Rebellious Bride

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Rebellious Bride

  LizbethDusseau

  (c)2010 Lizbeth Dusseau Blushing Books

  Copyright (c) 2010 by Blushing Books(r) and Lizbeth Dusseau

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books(r),

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  Dusseau.Lizbeth

  Rebellious Bride

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-60968-456-3

  Cover Design by Blushing Books

  Blushing Publications thanks you whole-heartedly for your purchase with us!

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  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Chapter One

  “Miss Abigail, you look downright pretty,” Miss Hattie exclaimed after tying a sash about Abigail’s waist. The rosy pink matched the blush on her fair cheeks, and young woman’s blonde curls were combed so they fell softly to her shoulders. Rarely did they look anything but wild, and Hattie was taking the moment to admire the way she’d tamed the savage locks into place. The only thing that was savage about her now were her eyes, and they would never be tamed. Looking like some fierce bird’s, a darker light always beamed out from under the blue color to make them whisper things no child of her age should know about. Hattie always thought her young charge’s eyes were too wise for her, but then maybe in time she’d catch up.

  “It should be a fine party tonight,” Hattie added for good measure, her hands toying with the gray blue skirt, that had the look of the sky on a stormy day. Abigail looked a bit like a storm cloud floating by in her long full skirt. It was good the lace had softened the appearance, Miss Hattie thought was much too severe when she first saw the dress.

  “Oh, I don’t care about the party, Hattie,” Abigail answered saucily.

  “For heaven’s sakes, why not? It’s your wedding banquet, there’ll be a hundred people there. What finer occasion could there be to celebrate? You’ll be the center of attention, you always like that.” Hattie continued to fuss with her hair.

  “If getting married appealed to me, then perhaps I’d be happy.” She gently slapped the woman’s hand away.

  “What! That strapping young gentle-man, Miss Abigail, I’m surprised.”

  “He’s fine enough, but a little too stiff, I think. I’m having a terrible time imagining myself any man’s wife, let alone his. I’d much rather be off with Darcy.”

  “Darcy’s a hellion you’d best stay away from,” Hattie scolded.

  “I’m meeting her tonight, after the party,” Abigail informed her with a devilish “You’re what!” The maid looked at her wide-eyed in horror.

  “Shush. Father wouldn’t hear of inviting her to my party, so we’re having our own later, just the two of us.”

  The old woman shook her head. It certainly wasn’t the first wild escapade she’d been privy to, though it might be her last, with the young mistress leaving her family home the following day as Aaron Barrow’s bride. That was good, Hattie thought to herself, Abigail was getting much to old for Darcy’s spirited shenanigans, and the rude aftermath that often follows.

  “You’ve tried my patience for the last time,” Hattie said shaking her head. “Just don’t dare get caught, Little Miss,” - Hattie always called her “Little Miss” when she was lecturing. “You don’t want to go down the aisle with a bruised bottom from your daddy’s cane, now, do you?”

  “Believe me, the satisfaction would be worth the trouble. But even father wouldn’t be that cruel. Not on the day before my wedding.” Her perky smiled tried to convince a wiser Hattie. So sure of herself, the old maid noted. How like the breezes of summer and spring thunderstorms this one is. For all her relief she would miss her.

  The banquet was a terrific success, so everyone thought. Never had Neville McPhearson’s house gleamed so brightly. All the oil lamps had been polished until they sparkled. The silver shone and the finest china and linens graced the tables and sideboard. And of course, the bride-to-be looked ravishing in her shimmering dress, like some angelic vision, coming down the stairs to take the hand of her intended and accompany him to the festivities. She didn’t look at all like herself, but some civilized lady; though no one who looked on was deceived into believing that Abigail had been duly tamed by the prospects of marriage. It was generally accepted that Miss McPhearson was marrying the right man for her. The no nonsense Aaron wouldn’t put up with her antics any more than her father did; and just maybe, the love of good husband, along with his strong hand, might at last subdue the wild girl. At least that’s what everyone hoped, especially Margaret and Neville McPhearson.

  On that night, Abigail danced in Aaron’s arms, and watched him looking longingly into her eyes. She was well aware of the odd fascination that her body had with this activity; it was what had always brought women and men together, so said her mother. It was something that bonded them in ways that only a married woman would understand. Abigail always smirked at such “private conversations” - it was an age old reality, that Mrs. McPhearson’s daughter knew a lot more about the facts of marriage they she believed she did. Abigail had learned most of her information from Darcy, who seemed to know everything about life; though how Darcy got her knowledge was something of a mystery to her friend. Even so, when Margaret McPhearson thought it was the proper time, Abigail listened to her mother’s gentle lecture to the very end, giving her a thank-you and a smile when it was over.

  And still, with all her knowledge of life’s secrets, dancing in Aaron’s arms on the night before that fateful wedding night, it was difficult for Abigail to connect the reality of marriage with what she was feeling from her broad shouldered, broadly smiling fiance. A fluttering in her stomach perhaps, but that could be that she was tipsy from the glass of wine at dinner. She did like his powerful arms around her. And she did enjoy the curious sensations that were coming from his loins to hers. Like Miss Hattie pointed out to her over and over again, Aaron was devastatingly handsome, by most woman’s standards, tall and muscu-lar, with an unblemished face that made a strong statement with high cheek bones, a well defined nose, and an angular jaw line. His dark hair was always slightly mussed, but not in an unattractive way, it attested to a certain earthiness. He was a powerful man, having worked by his father’s side in their milling business. And Abigail was told he was as apt a businessman as he was a lumberman, having had ample experience as both.

  He was the perfect man, all right, but though he was pleasant enough, and obviously very fond of her, there was a reserve that didn’t suit Abigail’s exuberant spirit. She liked running wild in her childhood dreams, and the prospects of having to remain a housebound matron with a host of boring responsibilities didn’t suit her. Still, at seventeen, she was destined to marry, and marry she would unless she staged some outright rebellion. As often as she dreamed of such a flagrant revolt however, it was just a pipe dream. She knew that her youthful days of naughty escapades with Darcy were to end, and another chapter in her life was about to be written. It was strange to be so sad on s
uch a festive occasion, Abigail had thought all through the evening. Though there was a moment while they were dancing, when Aaron leaned down and kissed her on the lips that Abigail forgot about the sadness, the unwanted changes, and even the impending rendezvous with Darcy. She lost herself in the fragrant moment as Aaron’s scent lingered with hers, and the sweep of his potent masculinity took her breath away. Her heart had never beat so rapidly, and the fluttering in her stomach became rude jolts that seemed to dive right to the center of herself, just as she would dive headfirst into the swimming-hole, China Cove, when she and Darcy swam in the cool waters on a summer afternoon.

  “I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” Abigail whispered to him, as their lips parted.

  “And so am I,” he said. “We’ll have a long life together, little brat” - for some reason Aaron had adopted that name for her, she swore it was because he’d heard too many stories of her naughty antics.

  “Yes, perhaps,” she replied. “I’m beginning to think this is going to be more of an adventure than I thought.”

  She gazed into his eyes, something she often found difficult to do, and saw them twinkling with a light Abigail would swear was sheer cunning, as if he had something really devious up his sleeve. Maybe, just maybe, she was finally ready to move away from her childhood and become the woman that was expected of her. It was a thought that made her much less apprehensive about the wedding the next day.

  Moments later, with Aaron on horseback riding away, Abigail excused herself from the remaining guests and made her way to the bedroom.

  The hour was already late and she was terribly tired, but there was no way she’d neglect her friend on this night. Darcy would be waiting for her in China Cove - so named for the exotic country that they’d only read about in books - a magical, mysterious country that they would pretend and day-dream about in their private habitat under the enormous oak tree, whose stoic silent limbs kept all the secrets they whispered about under its graceful nurturing.

  Not bothering to change her clothes, Abigail was on her way. Just another last hour of conversation with Darcy was all she wanted. She slipped quietly out of the house, down the back steps, and into the warm night, while there were still glasses clinking in the parlor and the sounds of grown-up laughter.

  It was still the eve of Abigail McPhearson’s wedding. The clock was striking two a.m. and Abigail, her mother and her angered father stood in the library casting cross looks from eye to eye to eye:

  When Neville sat, his wife sat too, but his daughter in her bedraggled and drenched dress remained on her feet.

  “What could you possibly have to say for yourself?” her father queried her.

  “It’s really your fault I’m looking like this,” Abigail was quick to reply.

  “Oh?” He looked interested in her explanation, but no less furious with her. He certainly didn’t appreciate her tone of voice.

  “If you’d let me invite Darcy to my party, I wouldn’t have had to leave the house on the sly to be with her, this my last maiden night.”

  “You rendezvoused with Darcy Greenwood!” Neville shouted. It was reason to be more livid than ever.

  “I did.”

  “That ruffian. I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t be seeing her, and that was months ago.

  “I realize that was our accommoda-tion, but I’ve seen her occasionally. And I saw her tonight.” Her status as a bride-to-be was making her bold. She never believed her father would wield his usual punishments under the circumstances.

  “I can’t believe you’d violate my orders so blatantly, and own up to it so easily.”

  “You want me to lie to you, father?”

  “That is quite enough, Abigail.”

  “I’ll be a married woman tomorrow. I think that gives me a right to be bold.”

  “But, you’re not a married woman tonight,” he father seethed angrily. “Margaret, go get the paddle.”

  “Neville, don’t you think tonight … “

  “Tonight what?” he questioned her. “Excuse this recalcitrant brat! Never.”

  “But it’s the day before her marriage. It’s just hours away. You wouldn’t dare.”

  “You believe that, Margaret, then you haven’t been married to me for twenty-five years. Go get the paddle and cane, please.”

  They’d all heard the words many times, spoken in anger, with a stern reprimand in his voice. Neville McPhearson ruled his domain with an iron fist, a quick fired temper, and a ready implement of punishment in hand. By the looks of things, this punishment would be particularly severe.

  Margaret McPhearson knew enough to keep her tongue. Despite the way she disagreed with her husband, this was not the time to counter him. Not when he was this set in his resolve. Rising from her seat, she went to the cabinet where he kept his collec-tion of implements. She always cringed looking at the formidable things, remember-ing how they were often applied before her eyes to the bare posteriors of her sons and daughters. But never …. “

  “Margaret, are you coming?” she heard her husband’s stern command.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, sighing deeply.

  Returning to him with the requested items, he took the paddle in his large hand.

  “Bend over the desk,” he ordered his daughter.

  “Father, please,” she said, eyeing the dreadful sight of her father’s hand grasping the wooden paddle, knowing what that meant. A strong shiver raced up her spine. “I was hasty in my retorts. I’m sorry. I am tired. Please, just a little mercy. This is my last night here.” Why her appeal might work this time, when it never had before, she wasn’t certain; she hoped that somewhere in his heart, he had some mercy, some small willingness to bend his rigid rules. But he did not.

  “Bend over the desk, Abigail,” Neville repeated.

  “But, father, really!” She tried a more impassioned approach.

  “I should have suspected something like this from you, Abigail, that you couldn’t behave yourself on the night your mother and I were proud to host your marriage celebration. I can’t even begin to think of the hurt it causes us thinking of the way you repay us with this foolish behavior. You can consider this an added wedding gift. Now, bend over the desk.”

  “Please, father, no,” she tried once more.

  “Another balk, and I’ll report this to your intended husband, and make certain he understands the proper way to control your behavior.”

  “You wouldn’t!” Abigail shrieked. The girl immediately threw herself against the desk, bending over as she’d done so many times before.

  “Draw up your skirt,” her father ordered.

  Abigail wasted no more time, tugging at the broad soiled skirt. The beautiful satin was a mess after having been drenched by the sudden downpour that had caught she and Darcy off-guard. In her hurry to return to the house after their clandestine meeting, Abigail had slipped, falling into a mud puddle, further damaging the dress that her father had paid handsomely for. Pulling at the once lovely thing now, she gathered the abundant material in her arms and held it at her waist, then pushed at the waistband of her bloomers until she’d lifted them over her bottom and presented for her father’s view, her bare behind.

  With just two small candles to light the room, Abigail’s fair skin glowed like alabaster, like pure snow, the very thing to present to her new husband in their unblemished state. How that skin would look in the next day had Abigail’s distraught mother wondering. So many times, Margaret had witnessed this scene with her youngest daughter. The others had been punished, but never so many times. As often as she was corrected, Abigail seemed to take punishment as a challenge to try some more outrageous stunt. Of course, the girl never planned to get caught.

  Margaret shook her head in resigna-tion. What a night for this, she thought. And yet, Abigail had sealed this fate. It was almost like it was pre-ordained, the whole confrontation, including the blasted thunderstorm. Neville was simply implementing the inevitable. Perhaps it was for the best.

>   As usual, Margaret watched, while Neville worked.

  Standing at his daughter’s side, the angered father raised the broad two foot paddle, his arm going back some distance to make the blow fierce. Swiftly bringing his arm forward, the wood landed squarely on Abigail’s upturned bottom.

  She grunted her first response. There had been so many times in the past that she’d endured this treatment, certainly one more could hardly matter. A second, a third and a fourth blow landed, as he continued on. By the end of the sixth sharp smack, the imprint of the paddle was beginning to show as a bright red imprint across the once white alabaster skin. A pause between each blow, made the anticipation of the next difficult to bear. But there was much more to endure, her father was only getting started.

  Once Neville’s initial twelve were over, he started in more briskly, leveling the paddle against the flaming rear with quick sharp smacks that instantly made the sting fierce, and Abigail’s cries more animated.

  She begged him, pleaded with him, raised her voice with impassioned words, “Oh please! Father stop! I can’t take any more!

  “You’ve taken much more than this, young lady, and you’ll take more tonight. Stop your hollering,” Neville barked.

  “I can’t,” she wailed as another blow stuck.

  “Suit yourself. If you want the whole house listening in, you might be blushing pretty for lots of reasons tomorrow morning.”

  “Please, father, no!”

  He leveled another series of blows that stung like crazy, so much so that Abigail danced her feet, as if she might dance away.

  “Neville, don’t you think …” Margaret interjected in her daughter’s defense.

  “Hush!” he barked, and at least another twelve smacks followed until he was finally considering the paddling over.

  “If this is my last lesson to you, Abigail, I want it to count.”

  SMACK!

  “Oh, please!”

  “I hope you’ll behave better for your husband, or surely you’ll be facing this your life long.”