His Captive, His Conquest by Ashe Barker
Chapter Nine
Flora watched through slitted eyes while Stephen shed his clothing. Her body was aflame, all her senses humming.
He was at once both magnificent and terrifying. Before, she had been curious. Now, she was consumed by a raw, alien hunger that demanded satisfaction.
Hurry. Please, hurry…
She squeezed her inner muscles, then groaned in frustration at the sterile emptiness within. She craved… what? Something. Anything.
She needed to be filled.
He returned to the bed and lay beside her. His cock seemed huge, even bigger than before. The hunger receded, and she started to panic.
“Stephen, I am not sure. What if…?”
He kissed her. “What if what, sweetheart?”
“What if you are too big?”
“It will be perfect. I promise you.”
“But—” She stiffened when he rolled against her, the solid weight of his erection pressing against her hip. Curiosity, arousal, and terror now vied within her, but curiosity won this particular battle. She stretched her hand out to wrap her fingers around his cock as she had done before. “Are you sure?”
“I am quite certain.” His voice lowered to a growl. “Spread your legs for me, Flora.”
She did as he had asked. She set aside all her misgivings, her apprehension, and surrendered to the yearning. Famished, ravenous, she opened her thighs as wide as she could.
This is different. This is not wrong, not a sin. This is not even my real life, not my true existence. This is… an interlude. It is of no matter what happens here. I will go home soon, and it will all be gone, as if it never was, like a dream…
“You are beautiful, Flora.” He moved so he was above her, his weight on his elbows and his gentle fingers combing through her hair.
She was not beautiful, she knew that much, but she enjoyed hearing him say it. And she was so hungry, desperate to consume what he might offer her.
“This is your first time?”
She nodded and ran her tongue over her dry lips.
“There will be pain, at first. It will be swift, then it will be gone, and the pleasure follows. I promise you that.”
“I… I believe you.”
He leaned on one elbow and slid his other hand between their bodies. He grasped his cock and positioned the bulbous crown at her entrance, parting her lips. He paused, waiting.
Flora looked up and met his deep-grey, stormy gaze. She offered him a tremulous smile.
“Now,” she whispered. “Do it now.”
He rocked his hips, and his cock penetrated her more deeply. It was tight. She was stretching, impossibly full.
He withdrew, then did it again. It was little easier. Her body was opening, unfolding to welcome him.
She raised her legs and wrapped them around his waist. She could do this, after all. There was nothing to fear, no pain…
“Aaaah!” She screamed when agony erupted deep within.
He moved again, this time burying the full length of his cock inside her. She was split in two, surely. She would never survive this. She was, without doubt, about to be torn limb from limb.
He filled her to the hilt, then he stopped.
Flora lay motionless, too scared to move for fear the agonising onslaught would consume her again.
“Look at me, Flora.”
She shook her head and fought back tears. She had believed him. Again. And he had let her down. Again.
“Flora, do as I say.” He kissed her forehead, then swiped his thumbs across her cheeks to remove the tears. “It is over, the pain. I said it would be quick, and it is done now.”
“No, it hurts.”
He pulled back a little, then drove his cock home again. “Does it? Does this still hurt?”
She opened her mouth to tell him that it did, and she wanted him to stop, then closed it again. Perhaps, just maybe…
He repeated the slow, gentle stroke. Her channel quivered, contracting of its own volition to hug him even more tightly.
“Oh.” She peered up at him, surprised. “That is nice.”
“Jesu, yes, it is.” He pulled further out, then plunged back in once more. “Fuck, this will not take long.”
Despite her shock of just moments before, Flora was disappointed to hear his words. Now that the initial discomfort was over, she wanted to continue forever. Her senses thrummed wondrously. Intimate, sensual waves of undiluted pleasure rippled through her body.
Her inner channel convulsed. She was close to something, she knew not what, exactly, but she needed more. She craved a prize which she could not articulate but sensed it was within reach.
“Stephen,” she groaned. “Please…”
His hand was between them again, this time his thumb finding that most sensitive spot he had assaulted to such devastating effect earlier. He stroked, pressed, then took the bud between his fingers and squeezed.
It was too much, yet exactly right. Perfect, pure, unadulterated pleasure streaked through her. Flora’s body was not her own. She was flying, weightless, swirling, then her senses seemed to explode. Everything, every essence of her being converged at the point where their bodies joined, and she shattered.
For several moments she forgot to breathe. There was nothing but this, this rush of delight which crested, swelled, then surged forth again. Only when it ebbed, started to subside, and her scattered wits began to reassemble, did she remember the need to fill her lungs once more.
Stephen continued to drive his cock in and out, each stroke long and deep, filling her entirely. His movements were steady, sure, slick with her juices and his own. She clung to him and pressed her forehead against his shoulder.
He gave a shout, hoarse, almost animalistic. His cock lurched. He went still for a moment, then slammed his solid girth deep once more. His features contorted in a grimace. The muscles in his arms bulged, the veins clearly etched against his tanned skin.
A rush of wet heat filled her. She squeezed him tightly, acting on instinct rather than anything else, seeking to hold his essence within.
But she could not. Her thighs were damp, the precious liquid already pooling on the mattress.
Stephen slumped down, briefly dropping his weight upon her but immediately rolling to one side. He wrapped his arms around her and took her with him. One moment she was beneath him, flat on her back, the next draped on top of him.
They were still joined. His cock was softening, but he made no move to withdraw.
Flora was strangely pleased. She rather liked the feeling of having him there, holding him, a part of her.
He groaned and muttered something vaguely obscene.
Flora’s lips curled in a smile, though she could not have explained why she was so happy. She just…was.
“How are you, little Scot?”
“I beg your pardon?” She raised her head to peer at him.
He patted her on the bottom. “Did that meet your expectations, or do I need to do it all over again?”
“Again?” She found she was not at all averse to such a suggestion.
“Aye, if need be. In fact, I consider that to be a prudent course of action, just to be sure. But I wonder if we might eat first?”
“My lord, you are an idiot.” She punched his arm playfully.
He moved swiftly, reversing their positions once again. “And you, my lady, are exquisite. On second thoughts, perhaps the food can wait.”
“I think…oh!” His cock had started to swell and harden again, inside her. “Oh, my word…”
He took her hands in his and laced his fingers through hers. “Wrap your legs around me, sweetheart, and hold on.”
“Our meal is laid out for us in the solar.” Stephen rolled from the bed and ambled over to the hearth to replenish the faltering blaze. He crouched beside the fire and looked back at her over his shoulder. “We can eat in bed, if you like.”
Flora sat up and winced. She was not sore, exactly, but she felt extremely well used.
Three times. Three times he had driven his cock inside her willing, welcoming body and fucked her until she screamed his name.
Blessed Virgin, who would have thought such a thing?
She swung her legs over and sat on the edge of the bed. She needed the privy so concluded she might as well stretch her legs a little further and go as far as the adjacent chamber.
“I am happy to eat in the solar,” she replied. “I am famished, even after that pie in the marketplace.”
“Fucking is hungry work.” He straightened and smiled at her. “While we are eating, I shall have the servants change the sheets.”
“Why? It is not necessary. I—” She turned to regard the crumpled bed and could only stare at the bright-crimson stains on the blanket. “Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” He strode back to where she stood and kissed her hair.
“I am so sorry. I never…”
“Sweetheart, ’tis natural. Do not give it another thought.” He turned her in the direction of the solar. “Go and sit down. I shall see to this.”
“Will I see you today?” Flora took a bite of her apple and watched Stephen pull on his boots. “I was wondering if we might eat our noon time meal together.”
“Perhaps. I hope so.” He kissed her on the mouth. “Stay warm for me, sweetheart.”
She lounged against the pillows on his huge bed, her knees drawn upon in front of her and the blankets around her waist. It had become their custom, in the couple of weeks since he had seduced her into sharing his bed, to break their fast together, usually between the sheets and invariably after he had made love to her at least once. Often, two or three times.
She was not quite sure which of them was the most insatiable. Her, probably. She had much to cram in before her time with this remarkable Englishman came to the inevitable end. She would likely never experience such sensual bliss again so was determined to savour every last tingle, every last shiver of arousal.
“Is it always like this, between a man and a woman?” she had asked him one morning as she lay purring in his arms. He had not answered.
Flora sensed that their time together was running out, but she did not ask him or Katherine for further reports on her clansfolks’ progress in the fields. She did not want to know.
And now, he had eaten his bread and cheese already, swilled his face in the water bowl, donned his tunic and trousers. He would soon be gone about his daily business, and she would be alone again.
Although he no longer left her bound, he always locked the door. Even so, she preferred to think go herself as his guest rather than his prisoner, and certainly he treated her as such.
He spent time with her when he could. She knew that and was grateful. Lady Katherine was a frequent visitor. Flora had even managed to persuade Katherine to lend her needles and thread as it was her intention to repair the shirt Stephen had ripped chasing the Fenwicks.
She told Lady Katherine that she welcomed the diversion, but in reality, and somewhat to her surprise, she wanted to do something for him. Something he would remember, maybe, after she was gone.
She watched him leave, then sighed and settled back down in the bed. For want of something better to do, she tried to sleep.
The sound of the lock scraping woke her. Katherine must have decided to visit early. Flora sat up in the bed.
“Oh. It is you.”
Stephen marched over to where she sat, kissed her, then continued on through the chamber and into his solar next door.
“Is everything all right?” She sprang from the bed, grabbed her shift which she had retrieved form the clothes chest, and followed him. “I was not expecting to see you for hours yet.”
“A messenger has arrived, from the king.” He drew a scroll of parchment from within his tunic. “I prefer to read it in the privacy of my solar rather than in the hall.”
“Oh, I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude.” She started to back off.
“I did not mean you. Please, sit.”
She settled in a chair opposite him at the circular table which was set in the middle of the room. The light from the east-facing window fell across his face, and she noted, not for the first time, how striking a man he was. It was not merely his dark hair and slate-coloured grey eyes which seemed to peer into her very soul. Nor was it the raw strength of him, his innate power banked when he was with her. He showed her nothing, now, but gentle courtesy. Unless he was making love to her, on which occasions his veneer of civility slipped and he would fist his hand in her hair until her scalp burned or pin her to the mattress while he pounded her with his cock.
She loved his wry humour, his relaxed manners. But she truly adored the barely restrained savagery which lay beneath the cultured surface. Stephen of Elborne was always in control, always the dominant individual whatever the setting. Men rushed to obey when he barked orders. But she also knew the softer side. She knew the man who would purchase a carved rosewood owl for a captive, simply because she admired it.
She would miss her marquis when she left this place.
She would miss him for the rest of her days.
His brow furrowed as he scanned the parchment and muttered something she did not quite grasp.
“Is all well, my lord?”
He glanced up at her. “Aye, well enough. The king requires reports of my progress in subduing your warlike countrymen and keeping his borders secure.”
“Oh. What will you tell him?”
“That matters are under control and as quiet as might be expected. He merely seeks assurances that his northern shires are not about to be besieged by your King James.”
“Oh. Would the Tudor send armies to defend his borders?”
“Of course, were I to ask for such intervention.”
“I prefer peace,” she declared vehemently. “There has been too much fighting, too much suffering.”
Stephen nodded. “My task here is to maintain the peace, as best I might. I shall—”
He was interrupted by a knock on the door leading from the upper hallway.
“Enter,” Stephen called out.
A small, thin man shuffled in. Flora did not recognise him. He was not one of the servants who regularly came to clean the chamber or deliver firewood.
“How may I help you, Mr Parsons?” Stephen leaned back in his chair to regard his visitor. “It is not often I see you here in the keep.”
They man held his cloth hood in his hands and bowed his head. “Ye asked tae be informed when the crops were all planted, my lord.”
“Ah, yes. And are they?”
“Aye, my lord. Or they will be by nightfall. I was wonderin’ what ye would like me tae do wi’ the Scots.”
“Release them as soon as you consider the task completed. There is no point in holding them longer, we would just have to feed and house them. I shall inform the captain of the guard, and he will see them escorted safely from my lands.”
“Right, my lord.” The man plonked his hood back on his head and took a few paces backwards. “I shall be gettin’ back tae the fields, then.”
Stephen’s curt nod completed his dismissal, and Mr Parsons scurried away along the hallway.
“The… the work is finished?” Flora whispered, after a pause of several moments. “In the fields? My people are going home.”
“It certainly sounds to be so. You will be relieved, I do not doubt. You have told me on several occasions that you yearn for your home. You shall see it soon.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes. Soon…”
Flora glared at the swelling bubble of bright scarlet on the end of her finger. She stuck her digit in her mouth to clean away the blood before it could stain the creamy linen in her hands. She had once possessed a deft touch with a needle, but her skills seemed to have deserted her now. Her stitches were crooked and uneven. A mere child could do better.
She set the work aside and blinked hard to clear her vision. It did not help that she could barely manage not to break down weeping.
She had longed for this, had she not? She had looked forward to the day when she would be set free to return home. It was for this that she had concealed her true identity from the marquis, for fear he would seek to realise her value as a hostage.
Her father would have paid the ransom, she had no doubt of that. Even if he was reluctant, the earl was never one to squander money if he could help it, her brother, Robbie, would have insisted. But she would only have seen her home again after months of wrangling and negotiations as the earl tried to argue the price down.
She had avoided all of that. She should be delighted.
Why, then, did she fight back her tears and dread the moment when Stephen would come to fetch her, to send her on her way back across the border?
She stabbed the needle into the shirt again. She would at least complete this task before she left.
Flora moved closer to the window in the hope the better light might improve her work. It did not. The chamber faced northwest, so the illumination from outside was weak at best.
She remembered the east- and south-facing windows in the solar. Stephen was downstairs in the hall, so the room was currently unused. She would work in there.
She carried her sewing items next door and set them on the table, then positioned herself to capture the best of the light. It was much better. She bent to her task.
An hour passed, and the shirt seemed far more presentable. She had managed not to bleed all over it, at least. Flora looked up when a serving wench entered with a jug of ale which she set on the side table on the wall opposite the windows. The girl tended the fire, then asked if there was anything else Flora needed.
“No, thank you.”
The girl bobbed a curtsey and left.
Flora got to her feet, stretched, and went over to the side table to pour herself a mug of the ale. It was only when she set the jug back on the table that she noticed the rolled-up parchment on the shelf above. Beside it lay Stephen’s writing implements, his quill pen carved from a goose feather, a pot of ink, and several sheets of blank parchment.
The seal of the King of England was clearly visible on the rolled-up piece, though it had been broken earlier when Stephen had read the missive. He had clearly left it here, intending to pen his reply in due course.
Without really pausing to consider what she was doing, Flora reached for the king’s letter. As much as anything, she was curious to read something written in the Tudor monarch’s own hand. She already knew the content of the message, after all, so it was not really inappropriate to read it for herself.
She took the parchment back to the table, sat, and spread it open before her.
The first part of the letter did, indeed, deal with matters of defence and the security of the realm. Henry Tudor sought assurances that the border clans remained under control, and that the Marquis of Otterburn was in possession of no intelligence to suggest that King James of Scotland might harbour designs on increasing his territories in the north of England.
But the letter did not end there. Once the affairs of state had been addressed, the king went on to expound upon more personal matters.
I have charged you with the defence of my borders. I know of none better suited to the task, with the possible exception of your brother who I am told is shortly to welcome his third child.
I look forward to hearing, too, of your own offspring. My realm requires good, Lancastrian heirs if our Tudor dynasty is to be secured, and I am determined to see such done. Indeed, I am perplexed as to why such joyful tidings have not yet reached us. Lady Katherine Bramwell is a comely woman, by all accounts, and of sound health and child-bearing age. She will make a fine marchioness. Can it be that despite my express wishes, your betrothal and marriage have been unaccountably delayed? This concerns me, and I anticipate your good assurances to the contrary at the earliest opportunity.
The rest of the letter dealt with news of the royal household. Young Prince Arthur thrived, apparently, as did his sister, Margaret. The baby girl was less than a year old, but already her father was considering a match with the King of Scotland as a way of securing the perpetual peace he so desired.
Flora reread the closely scripted letter to be quite certain she had not misunderstood the king’s words. She had not. Henry Tudor was clearly of the opinion that a match between Sir Stephen and Lady Katherine was imminent, and he gave his blessing to it. Indeed, His Majesty had expected Stephen to be wed before now and already be producing a crop of loyal subjects to shore up the Tudor reign.
She felt sick as she returned the letter to the shelf.
Why did he not tell me?
Both of them? They must have contrived to deceive me. They have planned this, plotted it between them. But why?
But the most burning, the most damning fact among all of this…
Betrothed. Stephen and Katherine are betrothed.
Flora returned to the bedchamber, dazed at what she had discovered. She had never imagined for so much as a moment that she and Stephen might wed. This thing between them had only ever been a brief moment in time, a short, heady interlude. But she would never have allowed herself to be seduced by him had she believed him promised to another, and certainly not when the woman concerned was known to her. Katherine was her friend, of sorts.
Except, of course, she was not. Lady Katherine had been a part of this deception, this… this perversity.
How they must have laughed at her gullibility. Had he told his betrothed of the intimacies he shared with his Scottish captive? Had they even tittered together over their wine and sweetmeats at the high table in the Elborne hall, while Flora sat upstairs alone?
If there was but one shred of comfort to be clutched at in all of this, it was that her ordeal, her humiliation, was soon to be at an end. This very day, she would be set free with the rest of her clansfolk. She could go home, lick her wounds, and pretend that she had never even heard of the Marquis of Otterburn.