me feel what you do. What do you think?”
He stared at her. He began to quake with his own outrage, which was filling him to overflowing, making him want to yell. “You,” he said very calmly, “are a blockhead, Helen. You don’t know anything. I plucked you out of the provinces and taught you how easy you are, but only with me. No other man who plucked you would find you remotely easy. You would probably knock anyone else across the room.
“It’s true. You’re an idiot. If you weren’t, you would realize that I am the only man in the world who can make you feel easy and compliant and willing to do just about anything I wish.”
She yawned. “Well, Spenser,” she said, “now that I ponder it, I have come to the conclusion that all those wild feelings you made me feel never really existed. I think they were probably not much of anything. At the most, they were accidental, on the very edge of meaningless.”
“That is truly what you think?”
“Oh, yes. Certainly.” She snapped her fingers. “Nothing at all.”
“I am so glad you said that.”
He rose, pulled off his boots, looking over his shoulder at her. “Soon, perhaps you will do this for me?”
“Perhaps,” she said, and he shook. It was the most difficult thing he had ever had to do, but he made himself hold steady.
“Then,” she said, “I will spit you on the end of my father’s sword.”
He heard the excitement in her voice, saw the excitement in her eyes that she couldn’t hide from him. And perhaps, there was just a dollop of fury at him because he’d made her helpless. Ah, the woman had been fashioned by a beneficent God just for him. He began whistling. He walked in his bare feet to the windows and pulled back all the draperies. Brilliant sunlight splashed into the room. He looked over at her and smiled. “You know, my sweet, I’m coming to grasp all your precious little peculiarities.”
He sat down beside her. He leaned over and began to pull open the ribbons of her nightgown. He saw the pulse pounding in her throat. His own excitement, he discounted. If he acknowledged it, he just might end up making love to her as he had the other ten times: fast, hard, and demented. No, he was set on his course. He was going to punish Helen, not love her silly, at least not yet.
He pulled apart her nightgown, baring her breasts. “Ah, now I can take the time to appreciate all the bounty you are offering me.”
“You pig. I haven’t offered you anything.”
He lightly touched a fingertip to her mouth, then he leaned down and kissed her breast. She was trying to hold herself stiff as a board, but it wasn’t going to work. Well, perhaps for another ten seconds. She trusted him implicitly, he saw it in her eyes, and so she was able to enjoy herself completely. And this was exciting her, no way to hide that, at least not from him.
It helped that he had his britches on and that he had made a vow to his face in the mirror not an hour before that he wasn’t going to take her, not once, until she was married to him. He might want to slit his wrists, but he would hold firm. “Now it is time for your punishment. Since you’re tied down and can’t attack me or distract me, I will give you a taste of my incredible technique.” He heard her suck in her breath even as he began kissing her breasts and caressing her until she was nearly beside herself. Then he drew back and ripped her nightgown open all the way to the hem. He peeled it back. Her legs were spread, her arms above her head. All of her exquisite white self was displayed right before his eyes. He raised his face to the ceiling and said a prayer of thanksgiving.
He looked at her up and down, humming softly, even as he raised his hand, let it hover over her belly a moment, then leave. Her breath hitched. He rose and walked to the tea tray he’d left on the small marquetry table in front of the fireplace. He poured himself a cup of tea. He sipped it, then walked slowly back to her. He stood beside the bed, a teacup in his hand, looking down at her.
“Spenser.”
“Yes, my sweet?”
She was breathing hard, her breasts heaving, a lovely sight, beyond what he could have imagined, actually, and that came as a bit of a surprise. She was trying to lift her hips.
He said, “That was stage one of your punishment. Did you like it? Appreciate its subtle magnitude? Applaud its name—not quite ecstasy?”
She just stared up at him.
He set down the teacup, sat beside her again, and leaned down, kissing her white belly. She heaved and moaned. He smiled painfully against her soft flesh, and whispered, his breath hot, “Now stage two.” He moved down until he was lightly cupping her with his hand. He raised his head and looked down at her.
“Spenser.”
She sounded as if she was in pain. Slowly, knowing she was willing him to caress her, knowing she was holding her breath, he lowered his head and kissed her.
She screamed.
She was his now, completely his, and she was in a bad way, his stubborn, big girl. He felt the pleasure ripping through her, felt the building tension, the urgency nearly crested. He lifted his head.
“Helen.”
She was beyond herself.
“Helen.”
She tried to focus on his face, but it was difficult. She wanted his mouth on her, something that only he had done to her, and it was immensely exciting and she couldn’t begin to imagine how horrible it would be to go through life never feeling this sort of wild madness. And now she knew what it was and how it felt and how it made you just want to yell and yell, and continue yelling until you exploded or simply collapsed.
She felt h
is mouth on her again, hot, his tongue making her scream. And then, suddenly, he was gone.
She lay there, twitching and jerking and arching as far as the soft ties on her wrists and ankles would allow, until the pleasure gradually faded. She looked over at him as he sat in the chair beside the bed, drinking some more tea and reading the Gazette.
He wasn’t even looking at her. She wanted to cry, but of course she wouldn’t. She wanted to kill him, but of course, at the moment, she could not do that either. Perhaps she could curse him to death. But there were no words coming out of her mouth. She just lay there, feeling the pulses of pleasure slowly fade, leaving her empty and cold and ready to murder him. So that was his discipline. He called it not quite ecstasy, the bastard.
Objectively, his punishment was incomparable. It was a Level Ten, at the very least. Hollyhock bunches were nothing compared to this.
She wanted to stab him in his black heart. With her father’s sword. She jerked on her left wrist. To her astonishment, she was suddenly free. She lay there and blinked. The damned tie had simply slipped loose. Now the other wrist. Surely she couldn’t be so lucky as to free that one too. How had she moved her wrist just then, just before the knots had slipped loose?
She’d turned her wrist inward, then given a sharp jerk. She did it again. The knots slipped open over her other wrist. She did the same thing with each ankle. She was free. His head was buried behind the Gazette. He wasn’t paying any attention to her at all.
She felt fury pump through her and a high degree of admiration and respect for his discipline methods. He had driven her to the brink of madness, then left her. Yes, it was very effective, but surely he could be watching her face, perhaps even teasing her. But no, the miserable wretch was reading. Very slowly she sat up, shook off the cravats, and without a word, with no warning at all, she jumped from the bed and onto him, flinging him backward. The Gazette pages scattered over the floor. The chair toppled and they fell over together, she on top of him.
24
SHE GRIPPED HIS HAIR and banged his head several times against the rug. It was unfortunate that the damned rug was so thick and soft. She wasn’t making any headway at all. She banged him again. “You bastard,” she yelled right in his eye. “You wretched bastard. I think your discipline was disgraceful. I would rather be walloped on the side of the head with a beam. I would rather be forced to eat boiled turnips with no salt, which is a nice solid Level Three punishment. But not what you did, this despicable not quite ecstasy discipline. I hated it. Do you hear me, Spenser? I hated it.” She smacked his head down again against the rug.
The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 Page 152
