His Captive, His Conquest by Ashe Barker

Chapter Six

Flora remained kneeling beside the tub when the marquis rose from his bath and wrapped the sheet of linen around his waist. He was quick, but not quick enough to conceal his magnificent cock from her interested gaze.

He really is rather splendid, unclothed…

Flora could not, now, quite recall why she had been so apprehensive. This English nobleman might be fierce, but he was flesh and blood, after all, just a man like any other. Even though she had never before seen a naked male, she believed she had had some notion of what such a specimen would look like.

She had been wrong.

“Are all men as large as you?” she blurted, before she could stop herself.

The marquis paused on his way to his bed and regarded her over his shoulder. “I really could not say.”

“Oh.” She lowered her eyes, embarrassed to have displayed her ignorance quite so blatantly. “I am sorry.”

He returned to stand over her and tipped up her chin with his fingers, fingers she had learned could be gentle as well as harsh.

“Do not apologise for your curiosity, Flora. You are entitled to ask questions, to explore, to discover.”

“Am I? I thought, when you covered yourself so quickly, that perhaps I…”

His lip quirked. “Did you want a closer look?”

“I… I just wondered…”

“Flora?”

She nodded. “Yes, I wanted to look. Properly. Without the water. Just for a moment…”

“What an inquisitive little Scot you are. Very well, I suppose I owe you that much. After all, I have certainly looked my fill at you.”

“I do not mind you looking at me. At least, not as much as before. I suppose I am becoming accustomed to it.” She gazed up at him, bewildered at her own admission but quite certain that it was true. She was becoming more at ease in his company, and with the intimacy between them, forced though it was.

Or had been. She was not compelled to kneel before him and ask to inspect his cock.

And neither was she compelled to remain where she was, wide-eyed and wondrous, when he discarded the linen sheet and his glorious erection bobbed before her.

“Oh. It is… even larger than I remembered. And it stands upright now, without my hand to…”

“Do you want to touch?”

She nodded, amazed at her own lack of modesty. Her wantonness was matched only by her curiosity, it would seem.

“Very well. Do it.”

Her hands were still bound, but she wrapped them both around his shaft and squeezed gently. “Oh, it is hard, much more solid than I imagined.”

He muttered something. She did not catch his words entirely, but it sounded as though he pleaded with the Almighty for deliverance. Flora took the opportunity, before the Good Lord might see fit to intervene, to run her hands up and down the solid length of him, then watched in amazement when droplets of moisture appeared on the shiny, purple crown.

“What is happening? Is this all right?” She wiped the clear liquid away with her thumb.

“Jesu, I should not have agreed to this…” He fisted his hand in her hair and closed his eyes.

“My lord, are you all right. You appear to be in pain.”

“Holy fuck,” he snarled. “You are shortly to be covered in my essence. I suggest you either desist or move back.”

Flora chose to do neither. Instead, driven by instinct alone, she clenched her hands and rubbed harder.

He tightened his grip on her hair and dragged her head back. Her scalp burned, but it was not an unpleasant sensation, exactly. She let out a small squeal but was not sorry that he ignored her discomfort. This seemed… right, natural.

This was the way of things, between them.

The spurt of white liquid was unexpected. Hot, creamy, it spattered onto her breasts and belly and coated her fingers. She watched, open-mouthed, when the first small gush was followed by more, then more still, until the flow was entirely spent.

Only then did he unwind his fist from her hair. His expression softened, losing the tension of moments before. He opened his eyes and looked down at her.

Flora relaxed her grip on his cock. It was already starting to soften, and she sensed that a momentous climax had just passed. Her chest still dripped with his essence as he had called it. Her fingers were slick. She inhaled the musky tang and repressed an urge to actually taste it.

“I think you might like that bath, after all,” the marquis suggested, his handsome features splitting in a smile which seemed, for once, to convey genuine warmth.

Flora nodded, then shivered. The water would be cold by now. Still, it was better than nothing.

“Yes, thank you. I…”

Her stepped over to the door and opened it. “Will. We need more hot water, if you please.”

There came an answering shout from the squire who must have been hovering close by, and his footsteps echoed along the flagged hallway.

The marquis returned to where she knelt and dropped her faithful blanket about her shoulders. Then, without preamble, he scooped her up in his arms as he had the previous night in the bailey. This time, he deposited her on his bed.

“Wait there. You will be more comfortable. Your bath will not be long.”

Flora flexed her wrists, delighted to be properly free at last. The marquis had untied her hands and now offered her his assistance in stepping into the newly warmed water. She laced her fingers with his and clambered into the tub, then leaned forward to rest her hands on the edge before lowering herself into the bath.

“I see your bruises have faded,” he observed, “even since this morning…”

“Lady Katherine was kind enough to provide me with a salve,” Flora replied over her shoulder. “It was most efficacious.”

“Oh, she did, did she? I gave permission for her to visit you but made it clear she was not to interfere.”

Flora stiffened. This man was so volatile, so… changeable. One moment he smiled and appeared to genuinely like her, the next, he became cold and stern at the least provocation. “Are you angry? I never thought…”

His smile returned. “No, I am not angry. I made my point well enough last night and I do not require you to writhe in discomfort now. Relax, Flora. Enjoy your bath.”

She settled back, relieved. Her feelings remained hopelessly conflicted, but on one point she was quite sure. She did not wish to disappoint her marquis.

My marquis?

Flora shook her head as though to clear it. No good would come of letting her imagination run away with her. As far as the Marquis of Otterburn was concerned, she was nothing more than a humble female captive with whom he saw fit to amuse himself for a few weeks.

And, for her part, she would treat these weeks with him as an interlude, a time in which to learn and enjoy, to discover more about what passed between men and women. The knowledge would stand her in good stead when she eventually married.

Her mother had died when Flora was very young, and she had no sisters, just an elder brother. Robbie was kind. They were close, and she loved him dearly, but he was frequently away for long periods of time in the service of King James. In any case, she could hardly ask him about such matters. Her father was even less forthcoming. As far as the earl was concerned, his daughter was still a child and would remain so until the day he handed her over to some laird in exchange for an alliance or promise of military aid.

The marquis, on the other hand, seemed willing to act as her guide on this voyage of dawning self-awareness, and, as he had said, no one else need know what passed between them. So, what was the harm, really?

She reached for the flannel, but the marquis beat her to it.

“Lean back,” he instructed. “Allow me.”

“I can manage,” she replied. “I have bathed myself before.”

“I do not doubt it. Tip your head right back. Yes, like that…” He guided her into position, then dragged one of the spare buckets of clean water into place behind the tub. He bundled her tangled locks into it and eased her further back until all her hair was submerged. Next, he worked soap into his fingers and applied the lather to her unruly curls.

“What are you doing?”

“Is it not obvious? I am washing your hair.”

“But…”

His fingers massaged her scalp, soothing where he had hurt her just minutes before. Flora closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sensation of being cared for, even pampered.

She sighed. “That feels good. Where did you learn such skills?”

He chuckled. “From my brother, actually.”

“Your brother has waist-length hair?”

“No, but he does possess a beguiling way with women. I have learned to heed his advice.”

“I believe I would like your brother very much. Is he an English noble, too?”

“He is the Duke of Whitleigh. His seat is in Devon.”

“Oh.” She had not realised the marquis could boast such very lofty connections. In fact, she knew almost nothing of his background despite her own aristocratic lineage. Scottish nobility and the English rarely mixed. “Yours is a fine family, then.”

“It was not always so, though it is true that we have prospered since Henry Tudor took the English throne and decided he owed much of his success to our support in battle. My brother, Richard, was rewarded with a dukedom and a beautiful Yorkist bride, and I, the bastard son of our father, gained the hereditary title which Richard no longer required.”

Flora opened her eyes to regard him with astonishment. “You were born out of wedlock?”

“Aye, but I was brought up in my father’s household alongside his legitimate son. My father was John Parnell, the Earl of Romsey and he made no distinction between us. Richard inherited the title, but the first chance he got, and with the king’s permission, he handed it to me.”

“Your name is Parnell, then?” It was not a family she had heard of.

“Aye. Stephen Parnell, Earl of Romsey and now, Marquis of Otterburn, at your service, my lady.”

“You mock me.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. It is becoming a habit.”

Something else occurred to her. Dared she ask? After all, he could say ‘no’ if he wanted. “Would you mind if I were to call you by your given name?”

“I daresay I will prefer ‘Stephen’ to ‘English’.”

She ignored his banter. “But, Stephen, if your lands are in Devon, how is it that you are here in the north, so far away?”

“My family keep, Keeterly Castle, is close to Exeter. However, the king required a battle-hardened warrior to defend his northern border following the death of the previous marquis, and he asked me to help him in the matter. So, here I am.”

“Will you remain here? I mean, if your family is in the south of England…?”

He grinned. “Am I to gather that you would miss me were I to leave?”

“Of course not. I never thought…”

“Enough of my chequered family history.” He reached for another bucket of clean water. “We have other pressing business. We must rinse all of this soap off. Close your eyes…”

When he had finally satisfied himself that her hair was thoroughly washed and rinsed, Stephen started on the rest of her. By now, Flora knew better than to protest when he drew the soapy flannel over her shoulders and arms, then ventured lower to her breasts.

He took his time, carefully lathering every inch of her skin, then cupping his hands to capture water and dribble it over her body. The stickiness of his semen was soon rinsed away.

Her nipples hardened under his touch, a fact which appeared to fascinate him since he took particular care to rub them with soap which he spread on his bare fingers. He squeezed and tugged on the pebbled peaks until they lengthened even more.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Quite perfect…”

Then, he utterly astonished her by taking one in his mouth and sucking on it.

“Stephen!”

“Mmm?” He peeped up at her.

“What are you doing? You cannot…”

He ignored her and moved his attentions to her other nipple.

Sensation crackled through her body to converge between her thighs, in that place he had insisted upon touching yesterday. “Oh. That feels so… odd.”

He released her swollen bud, only to start all over on the other one.

Flora abandoned her protests and gave herself over yet again to the new sensation. It really was rather wonderful.

“Lift up your leg,” he commanded at last, moving around to the other end of the tub.

In something of a daze, she obeyed.

He placed her heel on his shoulder and braced it there while he washed the length of her slender limb. Then, he took her foot between his hands and began to massage that, stretching her ankle, pressing, bending and flexing each of her toes and kneading the sole. The act was, if anything, even more intimate that his treatment of her nipples, and every bit as wondrous.

“Oh, dear Lord. Is this another of your brother’s tricks?”

He chuckled. “No. I discovered this for myself. You have very sensitive feet, Flora.”

“And you have the hands of a sorcerer, my lord.”

He grinned at her. “Let me have your other leg.”

Flora was fast arriving at the conclusion that her very bones had melted. She languished in the bathtub, her arms draped over the sides and her head resting on the rim behind her, while Stephen again took up the flannel and returned to his task of cleansing her belly and lower abdomen. It did not surprise, nor even shock her greatly, when his fingers once again slid between her legs to caress her soft folds.

“Put your feet over the sides. Open wide for me, little one.”

“I should not. It is… wrong.”

“It is what you want, though.” He murmured the wicked words right into her ear and teased his fingers through the soft triangle of hair beneath the water. “Is it not?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But I…”

“Do it, Flora.” His hands found her softness again, and any remaining resolve evaporated.

Flora balanced her heels on the rim of the tub and allowed her knees to part. She was… shameless, and found she cared not a jot.

Stephen discarded the flannel and continued to explore with just his fingers. He traced the delicate lips of her sex, then dipped just the tip of his middle finger inside her entrance.

Flora jerked. Her body tensed.

What am I doing…?

He paused to allow her a moment to accept what was happening. His lips were on hers, his breath in her mouth. He whispered soft words of encouragement and reassurance.

And Flora gave herself over to the bliss of the moment. Her muscles relaxed. She let out a sigh of bemused pleasure. “Please, do not stop, my lord…”

Stephen did not stop. He caressed. He stroked. He once again found that most sensitive place and squeezed until she arched against his hand.

Strange sensations unfurled. Heat. Shivering, shuddering heat, soaring from deep in her core to wash through her. It rippled out, filling every part her body to the ends of her toes, her fingertips. She felt the pleasure in every secret place, but mostly it was there, right at her centre, where he touched, teased, cajoled.

“Stephen, I… oh. Oh!”

She gasped, then forgot to breathe entirely. Her body convulsed. Her inner channel contracted hard around the single digit he had inserted. She squeezed harder, seeking friction, seeking… fullness.

Almost as suddenly and mysteriously as these wondrous sensations had rushed to overwhelm her, they slid away, like the waves ebbing back into the loch beside her father’s castle. She drew in a ragged breath, then exhaled slowly.

His fingers were still on her, in her, but her senses were her own again. She opened her eyes to find his face just inches from hers.

“What happened?” she murmured,

He raised one dark brow. “Your first climax, I imagine.”

“Climax?” She had heard whisperings on occasion, between the serving wenches in her father’s household. She had listened to them giggling, had been curious to know what was so amusing, but they would scurry away if they thought she overheard. Could this be what they had meant? If so, it was more, so very much more, than she had imagined.

“Did you know that would happen?”

He nodded slowly. “I believed, with the right encouragement, that I might coax such a response from you.”

She narrowed her eyes, suspiciously. “Could you do it again?”

His self-satisfied smirk was all the reply she needed.

“I need to eat in my hall this evening.” Stephen patted her on the backside. “You may remain there, if you like, but I shall be obliged to bind you once more.”

After the remarkable interlude in the bathtub, Flora had requested a linen upon which to dry herself. The water had cooled, and so had her rioting emotions. She needed a respite in which to dwell upon what had happened, the amazing and unnerving discoveries she was making.

Mercifully, Stephen appeared to comprehend her confusion and he let her be. He had assisted her from the bath, then draped a fresh sheet of linen around her and carried her to his bed. She had curled into a ball, her back to him, and feigned sleep.

The marquis was not a man to be hoodwinked by such subterfuge, but he had not pressed the matter. Perhaps he, too, required time in which to think.

But now, he was about to leave her. And Flora did not want him to go.

She rolled over to face him. “Do you have to? Could we not eat here, together, as we did yesterday?”

He shook his head. “My presence is required in the hall to settle disputes and hear reports from my captain-at-arms, and my steward. There is much to do in maintaining a garrison of this size.”

Flora had some idea. Her father’s castle was every bit as big as Elborne, and she had done her share of the work there since she was ten years old. She was not, however, about to share that information with the marquis. She still harboured the fear that, if he appreciated her possible worth as a bargaining piece, he would hold her until her father paid a ransom.

He rolled from the bed and started to gather up his clothing from the floor.

“Perhaps I could come to the hall, too. I would sit at the end and not make any fuss.” She hated the idea of being tied up again and left alone for hours. She would endure the stares and probable insults of the English if it meant she could avoid that.

He shook his head, then pulled on his trousers. “I am not in the habit of entertaining prisoners at my table.”

Prisoner?

Flora was surprised at how much that description hurt, despite it being accurate. She blinked back tears, though they were of anger and frustration rather than the fear she had experienced before.

“Very well, then. Go. I shall manage for myself, I expect.”

He picked up his shirt and shook the worst of the wrinkles from it. “Aye, you will. Do you want to use the privy before I leave?”

Flora sniffed her disdain, but the practical side of her nature prevailed. She sat up but did not bother to reach for her trusty blanket. They were probably beyond all of that now.

The bucket was still beside her pallet, where Lady Katherine had placed it for her that morning. Flora grabbed it and took it behind a woven screen in the corner of the chamber, erected for the purpose of affording a degree of privacy for such matters.

When she emerged, Stephen was fully dressed, even down to his boots. He held the hated leather strap in his hands.

“Your wrists, if you please.”

Flora scowled as he bound her. “There is no need. You could simply lock the door.”

He effected a mock smile. “I was ever a cautious man, which is probably why I have survived thus far. Hop back onto the bed.”

She tipped up her chin in as haughty a fashion as she could muster. “I believe I shall return to my own bed, my lord.”

“As you wish.” He steered her across the chamber, then crouched to secure the rope to her ankle. “I shall have food sent up to you.”

“I am most grateful, my lord.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm.

He looked upon her from his position on the floor. “Have a care, Flora. I enjoy your company, and this afternoon you have learned that you could enjoy mine. But I shall relish teaching you your manners just as much. You have not yet had a spanking today, but you are perilously close.”

She opened her mouth again, then clamped it shut. Why did he have to be so hateful?

“Very sensible, Flora.” He straightened, patted her on the bottom, then strode to the hearth where he flung two or three stout logs onto the fire. “There, that should keep you nice and warm for a while. Whoever brings your food will tend to it again. I bid you a good evening, little Scot.”

“And I hope you choke on your roast goose, English.” The sentiment was heartfelt, but she possessed the good sense to mutter her response quietly, so he did not hear.

She hoped…