Varden's Lady

by Maren Smith

  "It's against the wall."

  "I never said we had to be above covers."

  "I thought you hated me,” Claire accused.

  Varden smiled. “What does that have to do with anything?"

  "Oh!” Grabbing a pillow from the bed, Claire smacked him across the chest again. Twice this time. And when Varden threw up his hands to block the third blow, the seam tore and a cloud of grey and white goose down feathers exploded into the air. He grabbed the deflated pillow at the same moment that she seized a six-inch dagger from his bedside table. He barely jumped back in time to keep from being skewered on his own boot knife.

  "You just leave me alone!” she panted.

  Backed against the bed, she held the tiny knife as competently as any new recruit on the Field. Two red, corkscrew curls hung over her wide green eyes. When she crouched, he could see all the way down the front of her bodice to her navel. She was breath taking.

  "I must say,” Varden admitted, eyeing the knife, “I haven't had this much exercise with you in years."

  She didn't pretend to mistake his meaning. “What about Devin?"

  His smile was dry and humorless. “That was Godfrey's exercise."

  "You cynical, son of a—Back off!"

  When she stabbed dramatically at him with the short knife, Varden's glacial eyes flashed in warning. “There isn't one man within a hundred miles who wouldn't be quaking in his boots right now were he in your place and holding a knife on me. Do yourself a favor, bise, and put it down before you get hurt."

  "Get back! Don't you touch me!” Claire jabbed at him again, coming scant inches from cutting his arm. His hand clamped down on her wrist like a vise. He squeezed just hard enough to make her drop the knife. It fell to the floor with a clatter and bounced under the bed. She stared after it in dismay. “Oh dear."

  Varden was inclined to agree. “You should have come when I told you to."

  She kicked his shin as hard as she could and wrenched her wrist free. While Varden roared and grabbed his leg, she ran past him.

  If he had been angry before, he was positively livid now. Clutching his throbbing leg with one hand, he glared after her. His teeth were exposed in a grimace that was as much fury as it was pain. “Pray I never find my knife, mon âme. I may skin you with it."

  Claire backed out the balcony doors. “You'd have to catch me first."

  "You are already in for the worst spanking of your young life.” He beckoned her to him. “Don't make me come out there and get you."

  She glanced down in dismay when she bumped the stone railing with her hip.

  "I mean it, Claire,” Varden hissed. At the edge of the balcony, he gestured for her to get back inside. “Hurry up before someone sees you!"

  She stared down to the bailey a good fifteen feet below her, then looked back at him. It was then that Varden noticed how frightened she looked. She was shaking, so badly now that she could barely stand and her eyes had filled with tears. When she craned her neck to look back down at the bailey, he felt his blood chill. She was going to jump.

  Varden held up both hands in a belated attempt to calm her. “Don't, Claire. Mon âme, please come back inside."

  Claire spun, flinging one leg over the banister even as he leapt for her. His arms wrapped around her waist and she was lifted, kicking and screaming, into the air before she could fall.

  It was like trying to carry a devoted dervish. She bucked and thrashed, bit and clawed, burst into tears and wailed out of sheer panic, and it was nothing short of stubbornness that kept him from dropping her when she threw her head back and clipped him in the jaw. But he dragged her in off the balcony and got her safely back to her room.

  Sitting on her bed, Varden pulled her writhing and screaming onto his lap. His strong arms wrapped tight about hers, holding her as close as he could while she struggled herself into exhaustion and her screams dissolved into wordless wails and terrified sobs. Seven years of hell had not prepared him for the sudden rush of tenderness that overwhelmed him. While she quaked in his arms, Varden gently began to rock her. “Shh, shh. It's all right, bise. Shh. You are safe with me."

  Held tightly in his embrace, he felt her shake her head. She was crying loud and so hard that she could barely gasp for breath.

  "Yes, you are.” He brushed her hair back from her face, pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and rocked her some more. “What were you thinking? If you had jumped, you would have broken your legs at the very least and possibly even your neck. How is jumping even an option? Are you that afraid of me?"

  Claire tried to struggle off his lap, but Varden refused to let her. When she covered her face with her hands, he caught her wrists and pushed them down into her lap again.

  "Look at me, Claire. Calm down, mon âme, take deep breaths. There's a good girl.” He waited until her sobs eased into ragged gasps and soft hiccups, then cupped her chin in his large hand and gently forced her to meet his eyes. “I swear to you, I will never beat you. I will never strike you with my fists or kick you or shove you against the walls. I will never slap your face or stripe your back. You know this; there is no reason for you to look at me with such fear in your eyes. I will never, ever hurt you. Do you understand me?"

  Twin tears spilled over her lashes, trickling unhindered down her cheeks as she gasped and hiccupped. She nodded.

  "Do you believe me?"

  She hesitated, biting her lip before nodding again.

  "All right then. Let's talk about what I will do.” His hand on her chin prevented her from looking away. “I will, any and every time you ask, lay you across my knees. I will raise your skirts and bare your bottom. And I will spank you, as long and as hard as is required for the lesson to be learned."

  "B-but you j-just said you wouldn't hurt me!” she wailed. Once more, she struggled to break free.

  "And I won't,” he said calmly, holding her securely on his lap. “A spanking won't hurt you. No, it won't,” he said when she frantically nodded. “In fact, I believe spankings in your case are very necessary and will do you a world of good. Especially the one that you have asked for today."

  Chest heaving, she began to sob. Varden only wrapped her back in his arms and lay her head back against his shoulder while she cried into his shirt. “I d-didn't ask f-for anyth-thing!"

  "Your actions did the asking for you.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “But I am not an ogre, despite what you seem to think, and I will make you a deal. I will list why I believe you deserve to be spanked, but if you can give me one good reason why I shouldn't discipline you, then I won't."

  Hands in her lap, sniffling and hiccupping, she picked at her fingers and didn't look at him.

  He took her silence for acquiesce. “All right, then. Number one, you disappeared without a word to anyone. For the last five hours, we've been searching for you, both in and outside of Cadhla and at the bottom of the moat. You have caused everyone a lot of trouble and concern. What do you have to say for yourself?"

  In a small and shaky voice, still not looking at him, she said, “I was bored. I-I just wanted to look around."

  "Does your excuse negate five hours worth of disruption in more than forty people's lives as we all searched to find you? We were hoping alive, but we really didn't know."

  Claire winced, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. When she said nothing, Varden continued, “Number two, we had an agreement: I would allow you to care for Devin and at all other times when outside of my presence, you would remain in your room. This has broken that agreement. Unless you can give me a good reason not to, then I am going to spank you for breaking your word."

  "I was bored!” Claire wailed. “You keep me locked in my room like a prisoner! Out of sight, out of mind, that's all I am!"

  He was inflexible. “Is that a good enough excuse for dismissing the promise that you made to me?"

  She tried again to get off his lap. Varden shifted her in his embrace, pulling her close to his chest, a little surprised when she a
llowed him to press her head to his shoulder. He was even more surprised when she tucked her hand beneath her chin and clutched a fistful of his shirt. In a childish wail, she cried out, “Please, Varden, don't spank me!"

  He stroked her soft red hair. “Number three, I will not brook defiance from you, Madame. Not in front of the servants, not in front of my soldiers. When I give you a command, I expect you to drop whatever you are doing and obey it without pause or question."

  "I'm sorry,” she sobbed brokenly. “You keep telling me what to do, as if I'm a child. I was angry—"

  "And that is also no excuse."

  Her breathing quickened as she realized he was coming to the end of his list and so far, she hadn't been absolved of anything.

  "Number four, you ran from me."

  "I was afraid."

  "I know. But you should know better. Other than a sore bottom now and again, when have I ever hurt you? Which leaves us with your near head-first dive off the balcony. You are never to try to harm yourself again. I won't permit it, Claire, and there is no excuse you could give me to justify the attempt. This is the second time that I have had to pull you back from jumping. I intend to make damn sure, there isn't a third one."

  "Please,” she begged. “Don't hurt me!"

  "Everything you have done today has been geared to land you bottom-up across my knee. So, yes, this is going to hurt. I'm going to use your hairbrush over there, in fact, and it's going to hurt a lot."

  Claire sobbed with frustration and despair, but she didn't argue further and Varden determined the discussion was over. He stood her up. Taking her by the hand, he led her to her dressing table. She only tried to draw away once, and that was when he picked up the hairbrush. Next, he pulled the straight-backed chair away from the mirror and set it into the middle of the room. When he sat down, Claire gave first the hairbrush and then him the most forlorn of looks.

  "Over my knee,” he told her, stern and unyielding.

  Her shoulders drooped. “Do you have to use that on me? Your hand hurts enough as it is."

  "I've already had to chase you down once today. How much worse do you want to make this?"

  She drew a deep breath, holding it as she considered what few options she had. Then, with a slow exhale, Claire surprised the hell out of him. With trembling hands and without being asked, she raised the skirts of her chemise to her waist and bared her own bottom before bending over. She rested her hand on his hard thigh, then lowered herself awkwardly across his thighs.

  "There,” she whispered. “Will you please not spank me so hard now?"

  It was the hardest spanking he'd ever yet had to give. He attacked her bottom with the hairbrush, laying dozens of hard and fast strokes that elicited immediate kicks and shrieks from Claire. Her hand snapped back to try and stop him, and for a brief moment, he did stop. Just long enough to pin her hand behind her, haul her bare bottom more fully across his lap, and then begin again. With a few well placed smacks across her sensitive thighs, her tears once more began to fall, but Varden wasn't content with mere crying. He paddled her until his wife had kicked and struggled herself into exhaustion, until she was bawling too hard even to beg him for mercy, until her bottom and thighs were crimson and hot and he could all but see them throbbing with pain. Dark shadows hinted at bruising, especially across her sit spot, where he had concentrated the majority of his sterner smacks.

  And when it was finally done, he dropped the brush on the floor and simply held her across his knee while she sobbed. He kept her hand still pinned up behind her, although he did give in to the urge to gently caress her until the worst of the agony had faded into a dull, pulsing ache and Claire gradually came back to herself.

  "I hate you,” she finally sobbed.

  "Fair enough,” Varden said.

  He carried her back to bed and lay her down against her pillows. Almost immediately, she groaned and rolled onto her stomach.

  Discipline was done, it was time to walk away. But the problem was, he didn't want to walk away. He wanted to keep holding her, to kiss the tears from her cheeks and pretend that they were still in love. He lay down next to her, but couldn't bring himself to touch her. The time when they were lovers felt like a lifetime ago. Certainly, the look she was giving him now, as she lay on her stomach, her face wet with tears, her scarlet bottom bared to the cool air of the room, didn't invite closeness.

  She sniffled, dashing at her wet cheeks with the back of her wrist. “Say my name."

  Varden lifted a stray lock of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. “Claire,” he murmured.

  "No,” she told him. “Say my name."

  When he only sighed, her eyes narrowed bitterly.

  "I can't believe I came back for this,” she muttered. “You can't even say it."

  "I see no point in helping you delude yourself."

  "I'm not the only delusional one in this room!” she sniffled again. “You wouldn't believe how happy I was the first time I saw my reflection. I thought, wow, I'm actually beautiful. Do you know what happens when you're not beautiful, Varden? You get Joe Barker, the guy in apartment 3-C, who sniffs modeling glue for fun and is down to his last two working brain cells. I made it a point to smile at Joe whenever I saw him, just in case I ever got that desperate.

  "Then this happened. I thought things would be different here, easier. The beautiful girl always gets the guy of her dreams. That's the way it ends in every movie and romance novel I've ever seen. And don't start looking at me like that, dammit! If you weren't so cussed stubborn you'd realize,” Claire jabbed him none too gently in the ribs with her elbow, “You're the dream guy I'm talking about!"

  Sighing, Varden said, “I would love to lose my mind, too. I'd give anything to forget what has happened between us and just start over again fresh. But it doesn't happen that way."

  "Then how does it happen? Because for the life of me, I can't even see the sunset we're supposed to ride off into."

  He looked confused. “And go where?"

  "We don't actually go anywhere. It's a metaphor. When the hero and heroine ride off into the sunset, then you just know they're going to live happily ever after.” She winced as she gently touched her tender flanks. “Not that I could sit on a horse at this point anyway."

  He cupped her cheek, the calloused hand he had so ruthlessly punished her with a moment ago now capturing her attention with its gentleness. “I don't understand half of what you say anymore, however, you have always been beautiful."

  Claire made a face. “My grandpa used to say that all the time."

  "He told the truth,” Varden said.

  "No, he lied like a rug. Grandpas have to say that crap. It's in their contracts."

  Varden smiled, despite himself. He inclined his head, brushing his lips first across her right tear-moistened cheek and then the left. She felt soft and warm and familiar lying here next to him. And when she lifted her chin, brushing his lips to her own came easily. It was a small kiss, chaste and gentle, and it left him dizzy.

  By the time he raised his head, her eyes were closed. She took a long, slow breath before opening them.

  "You know,” she breathed, “the first time I saw you, I thought you were a dream."

  "Funny, you once told me the first time you saw me I looked like a stable boy."

  His wife looked confused. “When did I say that?"

  "Years ago. I was covered in mud at the time. You don't remember?"

  "Humor me."

  Varden half-smiled. “It had been raining for days and my hackney had got stuck in the mud. I had just climbed down to help free it when your family coach drove right by us. You looked straight out the window at me. I thought you were an angel."

  "Some angel,” she murmured sleepily, eyes half-closed. “If it really had been me, I'd have stopped to help."

  He could almost believe her. Varden shook his head, tucked another curly lock of red hair away from her face and stood up again. “Stay in bed a while. Take a nap. I know
you must be very tired. And in future, if you want to go exploring, Grete is to go with you and I am to know where you are. Agreed? Claire?"

  Her eyes had closed.

  "Claire?” he said a little louder.

  She opened her eyes briefly. “I'm tired."

  When her eyes drifted closed again, Varden only shook his head. He tucked a blanket around her shoulders, then opened her door to signal to Grete that it was safe to enter before he returned to his own room.

  Kenton was waiting for him, a riding coat and his sword laid out on the bed. Varden looked from them to him. “How long have you been here?"

  The dark manservant shrugged with his eyebrows. “I arrived shortly before the wailing began. Good set of lungs on that one. I assumed you would not want to be disturbed."

  Closing the door between his room and Claire's, Varden approached the foot of his bed to pick up the sword. “Where am I going?"

  "Two homes in Candlewick were attacked,” Kenton said, matter-of-factly. “Both were looted and burned. The families have just arrived. I thought you would want to know."

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  Chapter Eight

  Exploring Cadhla was like walking through a museum. It was dark, cool, quiet and full of an assortment of strange and antiquated relics. Mallory spent an hour studying portraits of stiff-backed, cross-looking people in a room full of nothing but. She spent another hour wandering through the maze of servants’ stairs and back halls, telling every man, woman and child that she passed, “I'm going exploring. If Varden should ask, I'll be in this hall another half hour or so, and then I'm on to the next one, okay?” And though it grated that he insisted on treating her like an untrustworthy child, the last thing Mallory wanted was another trip across Varden's merciless knee. She didn't have Greta with her—the older woman having been summoned to the dowager's side earlier that afternoon—so Mallory suspected she might end up there anyway. But at least this way, the consequences for an afternoon spent exploring would likely be lessened.

  Coming to the end of the hall, Mallory carefully negotiated her way down a steep flight of servants steps only to end up in the kitchen for the second time in as many days. The instant the cook saw her, he began shouting in French and waving his ladle in the air. She assumed that to mean there were still no french fries.