Betrothed, page 5
“And if my decision does not suit you?”
“Your decision is my pleasure to honor.” She held her breath as silence stretched out in the hall. “Please forgive my earlier impudence,” she said, her voice not more than a whisper.
“Pretty words,” he said dismissively.
“Your Highness,” Bronson said. “Lady Julia's mind was much affected by the treachery of her father and his subsequent death, along with the deaths of her brothers. She was not herself when she fled your castle without leave. But I assure you, her good sense has returned to her. I have no doubt she will now be a most loyal subject to you and an obedient wife to me.”
The king raised an eyebrow at her. She tried to look very humble.
“There is the matter of the horse you stole.”
“She meant to return it, but it was killed in combat. As the battle occurred under my authority, I will certainly repay you for it at any price you name.”
The king waved this away with a flick of his fingers. “The price will be taken from your hide,” he said, leveling a cold gaze at Julia. She swallowed. “One hundred lashes. Take her to the library,” he said and two servants stepped forward.
“Your highness,” Bronson interjected. “Please allow me to take them in her stead.”
Julia gasped. It was chivalry in the truest form.
“No.”
The servants each took one of her arms.
“Then allow me to administer her punishment. Privately.” The conciliatory tone was gone. Bronson's voice was grim and held the edge of challenge in it. He met the king's eyes with a level gaze. Julia held her breath. The servants had hold of her arms, but were waiting for the king's judgment. Sweet Jesu...
The king considered them for a long time. “You have grown fond of your bride.” It was a statement, rather than a question.
“Aye.” More challenge. He left off the “your highness” this time. Lord Bronson was powerful, she knew that. And he had fought and won many battles for the king. That was why he had been rewarded with her extensive property. But there was no accounting for the arrogance of a king. And to insult him this way was very dangerous.
At last he nodded slowly. “Very well. One hundred lashes. Tonight. You'll marry her on the morrow.”
Bronson looked relieved. “Thank you, Your Highness.” He bowed. Julia curtsied low when her arms were released.
“You're dismissed.”
They bowed and curtsied again backing their way out, as it was considered offensive to turn their backs on the king.
* * *
Outside the throne room, Bronson sighed and put his arm around Julia's shoulders. She was trembling like a flower in the wind. He led her to his chambers where his squires awaited him. He waved off their help. “I don't need your help undressing. Go and fetch me wine. Lots of it.” Lord knew she was going to need it.
The door shut behind them and Julia stood stock still, looking petrified. “Well, it looks like you'll be giving me the whipping of my life, after all,” she said wryly.
He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling completely defeated. “Aye, and you'll be afraid of me for the rest of your life.”
She crossed the room to him. “No I won't,” she said softly, stepping in so she stood between his knees. “I will remember for the rest of my life that you offered to take it for me.” When he looked up, she stroked his hair out of his eyes and smiled sadly. He wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned his head against her breast, his mind working out the details of how it was all going to work. She probably couldn't stand for that many lashes, which meant he'd have to strip her and lay her on the bed...
He suddenly wished he had not been so chivalrous about saving her virtue for their wedding night, since it now seemed she would be whipped raw and probably not speaking to him when it came time to consummate their marriage. He stroked her thigh absently, breathing in the sweet scent of her skin, fresh from a bath.
A short knock on the door announced his squire. “Come in,” he called as Julia stepped quickly away from him. The squire had two full flasks and two silver goblets. “Well done,” he said and the squire beamed. “Pour the wine and then leave us for the night.” His squire served them, and then left with a bow. “Drink up,” he said to Julia, watching the goblet tremble in her hand. He threw his own wine back, then stood, setting the goblet down and sweeping Julia up into his arms and carrying her to the bed.
“Julia, my flower. Let us pretend tonight is our wedding night, shall we? I fear tomorrow night you will not feel... amorous.” Julia's eyes were wide on his, but she did not say a word to refuse him. He laid her down and slowly slid his hands up her legs, lifting her gown as he went. Her legs were shaking and the smell of her skin was intoxicating. She must have bathed in rose water. He nipped along her inner thigh and she made a warbled sound— half moan, half exclamation. He pulled off her underclothing and parted her thighs. She made the same sound, and he found he was echoing it. He licked into her, determined that her first time would be pleasurable, if for no other reason than that she'd soon be experiencing enough pain. She bucked her hips, but he held them down firmly, sucking and plunging his tongue into her core until her moans became fast, panting cries and then she went silent with a strangled sound, her muscles tightening with a mighty shudder. Then he moved his way up, peeling the dress and shift off her head, stopping to simply gaze down at the perfection of her little body. Her pert little breasts were the same alabaster as her face, the nipples a light peach color. For once, she didn't blush— she simply blinked up at him, wonder and contentment spread across her face. And didn't that make him feel as tall as a mountain. He peeled off his own clothes efficiently, without taking his eyes off of her.
He pulled the blankets down from under her so they wouldn't bloody them and then climbed over her and suckled her breast, reveling in her arched response and satisfied moan. She gasped, digging her nails into his shoulders when he entered her, but she didn't scream, and she relaxed as he began to gently rock into her. Soon she was digging her nails in for a different reason and when she wrapped her firm legs around his back and threw her arms around his neck, he forgot all intentions of going slowly, and brought them both to a finish that made him shout.
“Mmmm... thank you,” he whispered into her neck. He had moved to lie next to her so he wouldn't crush her, but she was still clinging tightly to him. He felt her lips kiss his chest and he sighed with pleasure. He could not be a luckier man.
He tucked her against his chest and stroked her dazzling hair. What a shame she'd had to cut it. He couldn't wait to see it long and thick, hanging down her back. He smiled thinking he would forbid her to ever cover it or wear it braided.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, her face still tucked into his chest.
He laughed. “Are you hiding from me?”
She peeked out and smiled shyly.
“Was that all right for you?”
She nodded happily and he kissed her, slowly and sweetly, exploring her lips with his tongue and delighting when, after a moment, she followed his lead.
They lay there together for a long time, but at last he knew he could put it off no longer. He got up, pulled his leggings on and poured them each another glass of wine. “It's time for the less pleasant part of our night together,” he said.
Julia promptly burst into tears.
* * *
She hadn't meant to be such a coward. It was just that having experienced the first pleasure of her life with a man who had become more to her than she ever thought a husband could, her emotions were very close to the surface. “Forgive me,” she said. “I am a terrible coward.”
Bronson pulled her to her feet and embraced her with one arm as he held two goblets of wine with the other hand. “I know you're scared,” he said. “But it's just pain, nothing more. I promise you that it won't be more than you can bear. And it's just between the two of us— no witnesses, no humiliations.”
“Thank you,” she hiccupped, trying to get her sobs under control. “I am so—” she hiccupped again, “—grateful to you for advocating for me.”
“Hush,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Drink your wine, it will help.” He threw his back with a few quick swallows, so she did the same. She bent to pick up her shift, but he caught her arm and shook his head. “Lie down on the bed,” he said.
A knot clenched in the pit of her belly. Her heart started to beat faster. She lay down on her belly on the bed. She felt so exposed. “Closer to this edge,” he said, motioning in the direction he was standing. He was rolling two blankets together. “Lift your hips,” he said. “Higher.” He slid the blankets under them so that her bottom was now neatly lifted and presented for his belt. She couldn't help but whimper like a cowed dog.
“You'll be all right,” he said softly, advancing now with his belt in his hand. She stifled the protest that wanted to come out at the sight of that. He was standing at the side of the bed, in perfect position to strike her. “Please remember,” he said grimly, “that I take no pleasure in this.”
“I know,” she said, tears already squeezing out of her eyes.
“Scream as loud as you like,” Bronson said. “I think this is one instance where it would be better to be heard.”
“Why?”
“I don't want the integrity of my work here questioned.”
The first stroke struck her on the upper side of her bottom and she nearly jumped a foot with its impact. The sting made her gasp and then she couldn't breathe for a moment, even as he continued down her backside, making what she imagined were neat, even stripes. She managed to catch her breath by the time he'd reached the juncture of her bottom and her legs and then lost it again when he moved down the backs of her thighs. It took fifteen strokes. She couldn't help but count, knowing how many were coming. He didn't pause before delivering ten more to the lower side of her bottom, alternating the emphasis between the right and left cheek, though the belt usually struck both. And she had screamed. She hadn't lasted more than five lashes before she'd started crying out.
After that he paused and she sobbed and sobbed, feeling like her entire backside was on fire. That had been twenty five lashes. How could she take three more rounds of that? The pain was pulsing out in waves, a burning sting.
It took her a few moments of sobbing before her mind started working again and she realized that Bronson had paused and was pacing around the room. She turned her face from where it was buried in the blankets to lay on her cheek and look at him. He walked over, perched on the side of the bed next to her and rubbed her back, very lightly. “Is it better to take breaks or just to go fast and get it over with?”
“Breaks,” she squeaked. She had honestly felt like she couldn't have taken any more when he'd stopped.
“Alright, he said softly, still making light circles on her bare skin. Even that felt intense. It was as if everything had magnified— her physical body was her entire world and she could not sense anything beyond it. “More wine?”
She shook her head. Her sobs had stopped by now, reduced to hiccupping moans.
Bronson stood up after a little longer and started again with the same exact pattern, moving down her tender bottom and welting half way down the backs of her thighs. She screamed more this time. And then she felt as if she was going to pee. He was just starting the ten across her flaming cheeks. She tried to hold it in, but each stinging blow made her let go of her muscle control and she grew more and more anxious that she would actually have an accident.
“Bronson,” she wailed as he continued striking her flayed bottom. “Bronson!” He did not pause. By Our Lady, she was going pee right on the bed! She rolled over and Bronson let out a yell, jerking his striking arm back, but not before the tip of belt caught the side of her hip with a sting.
“Julia, don't move!”
“I have to use the privy,” she sobbed and the irritation on his face instantly disappeared. He scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the privy in the corner, setting her flaming bottom upon the wooden seat above the chamber pot. It was the most humiliating position she'd ever found herself in— her bottom whipped raw, her new husband standing there, watching as she cried and cried and peed. She hung her head and wished her hair were longer to cover her flaming face.
When she stood on shaky legs, he scooped her back up and gently laid her back on the bed to get situated again. After that very short reprieve she couldn't stand for him to start again, but of course, he did. He repeated his same pattern, and knowing exactly how many and where they would fall was both a blessing and a curse. The coward in her did not believe she could stand twenty-five more strokes, but the pragmatist hung onto the rhythm of it, following each stripe, counting each lash as a way of maintaining some kind of control of a situation in which she had none. Though each time the belt came down she jumped and screamed, it was true that the pain was not more than she could bear. And just when it did become more than she could bear, he finished the set and let her recover herself again.
“I'm sorry,” she sobbed, although she wasn't sure why she was apologizing to him. It was just that being chastised in this manner was an effective way to make one sorry. She was sorry that he had to do it, and sorry that her actions had forced him to put himself on the line with the king. And she was sorry she'd defied the king. Except that she wasn't— because she would have missed the entire experience of meeting Bronson and traveling as his page. If she hadn't run away, she'd be fretting in her chambers right now, in pure terror of the man she was supposed to marry. Arriving at that conclusion, she felt stronger about completing her punishment.
As the last twenty five strokes fell, she found she'd stopped resisting the pain, stopped jumping each time the leather stung her flesh. She submitted fully to her punishment, her limbs slack, her screams turned into sobs and blessed acceptance.
As soon as Bronson finished, he pulled the blankets out from under her hips and crawled into bed next to her, rolling her to her side and tucking her in against his chest. He held her like that a long time, stroking her hair as she cried, running his fingers lightly up and down her arms until her tears had stopped.
“This is a hell of a way to start a new marriage, isn't it?” he murmured after a long time. She laughed a little.
“Bronson?” she sniffed.
“Yes, my love?”
“Promise me something?”
“What is it?”
“Promise me you will always comfort me this way if you punish me.”
Bronson was silent a moment. Mayhap she shouldn't ask such a promise. Then he said, “I promise. If you promise me you will always accept my comfort.”
Of course she would accept it. Unless...ah. Unless she resented him or the punishment. If so, would she be willing to give up ill-will in favor of harmony? Aye. In his arms, she felt cherished, despite the fact that he had just welted every inch of her backside. She snuggled in closer. “I promise,” she said.
Chapter Five
“Lady Julia! Look, it's Lady Julia!”
Riding up to the gates of what used to be her father's castle, Julia was overwhelmed to see its occupants racing out to greet her. She had been taken abruptly by the king's soldiers those two months before, and no one had known what had become of her. She waved happily and they cheered. Then she burst into tears.
Bronson smiled at her indulgently. He had been kind about waiting several days before they departed so that she could ride comfortably and the journey had been an easy one, as she was already used to the rhythms of traveling with his men. “Happy, love?”
She nodded through her tears. She couldn't wait to greet everyone. As soon as they were through the castle gates, she flung herself off her horse and into the arms of her childhood nursemaid. She continued greeting all her friends and servants until one of the ladies cleared her throat and she realized that Bronson was waiting to speak. She flew to his side and he took her hand with a wink.
“May I present the new lord of the castle and my husband, Lord Bronson, The Duke of Pembridge,” she announced grandly. She actually was not sure whether it was her place to make the introduction or not, but it seemed as though it ought to come from her. She glanced nervously at Bronson and he squeezed her hand.
Her father's knights— those who had remained to guard the castle rather than attack Lord Pembridge, came forward to swear fealty. The steward stepped forward to introduce himself and then the ladies were introduced. The servants could be introduced later. Julia quickly began giving orders to provide hospitality to the Duke and his men— ale was brought out and food preparations began.
After dinner, Bronson and his knights, both old and newly acquired, met with the steward for an overview on the current state of the demesne. Julia asked permission to stay and hear it, as she was curious how things had fared since her father's death and her departure.
Julia had already given Bronson an overview of the various manors and who was lord of each, but the steward launched into his own outline of the demesne. Julia hadn't been listening until she overheard, “Sir Roland is overdue his rent by two years.”
“It may be time to find a new lord, then,” said Bronson.
“But you can't do that,” she exclaimed snapping to attention. “Sir Roland's been there forever!”
Bronson raised one eyebrow at her with a look that turned her cold. The knights were all carefully looking away. “You may certainly offer me your suggestions on the matter, Lady Julia,” Bronson said with exaggerated politeness.
Julia flushed. “Forgive me, I did not mean to overstep.”
“I'm sure it will be strange for everyone here to get used to the changes I may make,” he said, smoothing over his public correction of her. She felt a tightening in her gut and she realized how little she knew this man who was now her lord and husband.
That night in their chambers, Bronson sat on the edge of the bed. “Julia.”
