The Lord's Bride

by Loki Renard

  Edward was not at all dissuaded. “If I distinguish myself in small matters, perhaps I will one day distinguish myself in large ones.”

  “The fox distinguishes himself in the hen-house, but he must still flee from the wolf.”

  “You are saying I should be the wolf?”

  “I am saying small matters are the domain of the small.”

  Edward did not do much to hide his look of doubt. “Every large event is the culmination of many small events. Indeed, the greatest tragedies could often have been prevented if just one of the smaller events proceeding it had not taken place.”

  Martin looked up from the parchment which had once more taken his attention. “If you have time for philosophizing, you have time to exercise that horse of mine, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Martin waited for his squire to leave, then cast the parchment aside. The mystery was compounding, drawing more people into its sway. It was fast taking on the aspect of a local legend. That could not be allowed. The law could not do battle against superstition and legends. It could only take action against people, against the flesh and blood.

  He was not a superstitious man. He knew that headless corpses did not walk. He knew, too, that there was some mischief afoot at the convent. Somehow, a tickle in the back of his mind told him that it was connected to Mary.

  It was time to pay another visit to the convent.

  * * *

  As always, the abbess welcomed him warmly to the convent. The first woman he spoke to besides the worthy abbess was Sister Lucia, who confirmed his suspicions as they walked through the gardens.

  “I think Mary put him in my bed, but the others say she couldn’t have done,” Lucia said, her face twisted with an anger that made her most unattractive.

  “She couldn’t have done?”

  “She was indisposed.”

  “Indisposed?” Martin pressed the point. “In what manner was she indisposed?”

  “I was in a grave. The dead man’s grave.” Mary had rounded the corner of the convent just in time to overhear the conversation. “Sister Lucia put me in the grave as a punishment.”

  “That is not true. Mary decided to hide in the grave as means of avoiding a very well deserved flogging.”

  Martin maintained his stern exterior with great effort. If he had been concerned that Mary had perhaps become a natural dunce, he was concerned no longer. Mary knew precisely what she was doing. The streak of mischief that had always been so strong in her was still intact. He wondered what havoc it was wreaking amidst the good women of the convent. Certainly this Sister Lucia was suffering for it.

  “Perhaps you would allow me to speak to Mary alone, Sister Lucia.”

  “As you wish.” Lucia pursed her lips in disapproval and withdrew, leaving Martin with Mary. He looked upon her with no small measure of affection and allowed himself a chuckle.

  “What has she done to earn your ire?”

  “She is cruel,” Mary said simply. “She believes that she is owed obedience by merit of the lash. She has no time for kindness or understanding. If it irritates her, she hits it.”

  “Onerous indeed,” he sympathized. “You are not suited to this life, Mary. You are far too passionate, far too impetuous for a life of restraint.”

  “Do not tell me what I am suited to,” Mary replied pertly. “You may now be sheriff, Martin, but I remember the day your father’s bull chased you from here to Shaftesbury.”

  “Not quite that far,” Martin replied, allowing himself a small smile. “The fact remains, you are not one to hide behind a convent’s walls for the duration of your life.” He had forgotten all about the walking man and the mysteries of the forest. With the innocent, still chaste beauty of Mary before him, he could think of nothing but her.

  “You do not know what I am,” Mary replied.

  “I see what you are in your eyes.” He reached for her hand. It was slim and fit inside his perfectly, until she drew it away.

  “You should not lay hands on me, Sheriff. I belong to the Lord now.”

  “I do not think he would mind sharing you with me.”

  “Blasphemy!” Mary drew back a step, drew herself up to her full height, and scowled at Martin with all the fervor she could muster. “I will pray for your soul, Martin.”

  “Pray for my body,” Martin replied, “for it is lost without you.”

  Concern and confusion were immediately writ upon her pretty face. “What…”

  “I think you very beautiful, Mary. I always have,” he confessed. “But you and I were promised to others.”

  “Sold to another, more like it. Claimed.”

  “You have never been claimed, Mary.”

  “Nor shall I be, in the beastly carnal sense you infer. My purity shall remain mine.”

  “You may be pure in body, but not in heart, and certainly not in mind.”

  “Do not presume to tell me my mind.” Mary swept past him. “I find you presumptuous and rude, Sheriff de Stafford. I will thank you to leave me to the Lord’s peace.”

  “The peace that finds you spending nights in graves? Prey to the attentions of robbers? Subordinate to a vicious nun who would gladly flay you if she had the chance?”

  “And if I were yours?” She stopped in her tracks, turning about with eyes flashing the old intellect and passion he’d known so well. This was the real Mary. Not the pretty, dullard postulant. This woman standing proudly before him was not at all slow-witted or fanciful. She was as sharp as a fresh-made blade, as quick as a viper. “What would my life look like as the wife of a nobleman? Would I come to love my gilded cage?”

  “You would come to love me.”

  “Love is not in question,” Mary snapped. She drew back, placing her hands over her mouth as if to catch the words. It was too late. They had been heard.

  “So you admit there is a fondness between us.”

  “Was there ever a time that there was not?”

  “No,” he said, his voice softening. “So come to me, Mary. Be mine.”

  “I escaped the bonds of matrimony once. Even you cannot coax me back to them. I have work to do, Sheriff. Good day.”

  “What work? Sewing samplers? Sweeping the convent?”

  “Good day.”

  Oh, she was a headstrong wench. As she turned, about to flounce away from him, he reached for her and pulled her back.

  “Come here, Mary,” he said, growling the words against the back of her neck. “I do not wish to bid you good day. I do not wish to let you go at all.”

  She made no response, but he could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Was she afraid? Was he perhaps being too rough with her? He turned her about. Looking down into her face, he saw not fear, but the same desire he had for her echoed in her gaze.

  A mad impulse took him. He lowered his head and let his lips graze against her mouth, softly at first and then with the yearning of love long denied. For a moment, she stiffened against him, but then she relaxed and her lips parted. He let his tongue taste her mouth and found that hers was just as eager. The kiss deepened as she responded. His arms wrapped around her body, and her hips rode against him, her sweet hidden flower blooming beneath her dress. He could smell her scent, her trickling yearning. She wanted him just as badly as he wanted her, perhaps more so. She was in heat, a writhing cat ready to be mated. Likely she was still a virgin, but she was undoubtedly an eager one. His excitement matched hers, a ridge of desire pressing against her lower belly. Oh, to spread her thighs and press himself up under her dress. Oh, to touch the sweet maidenhead at the thrusting head of his cock. Oh…

  It was with a great amount of self-control that Martin broke the kiss and held her tenderly in his arms. “Was that so very terrible?”

  “It was not,” she admitted. “But it was not proper, Martin. I am promised to the L—”

  He interrupted her words with another kiss, this one deeper and even more passionate. Mary was not made for the Lord. The Lord had made Mary for him. Ma
rtin was more certain of that than ever.

  “Much has happened since we were last acquainted,” he said. “But our sorrows have bought us here, Mary. They have taken us to a place where we can be together. All I need is your consent.”

  She gazed up into his face, her cheeks flushed with emotion and arousal. When her lips parted, he was certain that she would say yes.

  “No.”

  Martin’s heart sank. “No?”

  “Your kisses are very sweet, Martin, but that which was once between us was once between us. I am not the same girl who followed you about with love in her heart.”

  “That which you are, you are, Mary. I want you as you stand before me now.”

  “You want that which you imagine me to be,” she said, pulling away from his hands, leaving him bereft of the soft touch of her body. “But you do not know me, Martin. You have not known me for a long time. Please. Leave me now.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes, and her voice wavered as she spoke. Martin did not understand the source of her anguish, but he understood that there was some pain she thought she must hide.

  “What is it, Mary? Did you lose your maidenhead?”

  Mary threw a slap at him. It connected with his chest, doing no harm at all.

  “No, I did not lose my maidenhead. You speak as though I might have misplaced it in my sewing box!”

  “Then what? What so weighs upon you?”

  “You think of nothing besides maidens and their heads,” Mary said scornfully. “It is your small head that dictates your feelings. Go, Martin. You could not possibly begin to understand.”

  “If I do not understand, it is because you have not explained.”

  “I have work to do,” Mary said, changing the subject. “The abbess will not be pleased if she learns I spent my afternoon embracing the sheriff. Good day, Martin.”

  Martin watched her go, the curve of her hip evident even under the shapeless postulant’s dress. Silently, he cursed himself for having once taken her beauty for granted and for having chosen duty over love. He did not blame Mary for her coldness. She had once all but laid her heart out for him to take, but he had thought it more important to appease distant relatives. Mary had suffered for it. He had suffered for it. And now neither of them were truly happy.

  “Have you found any answers, Martin?” The abbess approached, her wise old eyes twinkling with the amusement of one who has had the privilege of watching the troubles of others unfold without personal effect.

  “I have not,” he said. “There is certainly something strange afoot in this corner of Staffordshire. I do not believe that Mary is as dull-witted as she is making out.”

  “Perhaps she is dull-witted, perhaps not,” the abbess said mildly. “Certainly she makes an abundance of trouble for herself by tormenting Sister Lucia.”

  “The woman who confined Mary to a grave in the dead of night.”

  “I do not condone such actions, of course,” the abbess said. “Lucia has been roundly scolded for her actions.”

  “Of course. And the walking dead? Do you condone or believe in them?”

  “I do not. It seems to me to have been a dark prank.”

  “And will there be consequences for it?”

  “If there is evidence as to the person responsible, yes. But the man himself says very little on the matter. He appears to have lost his tongue.”

  Martin quirked a brow at the abbess. It occurred to him that the venerable woman was perhaps very well aware of all that went on within the walls of her convent; however, she was choosing to allow certain miscreants more leeway than they strictly deserved.

  “You are fond of Mary,” the abbess continued. “And she is fond of you. In time her mind will soften and she will follow her heart. Be patient, dear Martin. The Lord has his plans for all of us.”

  Chapter Eleven

  With Martin’s kiss still hot upon her lips, Mary fled to her cell to relieve herself of the fire between her thighs. Barely in the door, she put her back to it and let her hand go beneath her skirts, where her fingers soon found the bud of pleasure. She closed her eyes and rubbed it with great fervor, allowing her mind to wander back to the dark, handsome form of the sheriff.

  His touch was masterful. She could still feel his hands upon her waist and her hip—lean, strong fingers taking control of her form. Imagining that it was him that so touched her, Mary spread her thighs and slid down the door to rest her bare bottom against the cool floor.

  It was a wanton display of most undesirable lust, but she could not help herself. The animal part of her wanted to go to him, to rut like beasts in the field. She knew it was essential that she purged her lust, lest she find herself pinned beneath Martin, his rod pressing into her virgin flesh, branding her forever after as his.

  Oh, how awful it would be, to be filled up to her very core with the thick, hard rod she had felt through his clothing. To spread her legs and envelop his hard, thrusting frame… Mary’s head fell back as she pushed her fingers inside the tight entrance of her womanhood and began thrusting there, not so deep as to pierce the barrier beyond, but enough to simulate the imagined penetration of the man who wanted to make her his.

  She was close to climax, but the discomfort of the floor made it difficult for her to reach her peak. With her fingers locked between her thighs, Mary moved to the bed. It was a mistake, for no sooner had she shifted away from the oak barrier than it opened. Sister Lucia stood in the threshold and beheld the display of depraved lust with a dour eye.

  “You wicked girl!”

  Sister Lucia was upon Mary before she could so much as remove her hand from her slick, wet lips. Grasped up and thrust forward over the bed, Mary’s hand was pinned between her thighs, and when Lucia’s leather landed across her cheeks, she found a bolt of pleasure travel between ridge of finger and tender nub of flesh.

  “I know it was you that put that body in my bed,” Lucia said, one of her strong hands locked at the back of Mary’s neck as the other belabored her bottom with fast, hard slaps of the leather. “I know you are a wicked little witch, and I know you have cast a spell on the abbess so she forgives you for your sins without consequence. Well, your spells do not work on me! You will feel this lesson for a week!”

  The thick lash left bright red stripes across the pale crown of Mary’s cheeks, but as much as each lash hurt, there was a modicum of pleasure that came with it. Having been caught in a state of arousal, Mary felt her body reacting to the lash as if it were a lover’s touch.

  “And to come back here and touch yourself, filthy girl,” Lucia lectured. “I should strap that… that wicked place until you learn to leave it alone! Get your fingers away from there!”

  Mary arched and squalled as the leather was flicked against the damp flesh between her thighs. The sensation was quite unlike it had been when the lash was landing across her cheeks. It stung much more against the sensitive skin, and yet the burn left something of a pleasurable sensation in its wake. Fortunately, the bud of her clitoris was well protected by being pressed against the mattress, so it was only the lower part of her quim that was exposed to Lucia’s lash.

  “Please, Sister Lucia!” Mary begged. “Do not strike me there!”

  “Bear the pain, postulant! These are the wages of your sin!”

  But it was not pain which Mary protested against, but the rising wave of pleasure, which quite numbed her to the ill-effects of Lucia’s lash. With every snap of the leather, she drew closer to that sweet release in which she seemed to touch the stars themselves.

  “If these are the wages of sin, then I shall sin until the end of time,” she vowed softly to herself.

  The lashing stopped just before the crescendo of her arousal broke. In Mary’s lusty haze, she was only vaguely aware of Lucia’s lecturing, which she bore until the woman left the room, most satisfied at the result of her whipping.

  What Lucia did not know was that the moment she left, Mary’s fingers found the sinful bud and pressing upon it, trigge
red a wave of pleasure so intense that every part of her body first became tense, then relaxed more deeply than before.

  For several minutes, Mary drifted quite pleasantly in the haze of release. Then, as the pleasure faded, the pain of the lash began to make itself known in a slow burn that covered both her cheeks, her upper thighs, and the delicate skin between her legs as well. Only when she peeked into the small mirror which usually adorned the wall of her cell did Mary realize the true extent of Lucia’s punishment. There were large welts across her bottom and placed with surprising precision across her inner thighs too. It looked as though she were not a woman, but something woven from red and white flesh. Here and there, spots of bruises were beginning to flower, leaving Mary quite irate.

  “How dare she?” Mary murmured to herself. “What gives her the right to sit in such wicked judgment?”

  Tears slowly came to Mary’s eyes. Not tears of pain, but tears of outrage.

  “You will not take your lash to any other, Sister Lucia,” she said, placing the mirror back upon the wall. “I promise that.”

  * * *

  From that moment forth, a war was waged inside the convent. It was a quiet war, almost undetectable, but it was a war nonetheless.

  The first battle was won when Sister Lucia’s leather lash was found charred upon the kitchen fire. She accused Mary, of course, but none had seen the lash being taken, and without proof there could be no punishment.

  Of course, the lash alone was not the problem. The problem was Sister Lucia, who still had plenty of other implements at her disposal. With her ire raised, she took to carrying about a stack of birch sticks all wrapped up with twine. Like Medusa, when one implement was taken, several more bristled in its place.

  Sitting upon a bench in the afternoon sun, Mary watched Lucia go past with her thick, knobby sticks.

  “Have you become a peasant, carrying kindling for the lord?”

  Lucia stopped and turned toward Mary, an unpleasant smile upon her face. “Would you like a taste of this kindling? You look in need of warming. I will stoke a fire on your hide, postulant.” She started toward Mary with punitive intention written on her features. “Come and let me lay the Lord’s word upon you.”