Her Noble Lords (5 page)

I can only stare at him.

“Your gown is lovely, sweetheart, but we have no current need of it. Turn around and allow me to help you out of it.” His tone is low, seductive, his dark eyes warm with passion. A lock of overlong blond hair falls across his forehead and I long to reach out, to brush it aside. I wish, oh, how I do most fervently wish things were otherwise between us.

Slowly, almost disbelieving that this could be happening, I turn to present my back.

His fingers are swift and efficient as they loosen the fastenings of my borrowed gown. It gaps away to expose the tops of my breasts, now covered only by the sheer chemise. I gasp as warm lips trace a light, teasing trail across my naked shoulders.

“You are so beautiful, my sweet. Truly lovely.” Ralf murmurs his endearments as he moves closer, lifting my hair in order to nuzzle the nape of my neck. I shiver, though not from cold. This assault on my senses is shattering what shreds of reason remain to me. I tilt my head to the side to offer him greater access.

“Yes, my sweet. That is it. So soft, like finest satin…” He drops hot, open-mouthed kisses down the exposed portion of my spine, edging the fabric of my gown lower as he goes. “Your skin is like porcelain, so smooth, so pale…”

His hands are on my shoulders now, easing the gown down toward my elbows. The front slides further forward, aided by questing fingers which nudge the chemise aside too. He cups my exposed breast, his palm warm against my sensitive skin.

“God’s bones, Eleanor, you are exquisite.”

I tilt my head back, open my eyes to regard the underside of the rough roof as Ralf teases my nipple to a hard, needy point. I am beyond words, unable to articulate what I am thinking, feeling, wanting. Needing. His lips are tracing a path up my neck now and across my jaw to finally brush my mouth.

“Open for me, lovely Eleanor.”

“Sir—” Just uttering the word is sufficient opportunity for him. His lips cover mine, his tongue sliding between them to seek out my inner space.

His caress shifts to my other breast and soon the nipple there is swollen and hard, too, a smooth, round pebble straining to be touched. Ralf does touch: he tugs and he rolls and he squeezes and I cry out in astonished delight.

He breaks the kiss to murmur more sweet words to me. “Yes, my pretty little one. Let me know what pleases you. I want this to be good for you too…”

“Sir, I…”

“Eleanor…” he growls.

And the spell is broken. I am not she. I am but simple Linnet Routh, lady’s maid to a countess, formerly scullery maid to this man who now seeks to utterly scramble my senses.

“No! No, my lord, I cannot. We cannot.” I wriggle from his embrace and lurch across the room.

“Eleanor, what are you—?”

“I have told you and told you, I am Linnet. Linnet, not Eleanor. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Damn it, woman, must you continue with this madness?”

“It is you who are deranged. I have explained but you refuse to listen. This marriage is a charade, a travesty. I must leave—”

“You are going nowhere, my lady.” He advances toward me, his expression cold now and angry.

I back away but within a couple of steps the backs of my knees are hard against the edge of the table. I clutch the loose gown across my breasts, shaking as I struggle to shove my arms back into the sleeves.

“I swear I will treat you gently, despite the spanking you have surely earned. You are overwhelmed, I can see that and I would not punish you on your wedding day. Please, my lady, come to me.” His voice is gentle, cajoling. It would be so easy to yield.

And so utterly wrong. In desperation I look around me for anything, anything at all which might serve to deter him. The knife supplied with the cheeses is the only candidate to hand so I twist my body to seize it from the table at my rear. I turn, brandishing the weapon before me.

“Leave me alone. Please. I cannot do this.”

He lifts one eyebrow and my meagre store of courage plummets. He is not to be gainsaid. He moves forward, slowly, cautiously but with undiminished purpose.

“Eleanor, think carefully. You cannot expect to prevail in this contest and I do not wish to hurt you. Put the knife down.”

I shake my head, despairing of any but a disastrous outcome. If I surrender he might not injure me now but in time will come to hate me for the coil I have placed him in despite my efforts to put a stop to all of this. If I continue to resist, he will overpower me eventually and the outcome will be the same.

“Eleanor, do not cry. This will not be so terrible, I assure you.”

I had not even realised that tears are streaming down my cheeks. I make no attempt to stem them, just peer at him through the blur. Why will he not simply believe me? It would have been so simple had he but listened, it would never have come to this.

In a fit of blind panic I make a dash for the door but of course he is too quick. He grabs my arm, the one not hampered by holding the knife and hauls me back. I struggle. Desperate now to escape even though some sane, rational part of me knows full well my flight will be short-lived. On foot, fleeing men on horseback, it will be hopeless.

Even so, I fight back, striking out at his restraining arm, his shoulder, his chest. His grip tightens, and he lets out an oath I have only previously heard on occasional visits to my lady’s stables. Then incredibly, I am free. He releases me and staggers away, slumping to one knee. I seize my chance and dash from the cottage, the sturdy wooden door swinging in my wake. I glance across the lane to see Piers and the two guards still engaged in conversation, their backs to me. My luck is holding. I dash around the side of the cottage, out of their sight should they turn and find God to be well and truly on my side. A horse, the grey from last night I think, not that it matters. The beast is saddled, ready to go.

I grab the reins and scramble onto a low wall, then up onto its back. I have never ridden a horse alone before but I know enough to lean forward, hang onto the mane, and dig my heels into its flanks. The animal lets out a startled whinny, then bursts into motion, galloping at full pelt across the meadow and back in the direction of the forest. I make no attempt to steer the headlong rush; all my efforts are devoted to remaining in the saddle.

Shouts and the sound of boots pounding across the hamlet behind me leave me in no doubt that my escape has not gone unnoticed but I have a good head start and might outrun them. I might, with luck and if God continues to intercede for me.

But it seems God has better things to do this day than concern Himself with my plight. Within moments the ominous sound of hoof beats drumming at my rear alerts me to pursuit. It must be Ralf, determined to have his way. Worse, I have truly angered him now.

I dig my heels in again, desperate to wring some yet untapped burst of speed from my mount but it is not to be. If anything, the infernal beast is slowing. A shrill whistle from behind causes the horse’s ears to prick and he slows yet more. Despite all my frantic efforts to convince the animal otherwise, he drops from a gallop to a canter, then a trot. As he slows to a leisurely walk, the reins are seized from my hands. I am dragged from my saddle and hauled onto the horse which has come up alongside me.

“Ah, my lady, you do insist on causing us inconvenience at every turn. What are we to do with you, I wonder?” The low tone sounds to be teasing but I know better. Piers St. John, for it is he who has pursued me and now holds me against his rigid chest, is anything but amused. He draws both horses to a standstill, then dismounts in one fluid motion, bringing me to the ground with him. “I believe we made clear the consequences of attempting to escape, did we not, my lady?”

“Let me go. You have no right—”

“Believe me, I have every right. You just added horse-stealing to your tally. A less benevolent lord would have you put in the stocks and whipped. I will settle for a spanking since this is after all your wedding day.”

“No, no, you cannot!” I am fighting in earnest now, frantic as I cast my gaze around for any sign of my husband. Surely he will not permit this.

But there is no one, only myself and Piers. I succeed in breaking free and manage a few desperate paces before I am seized about my waist and swung around. Despite my struggles Piers slings me over his shoulder, my bottom in the air, and strides back to where the horses chew the soft grass. The beasts watch my plight with dispassionate detachment, as though the sight of a helpless female being accosted is an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it is, at Egremont.

Piers turns and seats himself on a fallen tree trunk, his long legs stretched out before him. He hauls me down from his shoulder and unceremoniously dumps me across his lap. I kick, only to have him lay one leg over both of mine to hold me still. I attempt to reach back, to claw at him, all the while screeching my protests at the indignity he is subjecting me to.

Piers takes both my wrists in one of his hands and secures them in the small of my back. “Be still, my lady. The more you struggle and fight me, the more this will hurt.”

“Let me go, you vicious bully. You have no right. Only my husband—”

“My brother may well have his own issues to settle with you. This is for my horse.”

“I didn’t steal it. I was only—”

“Did you have my permission to take Julius?” His tone is hard, implacable. Worse, he has seized the hem of my gown and is drawing the fabric up my legs. Surely he cannot mean to bare my bottom for this!

He can and does. The cool whisper of a light breeze flutters over my naked buttocks as he bundles the fabric of my clothing up over my hands, still held firm at my back.

“How dare you, my lord! This is outrageous, my husband will—Aagh!”

My tirade is cut off by the hard slap across my left buttock. Stunned, I lie where he has put me, my head down, my unbound hair brushing the ground. I am silent, unable to quite comprehend what is happening to me. My silence is shattered by the next spank, even harder, in the centre of my right cheek.

I scream and buck as I try to get free. My desperate struggles come to naught as he tightens his grip, pulling me hard up against his body. I am yet more mortified by the insistent and unmistakable nudge of his erection against my hip, occasioned I don’t doubt by his perfect view of my bared bottom.

And more. In this most unladylike pose he has but to lean to his left in order to see a great deal more of me. Humiliated beyond measure, I fight my mounting panic, press my legs together, and will myself to remain still, to endure. I can do no other, for he has completely overpowered me.

He continues to spank my bottom, each slap reverberating through the still and otherwise silent forest. He shifts his leg under me, lifting my bottom up further, the better to spank me. I am chewing on my lower lip, determined not to cry out, not to afford him the perverse satisfaction of enjoying my pain.

I am unable to maintain my control and start to emit small squeals, grunts, then sobs as he rains a barrage of slaps down on my sensitive, throbbing backside. My bottom feels to be on fire now and he has started on my upper thighs. This hurts even more. I am crying in earnest, loud, gulping sobs as my entire universe converges on that one area of burning agony.

The fight goes from me, I am defeated, powerless, utterly helpless as I lie still now, draped across his knees, absorbing blow after blow.

The spanking seems to go on forever but eventually the strokes become less severe, less frequent. At last, they stop. I expect to be shoved unceremoniously from his lap to land in a heap at his feet, humbled, punished, totally chastened. Instead he continues to hold me against his hard body, though he releases my legs from under his and lets go of my wrists. He does not lower my skirts again and neither do I. It would be too painful to do so immediately and I am beyond modesty in this moment.

I hiss as he lays his palm on my abused flesh, half-expecting the spanking to start up again. It does not. Instead, he caresses my burning cheeks as though to soothe away the hurt. If that is his intent, his actions do not entirely work but I find the sensation to be not intolerable even so. It is quite nice, really and I see no immediate cause to interrupt his ministrations.

His fingers find their way dangerously close to my exposed quim and I am baffled at the realisation that I actually want him to touch me there. I wriggle, writhe on his lap, still sobbing occasionally but steadying now as he calms me with his gentle caress.

He does not touch me other than on my scorching bottom and thighs and I can only assume that to be out of respect for his brother since I could do nothing to prevent his explorations should he choose to pursue them. It would seem that a hard spanking has reduced me from outraged virgin bride to wanton hussy in a matter of minutes. Who would have believed that could be so?

All too soon he ceases his sensuous massage, though his palm remains on my flesh.

“Are you able to stand, my lady?” His voice is low, husky, infused with a quality I find impossible to define but which turns something deep within me to liquid.

“I do not know,” I answer truthfully.

“Allow me to assist you.” He slips his arm under my chest and eases me up, then supports me as I regain my balance if not my equilibrium. My dishevelled clothing drops back into place, the brush of fabric across my smarting bottom causing me to hiss again.

Piers grins, his smile one of knowing amusement. It occurs to me that he has probably spanked many women before me and is well aware of how such duly punished females might feel in the aftermath. And of how to treat them. I cannot fault his gentle, considerate handling of my person once he concluded my punishment.

Shy, embarrassed at my shameless response, I lower my gaze to stare at his booted feet.

“It is a fair distance back. Do you wish to ride with me or would you prefer to walk?”

I test my tender bottom with my hands. “I would rather walk, my lord.”

“Very well.” He stands and strides past me in the direction of the horses who have been content to nibble on the vegetation, oblivious to the events taking place not yards from where they stand. He whistles and the grey again pricks up his ears. The horse ambles toward Piers, who pats his velvety nose.