His Captive, His Conquest by Ashe Barker

Chapter Two

Stephen rode back along the line of prisoners. He considered forcing them to a faster pace but opted not to. It would not help his cause to have his labourers dropping with exhaustion before they got anywhere near his fields. As it was, they would probably arrive back at Elborne just before sunset, and that would have to do.

He had yet to inform the captives of the purpose of their enforced return to his lands. That was a pleasure he could look forward to for an hour or two yet.

He knew they were nearing home when the aroma of burned crops filled his nostrils. Soon, the outlying dwellings came into view. Folk came out to watch the bedraggled procession, nudging each other in puzzlement. It was not the usual way of their marquis to take prisoners. Unless they would fetch a decent ransom, captives were just extra mouths to feed, as a rule.

“They be MacKinnons. I can tell by the plaid,” muttered one old farmer. “Serves ’em right. Murderin’, robbin’ dogs.”

“Aye, I recognise ’em too. Saw that un last night, I’ll swear to it…” was the contribution from another.

Stephen did not intervene until one woman picked up a rock and hurled it at the prisoners. Whilst he could not fault her sentiments, there would be nothing gained by injuring their workers before they even got their hands on a plough.

“Stop that. The next one to throw anything can join the line.”

The muttering continued, but there were no more missiles.

Stephen led the way through the surrounding villages until they crossed the drawbridge of the keep at Elborne itself. He halted in the bailey and dismounted. A lad ran from the stables to grab the reins of his stallion. Stephen removed his helmet and gloves and handed them to one of his men, then he strolled along the line of prisoners.

“Keep their hands bound but release them from each other. They can spend the night in the barn. And in the morning, they will be taken to the fields to start repairing the damage they did.”

“If ye think we’ll be workin’ yer land, English, ye’ll be mistaken.” The comment came from a burly youth who, in Stephen’s opinion, probably lacked something in the way of wits. Stephen had been in two minds as to whether to bring him or not but decided his obvious strength would be an asset. Certainly, though, the fool lacked the sense to keep his views to himself.

“Mind your manners, lad, unless you have a fancy to be hitched to a plough yourself. As for the rest of you, you are here to make reparations for the destruction wrought here last night, and you may consider yourselves fortunate to be given that opportunity. Any man, or woman, who chooses not to work will forfeit their life. The choice is simple. Replant the crops you destroyed, then return to your village, or refuse to work and face the consequences. So, does anyone else have anything to say?”

There was much in the way of sullen glares and some muttering, but no one else spoke up.

“Excellent.” Stephen folded his arms and eyed his prisoners through narrowed lids. “We understand one another, it seems. Take them to the barn.”

The Scots filed past, most with their heads bowed. Several of the females were in tears, and one or two of the men appeared close to it. Stephen was unmoved. There was a just lesson to be learned here, and he intended to see it done.

One of the females caught his eye. Maybe it was her hair, a deep shade of auburn. Or perhaps her vivid green gaze which she had refused to avert when she had been brought before him back in her village. He had considered her haughty, but it was of no consequence. She would bend to his will. They all would.

She met his gaze again as she passed him.

“Wait.”

The woman stopped, and the one behind her bumped into her back.

“You. What is your name?”

She tossed her hair back and glared at him.

“Your name, wench?”

“Flora,” she answered, at last.

His lips curled in a smile. “I had heard that the Scots were known to breed fine-looking wenches but had not believed it. Until now. Welcome to Elborne, Flora.”

“Go to hell, English.”

“Ah, a temper to match your hair. But we English do appreciate fire in our women.”

“I am not your anything, my lord.”

He did not believe she could have injected more venom into her use of his title had her life depended upon it. Far from being irritated, however, he found this MacKinnon wench utterly intriguing. She seemed fearless when she really ought to have been grovelling before him.

“Ah, Flora, you have a sharp tongue.” He cupped her chin in his palm and tipped her face up, holding her in place when she would have averted her gaze from his. “If we had more time in which to get to know one another, perhaps I could teach you to put it to better use.”

He drew the pad of his thumb across her lips and briefly considered how they might taste were he to—

“Fuck! Damned hellcat.” The wench had sunk her teeth into his thumb.

Stephen wrenched his hand away and raised his fist.

The girl winced but did not cower.

He lowered his hand. What had he been thinking? For fuck’s sake…

Stephen examined his abused digit and found the imprint of the girl’s teeth still embedded in his skin. He shook his hand to help ease the throbbing. Christ’s blood, but this Scottish wench had sharp fangs. He meant to blunt them before he was done, but he would not strike a woman in anger. Not even an enemy captive.

Harry Fairclough was busily shepherding the prisoners into the barn. He rushed over when his lord beckoned to him.

Stephen’s smile now lacked anything in the way of warmth. “Harry, this is Flora. She and I have differences to settle. Take her to the whipping post.”

* * *

What have I done? Why did I not just…? Just…?

Flora curled her fingers into her palms, rubbing her knuckles against the rough surface of the solid timber post. How many other poor souls had found themselves strapped to this self-same pole, their backs bared for the lash? And how many had survived the ordeal?

She should not have bitten the man, she realised that the moment the deed was done. Her father and brother had censured her often enough for acting without thought or heed for the consequences, but she had never imagined she would meet her end in such a senseless manner. He only touched her face. However hateful the Marquis of Otterburn might be, she could have endured his manhandling, surely.

Perhaps she could apologise. He might listen, might be inclined towards leniency.

She rested her forehead against the oak and fought back tears. She was not about to humble herself with an apology, and neither would she afford these hateful English the satisfaction of witnessing her crying, whatever they might do to her.

How long had she been tied to the post? Flora had lost track of time somewhat but knew it must be a while because night had fallen. The bustle of the bailey had quieted, just the occasional guardsman stomping past on his way to whatever duties called. Did the vile brute mean to compound her suffering by making her wait? Was she to be left here until the morning, only then to be bared and whipped while his men and servants looked on, cheering at her humiliation?

I shall not weaken. I am a MacKinnon, daughter of the Earl of Roxburghe. I shall survive this, I shall…

“I apologise for my tardiness, Flora.”

She stiffened. She had not heard the marquis’s approach, so wrapped up was she in the tumult of her own thoughts. Flora turned her head to find the hated English nobleman right beside her. He was no longer clad in his armour. Instead, he wore a leather overtunic and woollen leggings, with sturdy hide boots. His head was bare, his hair curling softly about his neck and shoulders. In the daylight she had thought it might be a deep shade of brown, but it was impossible to be certain in the darkness. It was the same with his eyes. They might be blue, or perhaps grey. What she could be sure of was that he was grinning at her, as though he found something to amuse him in tormenting and torturing women.

This English marquis was a handsome man, she would admit as much, but he was still the devil incarnate as far as Flora of Roxburghe was concerned.

“You must be cold. There is a chill in the air this evening. I shall endeavour not to detain you out here for very much longer.”

Arrogant, scornful bastard…

He continued to address her. “Your countrymen and women are taking their rest in the barn. I regret, their accommodations are not the best we could offer, but they are certainly better than yours just now. It is a pity that you could not find it within you to behave in a more … respectful manner. You would probably have been with them. As it is, you will appreciate that I cannot allow your behaviour to go unpunished.”

“Just do what you mean to do, English. I am not afraid of you.” Was it possible he did not detect the quiver in her tone? She hoped so.

“Are you not, Flora?” He ran his fingers through her hair, then grasped a hank of it in his fist and tilted her head back. He did not hurt her, exactly, but his grip was firm when he forced her to face him, to meet his gaze. “You should be afraid, since I hold your life in my hands.”

Was it possible to be actually sick with fear? Flora had never quite believed that, until this moment. Were it not for the leather strap binding her wrists to the post, she would have crumpled. Despite her brave words, he seemed to possess an uncanny ability to peer right into her soul and discern the terror lurking deep within.

I shall not disgrace myself. I shall not disgrace my clan, my people…

“But here is the thing, my fiery little Scot. You are a lovely woman, and I have decided it would be a waste to ruin this delightful body. You are, therefore, to be spared the whipping you have earned.”

She could only gape at him. Had she heard correctly?

“My lord…?”

“Ah, more respectful now, I note. But please, do not rejoice quite yet. I have decided that a taste of the birch will suffice to make my point, and I am confident I might accomplish your suitable chastisement without causing permanent damage. You see, unlike your savage race, I am not given to wanton destruction.”

“A… a birching?” Flora gnawed on her lower lip. This was not so bad. Was it…?

“Indeed. I have made the necessary preparations so now all that is required is your presence.” He drew a dagger from his belt and sliced through the leather straps to free her from the post. “Come with me, Flora.”

He strode away across the bailey, clearly expecting her to follow. Flora took a couple of steps before her knees gave way and she fell to the hard-packed earth.

The marquis halted and turned to regard her. Flora expected more words of derision more jibes, perhaps even a booted toe in her ribs to urge her on her way. But, he did none of that.

He returned to where she knelt and scooped her up in his arms. Then, carrying her as though she weighed no more than a kitten, he continued on his way to the main entrance of his mighty keep.

* * *

“You may put me down. I can walk.”

Stephen ignored the wench’s protests. Doubtless they would make faster progress this way, since she would surely attempt to make a run for it were he to allow her to put her feet on the floor quite yet. It had been a long day, he was not inclined to be obliged to chase the girl about his hall.

He carried his squirming bundle across the main hall, pausing only to nod to Katherine, lady of Elborne and the sister of the late marquis. Katherine continued to live under this roof since there was seemingly nowhere else she preferred to be, and she was without other relatives. For his part, Stephen found her to be pleasant if not especially exciting company, and her skilled management of his household was useful. However, he did not particularly welcome her interference when she confronted him at the foot of the spiral staircase leading to his solar.

“What is happening, Sir Stephen? Who is this… this girl?

“Please do to concern yourself, Lady Katherine. Now, if you will excuse me…” He attempted to step around the woman.

“Stephen, I must insist—”

“She is one of the prisoners. Now, if you please…”

This time he succeeded in passing Katherine and started up the stairs.

“A prisoner? A Scot? Here, in our keep? Why would you…?”

“I bid you a good night, my lady.” Stephen left the open-mouthed woman behind and reached the sanctuary of the upper floor and the lord’s private chambers. He managed to open the door to his solar without releasing the girl and carried her inside. Only then did he let her feet to the floor.

“Who was that? Your wife?” The little Scot rounded on him, her hair loose about her shoulders and her eyes flashing with a combination of fear and fury. “Are you in the habit of bringing female prisoners to your chamber, my lecherous lord?”

He smiled and locked the door behind him, pocketing the key. “Lady Katherine is not my wife. And no, I do not, as a rule, use my private solar to punish those who offend me. Yet again, I am making an exception for you.”

She treated him to a derisory snort. “Please do not bother. If you think—”

“Silence, Flora. Your mouth has already landed you in enough trouble. Do not make me angry now, since that would not end well for you.”

It would appear that better sense at last prevailed. She backed away from him. “You may threaten all you like, I shall not…”

He softened his tone. “What is it you shall not do, Flora?”

“If you try to… to force me, I shall fight you. I may not win. Indeed, I know I will not since you are three times my size and armed, but I shall never yield to you.”

“Ah. I see.” He remained where he was, permitting her to put the distance she clearly desired, between them. “Let us be quite clear. First, you need to understand that I never make threats I am not prepared to carry out. I do not threaten at all. I promise. And you will recall, I promised you a birching, not a bout of rough lovemaking.”

She tipped up her chin, and he was forced to admire the defiant set of her pretty mouth.

“Then, why bring me here?” she demanded.

Why, indeed?

“I intend to strip you for your punishment. It will be more effective that way. When a woman is naked it is easier to achieve the proper degree of… submission from her. And I choose not to share that interesting sight with half my guard and the rest of my household. Then, after our business with the birch is concluded, I intend for you to remain here. You intrigue me, Flora. To my surprise, and doubtless yours, too, I find I enjoy your company. I mean to get to know you rather better.”

“You cannot force me to stay here.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you think not? I assure you, I can, and I will.”

“If you… if you so much as…”

“Your virginity is safe with me, little Scot, since I assume it is that which you are so keen to defend. I have never forced myself upon a woman before this day, and I do not mean to start with you.”

“I do not believe you.”

He shrugged. “It is of no consequence what you believe, Flora, since the truth will speak for itself in time. In the meanwhile, I require your assistance.”

“My…?” She glared at him from the dubious safety of her sanctuary just five paces away, her fists on her hips. “I shall never help you.”

“As you wish.”

He bent to pick up a bucket which had been left just inside the door by his servants, on his instructions before he approached the girl strapped to his whipping post. Having considered his options and determined his course of action, Stephen liked to be prepared. The bucket was half-full of water, and a dozen or so twigs poked out above the brim. They were of narrow, supple willow, an excellent choice for his purpose. Stephen had ordered that they be cut from the coppice just beyond his castle walls and prepared for his intended use. He selected one and drew it from the water, then shook the remaining droplets off. He ran his fingers along its length, checking for any sharp edges, but found none. He put the twig down on the table, then set the bucket alongside it.

“Your task will be to check each of these switches for faults or splits, or any imperfection which might cause inadvertent damage to your skin. You will set any that you find to one side for my inspection. The others, the ones you deem suitable, you will place back in the water to ensure they remain supple until they are used.”

She tossed back her tangled hair. “Why would I do any such thing? Since you are so fond of these switches, you may examine them yourself.”

Stephen merely shrugged. She would see matters his way, soon enough. “It is not my backside which will be cut should a sharp edge be left, but if you prefer to take that risk, so be it. In that case, you may undress.”

“I shall not!”

Stephen sighed. He had expected as much. “I had not wished to be obliged to summon guards to assist, but it is late, I am tired, and in no mood to wrestle with you, girl. You will obey me, now, or I shall resort to other measures.”

“You are disgusting.”

“Doubtless. So, which is it to be? Shall we continue in the privacy of this room, just the two of us, or will we require company in order to obtain your cooperation?”

“I… I…”

“Enough.” He took the key from his pocket and put it back in the lock.

“Wait!” She darted forward to grab his elbow. “Please, do not fetch guards.”

He paused, one eyebrow raised.

“I… I will check the switches.”

“Then please proceed.” He pocketed the key once more. “And be quick. You have wasted enough time already.”