Varden's Lady

by Maren Smith

  She latched onto the decanter with both hands. “That's another two pounds!"

  "For what?” he demanded.

  "Touching me! I'm off limits too!” She yanked on the brandy, but he refused to let it go.

  "I'll show you off limits!” Varden grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off her feet, snatching the brandy from her when, in her startlement, she let go of it. Leaving the brandy at the window, he carried her back to the couch and upended her belly down across the back.

  "No! No, wait!” Mallory scrambled to get back on her feet, but in an instant he had one of her hands pinned back behind her and his hand braced against the small of her back, holding her firmly in place. “Please! I'm sorry, Varden! I didn't mean it! It won't happen again!"

  "Damn right it won't.” Her nightgown came up in back, quickly followed by her chemise, and her bottom was bared to sight. There wasn't even a pink flush remaining from the light spanking he'd given her yesterday. Obviously that was what he'd done wrong, Varden decided. Well, if light spankings made her behavior worse, then it was time he found out what a comparatively harder one could do. “If you think you can manipulate me into apologizing for spanking you, then you can think again. If anything, all this nonsense has only proved to me that a good, sound spanking is exactly what you need!"

  This time when Varden removed his belt, he put it to use. The thick leather strap cracked across the summit of both nether cheeks, briefly hugging them together, and Mallory jerked sharply, shouting hoarsely, “Oh no!"

  He lay five rapid-fire blows without hesitance or variance across the same place, and the surface of her round bottom heated almost instantly. Even in the orange of the firelight, stripes of bright red began to appear everywhere the belt had struck her. The sixth stroke he lay lower, catching the tops of her thighs, and Mallory shouted again, her legs scissoring wildly. With sharp, quick bursts, he attacked the entire surface of her bottom until Mallory was bucking and waggling her hips from side to side in a hopeless effort to avoid further strokes.

  "Please!” she shrieked.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  "Please, what?” Varden asked, laying two strokes in quick succession back down on her thighs, satisfied when she writhed and kicked and burst loudly into tears. “Please spank you some more? Why, certainly. I intend to give you a whole lot more before I'm through."

  So saying, he began to spank in earnest, each stroke separated by only a bare few seconds. Mallory threw back her head, her long red hair flying wildly across her shoulders. Her sobs became more racking and by that time her bottom was blazing, the deep scarlet color spreading down the back of her thighs, her struggles had faded to nothing. Mercifully, he finally stopped.

  "Stand up,” he ordered.

  Mallory obeyed slowly, sobbing as her bottom and legs protested their abuse. She gently put her hands back to rub away the worst of the hurt.

  "Now,” he said, folding his arms across his chest, the belt still in hand. “You've succeeded in irritating me. How well do you find it to your liking?"

  "I don't,” she admitted through her sniffles. “But when you won't be reasonable, what else am I supposed to do?"

  "What part of any of this was reasonable?"

  Mallory sniffled again, and then softly said, “Touche. It made sense at the time, but right now I can't remember my line of reasoning."

  "Truce?"

  "I suppose.” She swiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands, then bent to grasp the backs of both thighs. She moaned, “Oh, that hurts so much!"

  Dropping the belt on the floor, Varden took her hand and led her back around the settee. He sat down, but when he reached for her, Mallory drew back. Tearfully, she said, “Please don't make me sit down. I can't bear it. I really can't."

  "Then kneel.” He patted the cushion to the right of him. “Put one knee here and straddle my lap. There's a good girl. It's all right. You can lean on me. Put your head on my shoulder."

  Mallory sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck even as he enveloped her in the strength of his own embrace. He had thought she was done weeping. But in the minutes that followed, as he caressed her back, she first turned her face into the side of his neck, then her shoulders began to shake, and finally she just sobbed.

  Varden held her throughout, never once letting go of her until she had cried herself out, and once more lay in his arms, sniffling.

  "There it goes again,” She hiccupped.

  "What goes where?"

  "The funny heat that I get when I want to make love to you, even though you've just spanked me.” She didn't look at him, but he could hear the uncertainty in her voice. “Must be part of being crazy, I guess."

  Varden smiled and kissed the top of her head. “No. It comes from knowing that I spank you because I love you. And because you both deserve and need it."

  "Are you sure?” she asked, tipping her head back to look at him. “I might just be weird."

  He chuckled. “I'm positive."

  "I'll have to trust your judgment then, since you seem to know.” She nestled once more against him, her head resting on his shoulder. “Varden, am I too heavy for you?"

  His hands caressed her back. “Never."

  She sniffled again. “Varden?"

  "What?” He stroked her hair, following the cascade of curls all the way to her waist.

  "What does mon âme mean?"

  His smile softened. “My soul. It means ‘my soul.’ For that part of me you stole the first day I set eyes on you."

  She was smiling as well when she tipped back her head to look at him again. “Wow, that was almost poetic."

  Varden snorted. “Be grateful that I don't attempt to make it so. No one can mangle a verse quite the way I can."

  "What about bise? You've called me that, too.” When Varden hesitated, Mallory sat up, still straddling his lap, her smile fading a little. “Is it a bad thing?"

  He cupped her face in his calloused hands and the pad of his thumb caressed her lips. “It means ‘little kiss.’”

  "Oh. I like that one.” She closed her eyes as he caressed her, then took his hand with both of hers and slid it down into the neckline of her nightgown. The tiny peak of her nipple had hardened and was pressed against his palm, as though begging to be touched, and a deep, pulsing ache began to build inside him. He squeezed gently, and she asked, “Would you like to take advantage of my funny little heat?"

  He caught his breath. “Oh, yes."

  His own heavy arousal needed little stirring. Already the confines of his breeches were too tight, and when she pulled her nightgown over her head, tossing it onto the floor and baring herself completely to his steady gaze, he found himself more than ready to take full advantage. Mallory was not above noticing. She stroked the sizable bulge straining the front of his pants.

  "I think this is a big yes,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Did I mention it's my turn to be on top?"

  Varden didn't bother taking his pants off. It was all he could do to get them unfastened and the hell out of his way. And then he turned his attention to her.

  "What's ma petite folle?” Her small hands clutched his broad shoulders as he cupped her woman's mound, sliding a finger inside her, testing her readiness. She shivered all around him. “That's not—oh yes, do that again—not ‘my skinny horse,’ is it?"

  "No, but it doesn't translate well.” He found the tiny nub of pleasure hidden within the folds and stroked it with his thumb, and Mallory buried her head against his shoulder with a low, shuddering moan.

  "Try,” she whispered.

  He chuckled, reveling in her body's reaction to his touch. Her hips bucked, riding his hand as he stroked and rubbed, letting the pleasure overwhelm her until she stiffened above him with a soft cry. “You please me, Madame wife.” He kissed her tenderly, loving the way she clung to him, not just with her arms, but with her whole being. “Ma petite folle. My little, female, crazy person."

  "I want you inside me,” she whispered again
st his lips.

  What gentleman could refuse a lady? And Varden was nothing if not a gentleman.

  * * * *

  In the middle of the night, Mallory shook him awake. “Varden?"

  He started awake, at first not sure where he was. It took a moment before he remembered they had retired from the settee to his vastly more comfortable bed sometime before midnight. He rubbed his eyes.

  "Varden?” she shook his shoulder again.

  He looked in her general direction. All he could see was a slightly darker human outline sitting up in bed next to him.

  "How do you say ‘my roaring lion'?"

  "You woke me up for that?” He rolled back over and covered his head with the pillow.

  She nudged him. “Come on. Teach me how to say it."

  Reluctantly, he pushed the pillow away. “What do you mean, teach you? I learned the language so that I could talk to you."

  "The only thing I can say in French is, on se couche."

  "We are in bed together."

  "You see! A totally useless phrase."

  Unable to comprehend why he should have to be involved in this conversation, Varden stared blindly in the direction of the ceiling. He rubbed his chin. The rasp of his calloused palm as it passed over abrasive mid-morning whiskers was irritatingly loud, even to himself. “Ah, mon lion rugissant, I think."

  Mallory snuggled against his side. “That's what you are, then. Mon lion rugissant."

  "Good. I'm glad. Thrilled. Go to sleep."

  "Mon lion rugissant,” she whispered in his ear, then gently bit it.

  "Leave me be.” Varden batted at her with the back of his hand. “I have a lot to do tomorrow."

  "My roaring lion."

  "Quiet!” He punched his pillow twice, glared in her direction, and then rolled over. Arms folded across his chest, his eyes drooped shut. He sighed.

  Mallory snuggled closer to him and wrapped an arm around his waist as she pressed her cheek to the warmth of his back. She giggled. “My roaring lion, even in sleep."

  "I am not going to tell you again,” he warned, but she didn't say anything more.

  Mon lion rugissant. How ridiculous.

  Varden smiled.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Fourteen

  A rooster crowed in the yard as the sun crept over the treetops. It peeked over the balcony railing, spilling sunshine through the poured glass windows and across Varden's bed. Mallory rolled away from the light, but only dozed. When the rooster crowed again, she stretched sleepily and reached her hand toward Varden's pillow. His side of the bed was cold.

  The door softly opened, and leather boot heels scraped lightly across the stone floor to her side of the bed. As the sheet was pulled away and feather-soft kisses brushed her bare shoulder, Mallory sleepily smiled. “I thought you'd left already."

  "I have no intention of leaving you,” Godfrey said.

  Mallory came instantly awake.

  He half-stood, half-knelt, on the edge of the bed, his chest bare for he had already removed his shirt and dropped it on the floor. He lifted a lock of her hair from her pillow and twined it round his finger. “I have missed you."

  Mallory sat up, yanking the sheet up to her neck. “What are you doing?"

  Godfrey caressed her cheek. “I stopped by the nursery this morning and looked at our son. He looks too much like Varden. Our father's genetic influence, so I suppose it can't be helped. Although I do hope he takes after me more as he grows."

  "Get out of here!"

  "Now don't be like that, my pearl,” Godfrey said mildly. “You are just angry because of the way I treated you. But even you must admit, your betrayal deserved punishment. I am willing to forgive your transgressions, but I don't know why you lie with Varden after professing so enthusiastically to love me."

  Her voice rose. “I said, get out!"

  "Stop playing hard to get. I grow tired of these games.” Grabbing the back of her neck, Godfrey bent to catch her lips with his.

  "No!” Mallory yelled. She grabbed a pillow and hit him with it, wrenching out of his grasp.

  His eyes turned cold and calculating. “Obviously a woman's heart is a fickle thing."

  She scrambled backwards on the bed, but he grabbed her foot and pulled her back to him. When he bent to catch a better hold on her arm, two years of Women's Self-Defense classes at the ‘Y’ took over. Mallory rolled to her knees, drew back her fist, and punched him as hard as she could. Pain shot back through her wrist even as she felt the cartilage of his nose crunch under her knuckles. Godfrey reeled backwards, clutching his nose as blood spurted through his fingers.

  "That's for choking me, you bastard!” Clutching the sheet around her, Mallory jumped off the bed and ran out the balcony doors.

  "You broke my nose,” Godfrey said in disbelief. He drew back to look at his bloody hands, then at her. His face turned murderous. He leapt after her, shouting, “You traitorous bitch!"

  Without looking back, Mallory ran down the steps to the soldiers’ walk and past the first guard to the small cache of bows and guns kept at the ready against the wall. She grabbed one of the two handguns there and turned, the gun held straight-armed directly at Godfrey. He stopped not ten feet from her, his nose still bleeding, his cold eyes locked first on the gun and then on her.

  "Go ahead,” he said softly. “Kill me. You'll hang within the day."

  "Don't come any closer,” Mallory said through gritted teeth. Whether the gun was loaded or not, she had no way of knowing. There was no obvious place for a bullet to go, except down the muzzle. In truth, the gun was more wood than metal and shaped like a boomerang. And it was obvious Godfrey didn't believe her capable of pulling the trigger; her hand shook so badly, Mallory didn't believe it herself. But when Godfrey took a step toward her, she held the gun a little higher, a little straighter. “I'll shoot you, I swear I will!"

  Beyond his shoulder, she thought she saw Grete looking out at them through Claire's bedroom window, but her face disappeared so quickly that she couldn't be certain. Godfrey took another step toward her. Wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked at it before turning his attention back to her. He held out his hand. “Give me that gun before I throw you off the damn wall."

  She was more frightened than he was. When he took yet another step toward her, coming almost close enough to grab the gun from her hand, Mallory panicked and pulled the trigger. There was a metallic click, then nothing.

  Godfrey shook his head once. “Misfire."

  When he charged her, she flung the useless gun at him. Godfrey ducked too late and the butt struck his temple, knocking him back a step. Jumping forward, Mallory shoved with all her might and knocked him off the wall. He dropped the short distance to the stable roof, rolled down the slant, and fell into the haystack directly below.

  "Claire!"

  Mallory spun to see Varden storm onto the balcony, Kenton and Grete fast behind him. Both frightened and relieved, she pulled the bed sheet tight around her as she ran to him, back along the soldiers’ walk to the bottom of the balcony steps. “Oh thank God!"

  Her relief didn't last the length of her statement. Varden looked at Godfrey, partially unclothed and struggling out of the hay with blood on his face and chest. And then he looked at her, his eyes as hard as Godfrey's and bordering on hatred.

  "He was in my bed again. And after what we shared last night?"

  Mallory could only stare. “How can you look at me like that? Varden, he—"

  "He was in my bed!” Varden shouted. “His shirt is on my floor! His blood is all over my sheets! What, did the game get too rough for you?"

  From across the bailey, Godfrey began to laugh. “What a shame that you do not love her more often, brother. I can hardly describe what you are missing."

  "Get out of my house!” Varden roared. And then he turned his hate-filled gaze on her. “Give me one reason why I should not send you with him."

  She would not cry
; Mallory refused to cry. For a moment, she could almost hear the ghost of Claire's laughter, as if the woman had reached beyond the grave and back into their lives. Everywhere Godfrey had touched her, she felt dirty in a way that no amount of scrubbing could clean. And the way Varden looked at her somehow made it worse. Her voice breaking, she said, “It didn't happen the way you think. Please—"

  "Do you remember the French word for ‘whore?'” Varden shook with anger, even his voice. “It's putain.” He shoved past her, jogging down the stairs to the bailey.

  "My horse!” he bellowed. He didn't stop or even slow his pace. Every servant and guard in the bailey quickly found something to occupy him while the stable master hurried to obey.

  "Wait! Listen to me!” Mallory watched helplessly as Varden mounted his horse without looking back. Tears had a certain mercy of their own. They blurred the sight of him riding through the gatehouse and away from her. Possibly for the rest of her life.

  "Varden!” She beat her fists against her thighs, but he was already gone. He had left her. When she needed him most, he had simply ridden away. The tears slid unhindered down both cheeks as she watched his back until he was gone. She turned away from the portcullis.

  Halfway back to the stairs, Godfrey intercepted her. “Let him go. What can he give you anyway? With me, you would have your freedom, money, a place at court, and all the courtiers you could possibly despise."

  "You were told to leave.” Mallory stepped sideways to walk around him.

  He grabbed her upper arm, swinging her around to face him. A hint of madness in his Michadle blue eyes, he shook her savagely, “You belong to me!"

  Just as quickly, Kenton's dark hand grabbed Godfrey's wrist while the edge of a long knife came to rest along his neck. “I beg pardon, my lord, but Doctor Wilcox really should look at your nose. It's already starting to swell."

  Neither Godfrey nor Mallory moved. Slowly, Godfrey let go of her arm. When he backed away, Kenton let him go but didn't lower the knife. “I'll have fresh water and linens sent to your room. Grete, be a dear and fetch Master Godfrey his shirt."