The Hunted Bride

by Jaye Peaches

  “Fly away?” he said dryly. “My dear, if you do, I shall find you. Have no fear, I would not let anything happen to you. And if you fly to Geoffrey, it will be a breach of our contract.”

  “A contract is all you care about?” she said haughtily. “I am a ware, like the merchant brings home, traded back and forth for your pleasure.”

  He stepped closer to her, lowered his head and spoke into her ear. “And yours too. Or are you afraid to admit that?”

  She clutched her goblet to her beating breast. “No, my lord. I can’t possibly lie about that, can I.”

  Her body betrayed her every night, and he witnessed her climaxes with delight impressed upon his features.

  “Wicked girl, you are, knowing full well that you welcome your nightly excursions, and yet have the gall to stand here before me and try to imply otherwise. Our contract has gifted you all that you need.” He raked his gloved fingers through her hair, tugging her head back, forcing her to look up into his marine eyes.

  “Has it?” she said, her lips trembling. “I believe you have not shown me love, sir.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “That will come,” he said.

  “You are arrogant and bold.” She tried to twist her head to one side, but she could not avoid his descending mouth. He pressed firmly on her lips, persuading her to open and embrace the kiss with one of her own.

  The servants had discreetly shrunk into the shadows. The goblet slipped out of her hand onto the grass and she reached up to grasp his leather tunic. She clung to it, as he continued to kiss her, allowing her only the briefest of respites to gasp for air. She melted beneath him, the heat of the day supplanted by his fiery passion.

  Abruptly, he released her, and she staggered backwards. Her throat had constricted, preventing her from talking. He aimed his sharp gaze at the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. The hunger in the striated pupils was acute.

  “That was a reminder that my arrogance will conquer you, my lady. What else you need, I am still determining. I will not have my heart stolen from me. It will be given freely and when I am ready. As will yours.”

  She found her voice, strained though it was. “What else do I need? Is there more you think you can show me? Have I not surrendered myself sufficiently for you?”

  “No,” he said simply. “I have only just begun.” He bowed, and started to walk away.

  There was more? How could he possibly arouse her senses any further than what he had so far achieved? “My lord. I... I... would have you show me more.” She picked at his sleeve and he halted.

  He searched her face. “Truly? Are you able, do you think, to withstand my most ardent passions?”

  She pushed back her shoulders and shook out her hair. “Yes.”

  He smiled. “Then, tonight, you will be tested. I have guests for dinner. Men from distant lands, friends from my days as a soldier. These men are rough, worldly, and have a taste for foreign ways.”

  What awaited her? Her hope was to force him to see that love was the only way forward, that only that steadfast feeling would break her bond with Geoffrey, but now it seemed she had baited Gervais to test her beyond her abilities.

  He strolled up to her and tipped up her chin. “You’ll need to be like Artemis—quiet, elegant, and on display. I shall bring something to your chamber before we dine.” With a brazen grin, he walked off and summoned his horse and hawk.

  Matilda was left watching him hunt, wondering what she had done to excite him so much.

  Chapter Sixteen

  She was ensconced in her chamber when the men arrived. The only sounds to reach her through the thick walls of the keep were dogs barking.

  “Do you think they can be trusted?” Sara asked, her gaze on the door.

  “Of one thing I can be assured, Sara; Lord Baliol will not let another man lay a finger on me.” Matilda wrapped the towel around her body and stepped out of the bathtub. Bathing had become a necessarily frequent feature of her life at Baliol Castle.

  The rap on the door heralded Gervais’s arrival, as he had warned her on the meadow. In his finest shirt, silk hose, calf boots, and sleeveless velvet robe of crimson, he exuded wealth and nobility. He’d trimmed his golden beard, combed his hair, and decorated his fingers with sapphires and rubies. His splendidness was heart-stopping. The towel nearly slipped out of Matilda’s hand. She snatched it to her chest and attempted a curtsy.

  He carried in his hands a strange contraption of leather straps and protrusions.

  “What’s that?” she said warily.

  He approached, swinging the item in front of him. “A harness.”

  “Am I a horse?” she said indignantly.

  “More like a bird.” He stopped short of her. “All your plumage will be covered, my dear, behind your finest gown. These men will ogle you, but they wouldn’t dare, on pain of death, touch you. That being promised, I shall make sure they know you are mine, that you obey me and your grace will be all they see.”

  Grace. She was lacking somewhat in grace according to her father. She was known to stomp up and down when angry, pluck at her hair when distracted, and roll her eyes when bored.

  “What of my beauty?” she asked. “Will they see that?”

  “It will be inferred.”

  “With that?” She pointed at the strange device.

  “Take off the towel and I will show you.”

  Sara retreated into the darkest corner of the room. Over the weeks, she had heard and seen much, but never spoke a word out of respect for her mistress.

  Matilda hesitated. Fear was absent—she trusted him—but she could not quell the anxiety of either hating his idea or displeasing him by refusing to cooperate.

  “Tilda,” he said pleasantly, “you will wear this, or we will visit the tower room. There’s time for a swift spanking.”

  The towel slithered onto the rushes by her feet. It wasn’t that a spanking terrified her—she doubted he had time for anything thorough—but that she nearly considered it a preferable option.

  He loosened a buckle on the harness. It appeared to have two shoulder straps closely aligned to two hoops, and at the bottom end there were additional attributes, which upon closer inspection were bulbous appendages, each one shaped like a thin pear and crafted from polished wood. She pictured the formation of the various straps, how they might fit against her body, and the image in her mind was atrocious.

  “Oh, no, sir.” She pressed her hand to her mouth to stop the exclamation. “You can’t mean... I shan’t be comfortable.”

  “Perhaps not at first.” He took her hand and guided it to a dangling strip of leather. “Feel. The tanners made this leather from the softest hides. They’ll not cut you. But you must wear it tight. I’ll help you.”

  “Why, why must I wear such a thing under my dress?”

  “You’ll see. Now, step into these holes and put your arms into these.” He held out the harness ready for her. “Go on.”

  She leaned on him for support and lifted each leg in turn into the stipulated locations. Rising, he drew the harness up with him until the wooden appendages slipped between her thighs. The upper part of the straps fitted over her shoulders and against her back. As for the two hoops, stiffened and fitted with miniature straps, their function was quickly revealed when he ringed each breast with a hoop and snared them. Moving to stand behind her, he drew the straps together and fastened them.

  She winced. “My lord—”

  “Hush,” he said smoothly. He faced her, admiring her pert breasts sticking through the hoops, then frowned. “They are not as proud as I would like.” He unfastened the small straps attached to the hoops and drew more leather through the buckles. Her breasts were contained, the skin flushed pink and she cried a little whimper. The hoop squeezed tighter and blood rushed into each nipple. He had turned her crescent breasts into neat buns that lifted up and out of her chest.

  “With your gown covering them, nobody will know what contrivance keeps them so pronounced and abun
dant in appearance. Except you and I.” He winked.

  Her lips trembled as his attention turned to the lower part of the harness. It reminded her of a chastity belt she’d once found in a chest in the convent, although that contraption was metal and lacked any additional features.

  “These will rise up and in you,” he said. “I suggest you bend over while I insert each one.”

  “My lord.” She swayed. “You cannot expect me to sit and dine with these strange men with these... things inside me.”

  “I do, and I shall. What better way to control your lust than have it desperate and hidden. You can say nothing. Do nothing. I shall watch you while you stare blurry-eyed across the table, unable to move, to utter a word, entirely focused on your sex. A concentration of mind that will render you incapable. All these men will see is a meek creature, destined to be fucked unchecked by her man. They will be envious, but also offer you great respect.”

  “Why? I will be humiliated.” She had not bent over for him.

  “Because they are men whom I have toasted, hunted alongside countless times, and they know whomever I choose to wed must be of great integrity and worthiness. They will honour you, bow, and ponder on their own lives. Perhaps they will leave here determined to find a good wife for themselves.”

  “I am to perform some service to them by wearing this ridiculous harness.” She drew her lips into an unseemly pout. “I care not for what they want in life. This is despicable, sir...”

  He moved so swiftly, she had no time to react. He caught one of her pebbled nipples in his mouth and sucked hard on it. She gasped and held her breath for the duration of his intimate act of persuasion. He fluttered his tongue around the sensitive nipple, triggering a wave of shivers that extended down her belly and into her cleft. Releasing the tender bud, he rose with a gleeful smile on his face.

  “Does it hurt now?” he asked.

  She couldn’t lie. The loops had settled, and her breasts no longer felt crushed by them. “No,” she said sheepishly.

  He pressed his hand on the nape of her neck and she folded, bending down until her bottom was raised. He knocked her feet apart and examined her slit and folds.

  “Wisely, and perhaps unknowingly, you are aroused, my sweet.” He stroked his hand over a buttock, along her quivering furrow, past the puckered entrance and into the opening of the other, the one that generously admitted his fingers. He wriggled them about, murmuring something about her ‘cunt’ and ‘wantonness.’

  She grasped her knees and closed her eyes. He continued to inspect her with leisurely nonchalance, before remembering his purpose. The lower straps were fitted snug around her waist and between her legs; the solitary thicker band of leather was drawn up and inward. The first protuberance entered her pussy and lodged itself there. She felt no discomfort, not even an unwanted tightness. However, the second object required a firm nudge and a measure of pressure before it slipped inside her back hole. She groaned, pained at first by the intrusion, then as she accepted it was part of her, she relaxed around it and resigned herself bodily to the occupation.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Stand up.”

  She gingerly straightened, and as she did, the two wooden pears dropped. The one in her pussy hovered half in and out, the other was trapped, but she felt its weight drawing down inside her.

  “Oh,” she whimpered.

  “Do they hurt?”

  “No. But how will I walk?”

  He laughed. “With ease, once I have tightened these straps.”

  “Tightened!”

  The strip holding the wooden appendages rose in response to the jerking tugs of both buckle and strap. She crept up onto tiptoes, trying to alleviate the friction of deep penetration within her pussy and bottom. But she ran out of height. The lower band, attached at each end to the leather belt around her waist, drew tighter and tighter. It burrowed between her folds, eking out the depth of her slit and furrow, and then it applied pressure to her pubic mound. Her clitoris, now engaged, was unable to yield in any direction. Her jaw dropped and she finally understood the harness’s purpose.

  “Your arousal is acute, I guess,” he said, staring into her wide eyes.

  The rapidity took her by surprise. Each notch of the tightening had rubbed against her clitoris, and now it pulsed and swelled. “Yes, sir,” she stuttered. “May I come?”

  “Ha.” He kissed her cheek. “Absolutely not. You’ll hold that need in your belly and arse. You’ll walk on dainty tiptoes and straight-backed. When you sit, you’ll feel each jiggle of your hips, each flex of your sex. As for your breasts, they will only hurt when you move suddenly, remember that. So remain graceful and ladylike.”

  “Oh, my God. I can’t.” She touched her face. “The shame. I’m so hot and flustered.”

  “Indeed. Sara.” He summoned the bewildered maid from her hiding place. “When you dress your mistress in her gown, do so carefully. The harness should not show through the fabric. You will also ensure she is heavily veiled. No man may look on her flushed cheeks, or see her doe-like eyes. Or the beauty of her constant arousal. She will be curtained and kept discreet.”

  “Why?” Tilda murmured.

  “Because like the lady hawk, you will be hooded, kept bound with straps, and fed strips of meat from my plate. You will not lift a finger to help yourself. I have had bells put on your slippers, so that when you move, I shall hear your every step. Soar, Matilda, use your grace to fly high in the rafters of the Great Hall, and later I shall reward you, but only if this apparel remains in place until I permit its removal.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gervais greeted his six companions and beckoned them to the high table where he sat in a tall-backed chair. They bowed, and took up places on either side of him, leaving one seat spare for his lady. Servants poured wine into their silver goblets and they waited expectantly for the words of the grace to be spoken by the castle’s priest, who hovered by the fireplace in his black habit.

  The signal had not been given because Gervais was waiting. He cocked his ear to listen over the hubbub of quiet conversations. Then he heard it—the jingle of tiny bells. She was approaching.

  “My fellow knights and gentlemen, my betrothed, Lady Matilda Barre.” He rose, and so did the others to greet his bride-to-be.

  She walked daintily, toe to heel, with her gown swaying around her ankles. Veiled as requested with her long tresses bundled under an extravagant headdress, her face was invisible to the men—the silvery tissue of the veil shimmered and only close up was it possible to see her eyes and the outline of her lips. He held out his hand and she grasped it. There was a slight wobble in her steps as he guided her to the solid chair next to his. She hesitated, curtsied to the lords, then cautiously with grace borne out of her delicate situation, she seated herself on the plump cushion. He was not so unkind, he thought.

  His friends bowed, muttering appreciative words of welcome. He introduced them each in turn, from the oldest, Lord Caspian, to the youngest, Sir Eustace, who once was Gervais’s squire.

  She replied in a high-pitched voice, “My lord, you’re most welcome.”

  Gervais had little doubt her knees were locked tight together beneath her skirts and given the way her bosom rose and fell, brushing those hardened nipples against the fabric of her shift, she was likely to be in a state that offered neither comfort nor displeasure.

  The priest stepped forward and intoned the grace in Latin. Matilda crossed herself with a trembling hand. Jacob signalled and a row of waiting servants brought dish after dish to the table.

  Matilda’s plate was empty. She kept her hands clasped together and her head slightly bowed. The conversation, which Gervais initiated, circled around the topic of politics, and was beyond her comprehension. It meant she had little to do but allow him to offer her meat from his plate.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  She slipped each morsel under the veil and quietly chewed upon it. Now and again, the bells tinkled, as she repositioned her
slippered feet under the table.

  They gazed upon her, his boon companions. A few too lasciviously, but he had anticipated a couple of them would struggle to maintain their good manners. As expected not one of them remarked upon her silence or veil, because they were accustomed to his practises. No prize, whether betrothed or not, should be exhibited indiscreetly. He recalled countless banquets, where the winning huntsmen had used pedestals, and on one occasion a gilded cage, to show off their quarry, which only served to encourage the guests to gloat and behave despicably. Gervais had always refused to sink so low as to treat any woman with such base contempt.

  Sir Eustace, having served Gervais in a personal capacity, kept his comments on the subject matter, whereas Lord Caspian could not resist licking his lips and smirking. With the wine warming his belly, Caspian leaned on the table for a better view of Matilda.

  “Is she fair or dark?” he asked Gervais. “I spy light eyes, is that not so?”

  “Fair, she is.”

  Caspian grunted. “Do you remember that Grecian girl, the one with piercings in her—”

  “I do. And Lady Matilda has no wish to hear about her.” Gervais shot a warning glance at Caspian.

  But Caspian had drunk too much. “I would take a wager that under that rich gown, your lady is bare, possibly painted. Remember that girl, the one who had enormous breasts and that devil—what was his name—stuck weights on them, then made her dance for us. You’re always hiding something, Baliol.” He sniggered.

  Matilda’s shoulders stiffened. She turned to face Gervais and he caught through the fine weave of her veil, the parting of her lips and a snatch of breath. Far from repulsed by the descriptions of other women, Matilda was entranced by the macabre guises Caspian was intent on exalting. She was emboldened, it seemed, and wicked in her thoughts.