His Captive, His Conquest by Ashe Barker

Chapter Three

Her fingers shook when she drew the first of the switches from the water. With luck, the hateful marquis would fail to notice, though fortune had not been on her side thus far.

She allowed the water to drip back into the bucket as she ran her fingertips along the length of the twig. It seemed smooth so she laid it on the table beside the one he had checked earlier. The next one was not quite so perfect.

“This has a sharp point, just here.” She held it out to the marquis.

“Ah, yes, you are right.” He took it from her, drew his dagger, and swiftly rectified the matter. “How is it now?”

It… it will do.” She examined it, then placed it with the other two.

“You are welcome,” he murmured, settling himself upon a large, winged chair to observe her progress. He rested one booted ankle on his thigh and offered her a sardonic smile. “Do not keep me waiting much longer, Flora.”

She quelled the urge to advise him to go to hell. However minutely she chose to scrutinise the switches, however, the task could not last forever. She selected two more which did not quite pass her inspection, and he whittled each of them to a perfect smoothness, but eventually the task was complete.

“Put them all back in the water, if you would, please. Then you may remove your clothes.” His lip quirked in a deceptively benign grin.

“Will you not at least turn your back while I undress?” Tears brimmed, and she dashed them away with her hand.

“I do not think I will. Get on with it.”

“You could just—”

“Flora, let us not revisit all of this. You understand the alternative if you continue to quarrel with me.”

She was trapped. There were no better options, but plenty which seemed worse. Flora was not about to let her clothing be ripped from her by his guards. Apart from anything else, this was her second-best tunic, made of fine yellow wool and sewn by her own hand. She did not wish to see it ruined.

“I hate you. You are a monster.”

He offered no response to that, so she spun on her heel and pulled the fastenings of her tunic loose. The quicker this was over, the better. With her back to him, she drew the garment over her head.

Beneath, she wore a loose-fitting linen shift which fell to her ankles. Apart from her leather shoes, she was naked under that.

She dropped to a crouch to unfasten the laces on her shoes and kicked them aside. Then, she took a deep breath and dragged her shift off. She shivered, blaming it on the coolness of the air.

“C-could you not at least put a log on the fire?”

“My apologies, Flora. I had not realised it was cold in here.”

She refused to turn around, preferring to remain where she was, the bundled-up fabric of her shift clutched to her chest. But she heard the creak of the chair as he rose, his soft footsteps, then the thud of a log dropping into the hearth.

“Your backside is truly lovely, Flora. I was quite correct in wishing not to cause unnecessary damage to such perfection. However, I would like to see the rest of you now. Drop the shift and turn around.”

“I shall not,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “Please, do not make me…”

More footsteps, then he was before her. Flora screwed her eyes shut in a futile attempt to pretend none of this was happening.

He cupped her chin in his palm and gently raised her face. “Open your eyes, little one.”

His voice was soft, tender even. She cracked her eyelids apart.

He grasped the crumpled shift in this spare hand and tugged. Flora briefly tightened her grip, but he shook his head and frowned. It was not much, just the merest hint at displeasure, a warning. She relaxed her grip and allowed him to ease the garment from her. He dropped it onto the floor, never once taking his eyes from hers.

“I trust you are not considering biting me again, Flora.”

“N-no, my lord.” She may lack something in the way of wisdom, but she did not entertain a death wish.

He dipped his head in acknowledgement, then, still cradling her chin in his hand, he took one step back and lowered his eyes.

Flora could almost feel the caress of his gaze on her throat, her breasts, her softly curving belly, then the patch of bright-red curls at the apex of her thighs.

He raised his eyes to smile at her. “There, too. A fiery Scot, indeed. You are beautiful. Exquisite.”

Flora gnawed on her lower lip. Never, not once, had she been forced to endure such intimacies. His words were not harsh, he was… kind, even, almost lover-like in his admiration. She did not consider herself especially pretty, had barely thought about it, and she had not the first notion how to react. How should a woman behave when a man said such things?

She gave the first answer which occurred to her. “Thank you, my lord.”

Did his eyes darken? In the flickering lamplight she could now discern that they were, indeed, a shade of grey, dark and stormy but with a hint of smokiness. They smouldered as he regarded her.

“You are a lovely woman, my little Flora. I daresay you will attract many compliments before you are done.” He kissed her forehead, a light, undemanding brush of lips.

“I…”

Suddenly, his mood shifted. He straightened and released his grip on her jaw. “But we cannot dally here all night. Let us be getting on with your punishment.” He nodded in the direction of the table where the bucket of switches still waited. “You may rest on the table.”

“What? I mean, how…?”

He bent to pick up her discarded clothing and rolled the tunic and shift into a ball together, then placed them on the edge of the table. “Lean over and rest your stomach on those. Lift your bottom up nice and high, and keep your hands tucked underneath you.”

It was all very simple. Perfectly obvious, in fact. But still, she grappled to comprehend his meaning. Did he expect her to simply present herself for… for…?

Seemingly, that was exactly what he expected. The marquis selected a pair of switches, shook off the droplets, then gestured to her to assume the position he had described.

With a strangled moan, more terrified of the consequences if she did not do as he asked, Flora draped herself over the table.

Did she dare to ask how many strokes he intended to inflict upon her? Would she afford him the satisfaction of refusing to tell her?

Perhaps it was best not to know, and it would make no difference in any case. She stiffened. Every muscle, every fibre of her being tensed. She waited for the pain to start.

Flora heard it before she felt it. A shrill whistle as the switches, two of them at once, swiped through the air to descend upon her quivering backside.

“Aaaah!” She let out a scream and instinctively started to straighten, but his hand in the middle of her back put a stop to that little endeavour.

“Remain where you are. You will not move until I give you permission. Do you understand?”

She did not reply. She could not. All her faculties were directed towards riding the wave of agony rippling across her buttocks.

“Flora? Do you understand?” He repeated his question, louder, his tone harder.

She nodded. “Y-yes, my lord.”

“Good. If you fail to obey me in this matter, I shall tie you in place and we shall begin again.”

No, no, no…

“Yes,” he stated. “So, we continue.”

He applied the pair of switches to her vulnerable buttocks twice more, once to each side. Then he announced them to be frayed and tossed them on the floor.

Flora could only wail and plead, letting out an agonised screech with each new stroke. There appeared to be some sort of a pattern to his treatment of her. A pair of twigs, three strokes, then cast them aside and select a new set.

How many were there to start with? Does he mean to wear them all out before he is done?

She could not even start to count the number of strokes. All she knew was that her buttocks and the backs of her thighs were aflame, and that the fire was ignited anew with each fresh pair of switches.

He paused in his attentions, and Flora entertained the soaring hope that maybe, just perhaps, he was finished. Instead, he ran his palm over her abused flesh. She groaned under this new sensation, Her skin throbbed, and he seemed intent upon rubbing the pain deeper.

“You are doing well, Flora. Your bottom is now a particularly fetching shade of crimson and I daresay very sore indeed. But your skin is unbroken.”

She shook her head. It could not be true.

“Would I be correct in thinking that you regret your impetuous actions of earlier?”

“My lord…?

“You may apologise for biting me now, if you feel so moved.”

She would say anything, do anything to make this all stop. “I am sorry. I wish I had not bitten you.”

“Thank you. I accept your apology. I can see that your demeanour is much improved already, and we shall soon be done here. Three or four more strokes will serve as a lasting reminder of the importance of minding your manners and not biting any passing marquis.”

More? He is not finished…

The air whistled again as he swung. Flora jerked hard under the fresh onslaught. A scream was wrenched from her throat, then another when he repeated the blow. The switches were set aside and new ones selected.

“These are the last,” he informed her, moments before he applied them to the delicate skin at the backs of her thighs. “I shall use them to good effect since we would not wish our efforts here to be in vain, would we? I doubt you will wish to sit for a day or so.”

I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry…

She chanted the refrain in her head and waited for the pain to end, for her ordeal to finally be over. Her entire body jerked with each new stroke. The agony seemed never-ending. Could she bear it? Would she, after all, not survive this…?

Then, it was suddenly over. The marquis dropped the final pair of switches onto the heap with the rest, then picked up the whole bundle and strode past her to the fireplace. He threw them all into the flames where they crackled and spat as they were consumed.

Flora remained where she was, unable to stand even if he permitted it. She contented herself with the pressing business of dragging air into her lungs, swallowing hard against the soreness in her throat. She was hoarse from screaming, from sobbing and pleading.

And she hurt. Everywhere.

“You may get up now, if you wish to. We are done. Or, if you prefer to remain where you are, you may.”

“C-can I go?” Flora turned her face towards him. “I want to be with my people, in the barn.”

“No, you may not leave. Your punishment is concluded, but you will remain here.”

“Please, I—”

“Enough. I have told you what is to happen. Your people will work my fields in reparation for their actions. As for you, you will serve your penance by entertaining me.”

She laid her palms flat on the tabletop and tried to push herself up, but soon abandoned that effort. “I do not owe you a penance. I did not take part in the attack on your crops.”

He chuckled. “Ah, well, justice can be a blunt instrument on occasions, Flora. Instead of bemoaning your fate, may I suggest that you be thankful it is not worse.”

“Worse? I do not think—”

Her reply was interrupted when he slid his arm under her and assisted her to stand. Then, he slung a coarse blanket around her shoulders. “Are you hungry, girl?”

“Hungry?” Flora clutched the blanket to her chest.

“Yes. I have not yet eaten. You may share my supper, should you so wish.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, but her stomach had other ideas and chose that moment to let out a long growl.

“I shall take that to mean ‘yes’. Come with me.”

Wordlessly, she padded after him, the blanket trailing behind her along the stone flagged floor. He led her through a door at the far end of the solar. Flora pulled up short when she realised she was about to enter his bedchamber.

“No. I shall not go in there.”

“Yes, you will,” came the simple reply. “Do not oblige me to come and get you.”

“You promised…”

“I did, this is true. So, there is where you will sleep.” He pointed to a spot beneath the window.

Flora peered around the door and saw the pallet bed he indicated. It consisted of just a simple straw mattress and another blanket. “That is for me?”

“It is, if you prefer it to sharing my bed.”

“I will never share your bed.”

“I can assure you, you would be more comfortable should you choose to do so.”

“I would sleep in a pit first.”

“That is not what I have in mind for you. The pallet will suffice. I expect the prospect of sharing my food is another matter.”

He sauntered over to a low side table where a simple meal of manchet bread and cold ox tongue had been laid out along with a few pieces of gingerbread and a jug of ale. He helped himself to a piece of bread and wrapped it around a generous slice of tongue, then offered it to her.

Flora was obliged to either approach him to take the food or remain where she was. Hunger won out. Stiffly, she made her way to where he waited. She winced when the roughness of the blanket scraped against her bottom or thighs. But despite all of that, she was on her feet and, it would seem, her appetite was undiminished.

She took the food and sniffed at it, then tried a tentative bite. It was surprisingly good. She finished it in just a couple of mouthfuls.

“More?” He used his dagger to slice off more of the tongue. “Help yourself to ale.”

Flora chose to consume her food whilst standing, but there was plenty, and she ate her fill. The marquis took his time, always offering her some of the bread or meat before taking any himself. It was the same with the gingerbread, a delicacy which Flora favoured particularly and ate the lion’s share of.

Soon, the platters were empty. The marquis tipped the last of the ale into Flora’s mug. “Have you had enough? I can send for more.”

She shook her head. “That was…very welcome. Thank you.”

He grinned. “It is not my intention to starve you whilst you are here. If you do not desire more to eat, may I suggest you get some sleep?”

“I shall move my bed into the solar.”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh, you think so? I must disagree.” He produced a leather strap from his pocket. “Your wrists, if you please…”

“You mean to tie me up?”

“Sadly, it appears to be necessary since you insist upon defying me at every turn.”

She thought better of her earlier belligerence. “I will not try to move the pallet.”

“No, you will not. I mean to make sure of it. And neither will you attack me in my sleep or attempt to escape. So…?”

“There is no need. You have my word.”

The marquis shook his head. “You are not the only one who finds it difficult to trust.” He took her left wrist and quickly wrapped the strap around it, then he secured her right as well. “Come.”

He steered her across the chamber by her elbow until she stood beside what was, clearly, to be her bed whether she liked it or not. He crouched to draw a length of rope from under the pallet and tied one end to her bound wrists, and the other end to a ring set into the wall.

“There is sufficient length for you to move about a little, but not to cause any mischief. I bid you a good night, Flora.”

“But you cannot—”

“Sleep well.” He offered her a mock bow, then left her to glare at his back. “I confess I enjoyed watching you undress, but you may not feel quite the same way about observing me. If that is the case, may I suggest you avert your eyes.”

“You are an animal, my lord.”

He shot a smirk back at her. “We are both tired, or you might live to regret your words. I suggest you concentrate on maintaining better manners whilst in my company, Flora, since you now understand the consequences of forgetting yourself.” He unfastened his leather belt and set it down beside the bed, then proceeded to tug his over tunic off. This was followed by his white linen undershirt.

Flora had not intended to stare but found herself mesmerised by the suddenly revealed expanse of male chest. Muscles rippled and corded as the marquis moved. His shoulders were even wider unclothed than when concealed by his tunic, and his stomach was flat, doubtless hardened by hours spent in the saddle. He grinned at her, unconcerned at her obvious embarrassment, then sat on the edge of his bed to remove his boots. Only when he reached for the laces fastening his trousers did Flora manage to cover her face and scramble onto her mattress.

He laughed. He actually laughed out loud at her mortification.

Vile beast. Hateful, arrogant English bastard…

Flora pulled the blanket over herself, tried not to land any weight on her punished backside, and rolled onto her side with her back to him. She heard the bed creak when he got in, but she absolutely refused to reply when he again bid her a good night.

Scant minutes later the slow, even breathing coming from across the chamber signified that her companion had fallen asleep. Flora determined to do likewise. A hour later, she was forced to accept that she was not to enjoy such luxury.

She bit back a sniffle, then another. She would not cry. She absolutely would not…