The Laird of Lochlannan

by Fiona Monroe

There was an awful silence for several moments.

  "I am truly sorry, Sir Duncan," she said eventually, hot tears rising again. She would rather he was angry and raving at her, than staring at her so coldly in silence. "I am ashamed. Everything you said was true. I knew at the time that what your sister planned to do was wrong, I was clear where Miss Buccleuch's duty lay—I wish I could have listened to my conscience, and been clear of my own."

  "I am not a good man, Catriona."

  Startled, as much by the use of her Christian name as his declaration and the abruptness of his tone, Catriona looked up. He stare was not, after all, cold. His eyes were serious and intent, and he looked agitated rather than angered now.

  "I have done by other men's sisters what I would have killed Daventry for doing to mine," he continued. "But I have never lied to them, never deceived. Never led a girl to think she had a chance of marriage with me if she had not. Never bedded another man's wife, for that matter. Whatever my vices, I do not like deception. I do not like betrayal."

  "I—hope you do not think me deceitful, sir."

  "I know next to nothing about you, except that your mother was sly enough to hump the music-master under my father's watchful eye. Like mother, like daughter?"

  She flushed, but could not muster any words of outrage. She stared back down at the carpet, and listened to the racing of her heart. For a moment, it seemed that he might come closer.

  Then he turned on his foot and wheeled away. "What I do know is that you have come into this family and immediately set about causing chaos, despite that mild and coy demeanour. You upset the servants by dragging up the past, you ransack my study in the dead of night, you swallow my sister's nonsense whole and nearly hand her over to the only man in Great Britain less to be trusted than myself. What in God's name am I going to do with you?"

  "I will pack my bag and leave the castle in the morning," she muttered, her heart sinking. She even turned towards the door.

  "Oh no. Not so fast, my girl."

  When he caught her wrist to stop her leaving, she did not try to pull it away. Her spirits fluttered, and she let him lead her back into the room.

  "The terms of my father's insane will," he said, in a low voice, "mean that if you leave my protection, you forfeit your inheritance. And then where would you be? I will tell you exactly where, fresh and lovely as you are — and far more naive than you think you are. You would be sitting prey to men like me. Oh, you would not starve, not as long as your looks and your health held out, but you would end up in the gutter ere long."

  "Sir! I would do no such thing. I have greater faith in my own virtue than you do."

  "Oh, wheest. My sister has half the brains of a gnat but at least she trusts that I know what is good for her. You are clever, Miss Dunbar, but that does not mean you are not exceedingly foolish. I will not have you throw your future away out of petulance or pride. I will not have you come to ruin. As I told you before, I take my duties as your guardian very seriously."

  He had told her before, and in that very room; but now, she did not feel the same rush of resentment that she had on that occasion. Indeed, she felt humility and gratitude, and an odd thrill of excitement. He had not let her leave, he wanted her to stay.

  He had said she was lovely.

  At that moment, even as he let go of her wrist and crossed the room deliberately to lift the dreaded razor strop from its hook on the wall over the desk, Catriona understood her own heart.

  "Kneel by the chair and lean over the arm."

  Sir Duncan's tone was curt. Catriona wanted to obey, longing to demonstrate by submitting to the well-deserved chastisement that she was truly ashamed of what she had done, but her legs were weak with fright. She took two or three tentative steps towards the chair, then could go no further.

  With a gesture of impatience, Sir Duncan flexed the strop in his hand and said, "Now, if you please."

  He was not going to impel her, even by gentle guidance. He was going to make her position herself for her own punishment, and accept it fully. By an effort of will, Catriona forced herself to move, and buckled to her knees by the side of the armchair. Then, slowly, she bent forward over the arm.

  "Higher," he said. "I want to see that pretty target as nicely placed as possible."

  Catriona squirmed forwards, lifting her knees from the rug, until her stomach rested on the broad studded arm of the chair. This had the effect of lifting her bottom high and prone, she knew. Her elbows were on the seat, and her head pressed awkwardly into the other arm. She inhaled the smell of old leather, and clenched her fists.

  She heard his footfall next to her, and squeezed closed her eyes and braced for the first lash. This time, she was quite determined to take her punishment without a sound escaping her lips, even though it seemed he was going to use the razor strop on her from the outset. She remembered its blazing sting across her whole backside, and how the welts had ached afterwards for hours. She was in a different, more vulnerable position now, too.

  And then, to her disbelief, she felt him tug at the hem of her skirt and with one sweep, pull it up over her waist.

  "Sir!" she cried, immediately and instinctively covering herself up again.

  "Oh, no," he said, calmly but firmly. "Back into position, Catriona. Hide that blushing cheek. You are getting this—" he bundled the muddied muslin skirt across her back again, more roughly than before, "on the bare behind. I did warn you last time. Did you really think you deserve any less, my girl?"

  She could feel the cool night air on her entirely naked bottom, which was exposed high and proud. Her thighs and legs must be mostly bare too, as she could feel that her stockings had fallen down nearly to her ankles. "It is not—seemly," she said, consumed by shame and confusion.

  "Ah, wheest, do you not think I've seen it all before a hundred times? Although... I must say... that is a particularly fine sight."

  A feather-light trace of fingertips over the skin of her left nether cheek sent a shiver through Catriona. She ought to cry out in protest at the liberty, at the shocking and sinful intimacy, but she understood that only in her head. Her body betrayed her; a sweet pulse quickened between her legs.

  He stepped back, however, and paused. The razor strop slapped a couple of times against his thigh. "Now then. How many strokes have you earned for nearly leading my sister into the arms of a scoundrel? Enough to make you sit sore in the chapel tomorrow, that's for sure. Two dozen should make you sorry."

  So many! Catriona did not know what she had expected, but the number pronounced made her panic for a moment as she remembered how the five strokes she had received before—over her cotton nightgown—had each seemed more unendurable than the last as they landed. And now, on her naked unprotected upturned bottom, how would she bear it?

  And yet she also felt a strange gladness, like dark joy. Once she had taken this thrashing at his hand, she would be absolved of her guilt and shame and he would, she hoped, truly forgive her. She had brought this on herself, and she desperately wanted to atone.

  "I am sorry, sir, already," she said, in a voice that was meant to be calm and sincere, but came out weak and shaky.

  "Not as much as you will be when I've finished with you," he said, and raised his arm high.

  The first bite of leather on bare skin drove the breath from her lungs. An involuntary gasp jerked from her throat, and she ground her teeth together and clamped her lips tight. The second she bore in silence, and the third, but the fourth tore from her a moan she could not suppress. She twisted her fist into her mouth and bit hard on the knuckles as the rough leather strop lashed across her upturned backside in a line of bright hot pain for the fifth time. She pressed her feet into the floor convulsively and braced her head hard against the arm of the chair.

  All thoughts of modesty and shame had been driven away.

  Sir Duncan paused, and she was dimly aware of him moving around her, shifting position to deliver the swing of the razor strop from another angle. It landed next fr
om her other side, criss-crossing the welts already blazing on her buttocks. Once, twice, three times; and then hard across her thighs, which nearly broke her. She bucked her body upwards, her feet flew from the floor, and she kicked in shock. A single grunt forced its way from behind her gnawed fist.

  A hand pressed into her back, pushing her into position. "Hold still. Trying to take it like a man, are we? You might as well scream all you like, Miss Dunbar. It won't stay my hand. You're getting the full two dozen and they'll all be good ones. I know very well that it hurts like the blazes and it will get worse before it's done. That's only nine. There's no need to be brave."

  It felt almost like defiance, now, to remain silent, but still she ground her teeth and chewed her fingers as two more agonising strokes landed almost on top of each other on her upper thighs. She was afraid to let go, as if losing control would mean losing her grip on every sense of decency; everything that was holding her back from giving in to the madness swelling within her. She did not mean to be defiant, but it suddenly seemed like a matter of desperate importance that she did not surrender.

  He made a kind of growl as he brought the razor strop down to complete the first dozen, full across the highest, fleshiest part of her bottom cheeks. She stretched her mouth wide in a still-silent scream, ramming her whole hand into her mouth and scissoring her legs in a pointless attempt to diminish the sting.

  "God damn it." Sir Duncan's voice was growing hoarse. "You will cry, Catriona. I will know that you are sorry for what you did. I will know that you feel it."

  He paced the room back and forth a few steps, increasing the agony of waiting. The burning in her backside and thighs was mounting to a blazing inferno, and she longed to reach back and rub at herself; careless now that he was watching her nakedness. To stop herself, she buried her face in her hands.

  It was halfway finished. She wished that he would get it over with, just as desperately as she wanted the next lash never to fall. He continued to pace the carpet. She saw his feet, wearing boots below the hem of his dressing gown, between her fingers.

  With terrible suddenness he whirled around and brought the razor strop down on her with all the ferocious momentum of the spin. It landed in a wild diagonal across her backside, the tip catching the underside of the buttock. There was real fury in the force of the lash.

  It broke her, and completely. She threw back her head and let out a howl that dissolved into unrestrained sobs that wracked her whole body. No longer did she hold onto anything. She received the remaining eleven strokes with a full-throated yell that was a cry of gratitude for each, as much as an involuntary outburst of suffering. He made them hard, and measured, and spaced them evenly across her buttocks and thighs, but none were savage as that one terrible lash had been.

  When it was over, she lay limp for some while in the same position, still weeping freely. She felt indeed that she could not move, exposed to him though she was.

  She felt him kneel beside her chair, and then his fingers were in her hair, gently caressing her head. His other hand ran tenderly down her back, easing her skirts back over her stinging backside.

  "There," he said, softly. "Come on now, on your feet."

  Meekly, she accepted his hand and let him help her up from the chair. She longed to rub at the ferocious stinging in her bottom, but self-consciousness was returning and she could not touch herself before him. She danced a little from foot to foot, as if she could jump away from the fire in her nether regions.

  "Now," he said, still in the same gentle tone, "you are truly sorry, Catriona."

  She nodded, tongue-tied now.

  "Then come here," he breathed, and he enfolded her in his arms.

  Overwhelmed by the sweet warmth of his body, even by the sharp clean smell of sweat on his skin, Catriona pressed her cheek against his breast and let herself believe for a moment that this was a cousinly embrace of forgiveness. She believed it even as his fingers worked through her hair again, and almost as his lips pressed against her brow. She could no longer believe it when his hand found her bosom under the low neck of her dinner gown and cupped its softness. Still, she did not pull away, even when his fingers sought the hot, stiff nipple and tweaked it. A thrill of sweetness shot right to her core, to the place between her legs which grew hot and damp when she thought about her wedding night.

  It was enough to bring her back to her senses, and give her the resolution to step back. Her wedding night. Her promise was already given.

  Sir Duncan, too, walked away from her and turned quickly aside. He picked up the razor strop and returned it to its hook, then without looking at her he leaned against the mantelpiece and said, "I hope never to have to punish you so sore as that again. Now go to bed and try to get some sleep at least before the morning."

  She hesitated, waiting to see whether he would turn and bid her a warmer goodnight. But his face remained averted, and eventually she curtseyed. The motion made her wince, and clutch her bottom. "Goodnight, sir," she murmured.

  He did not turn around.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  There was no need to grope around the castle in the darkness now. By the time Catriona closed the door on the safety and privacy of her little tower room and fell forward, exhausted and aching, onto the bed, the window was bright with dawn and the birds were singing their morning cacophony in the trees below. Empty, weak, but not unhappy, Catriona lay motionless for some time, too tired and overwhelmed even to seek something to soothe her throbbing backside and legs. Indeed, for a while she welcomed the pain, and lay still to feel the full effect of her just chastisement. It was a relief, after so many days of guilt and doubt and internal torment over Caroline's situation, to have her misdeeds discovered and soundly punished. Fervently, she thanked God that both of them had ended up with nothing more than sore bottoms, instead of the eternal punishment that Caroline at least would have suffered had the scheme succeeded. And as for herself, would Sir Duncan ever have forgiven her, had his sister been ruined?

  Her heart contracted in horror at what she knew to be the answer to that, and she put her hand to the smarting welts with real gratitude.

  Yet now, she had a still greater problem. Her mind could hardly comprehend its enormity, even as her heart sang it clearly within her breast. Could she really be in love with Sir Duncan Buccleuch? And if so, what good outcome could there possibly be to so misdirected a passion?

  It was impossible, because she was already in love with Mr. Carmichael. She had been in love with Mr. Carmichael for a year and a half, ever since they had seen each other while she was assisting her mother in teaching a little girl in a grand house in Russell Square and he was tutoring the older brother in Latin. They had passed in the entrance hall twice, and exchanged covert glances of mutual admiration. After the second occasion, he had contrived to seek an introduction; and a rapid succession of chaperoned walks in the Meadows and teas in the tiny parlour in Souter's Close had led to a passionate declaration from him.

  Once the excitement of accepting him had subsided, however, Catriona had become very aware of the practical difficulties of the engagement. It had struck her even at the time that Mr. Carmichael had been keen enough to declare his love and be assured of hers, but showed no real inclination actually to get married. He would become irritable if she ever dared to mention their wedding, and dismissed it as something so impossibly far off that it was ludicrous to discuss it. And this had begun to dismay Catriona.

  There had been a time, not many months ago—before her mother became ill, or before the illness became evidently serious—when Catriona would gladly have thrown over prudence and married Mr. Carmichael immediately, and taken her chance with love rather than wait for some uncertain future. It was a risk that he was not prepared to take, however, and he had expressed himself in such terms that she had not dared so much as raise the subject again until that desperate morning in the King's Park.

  And now, she realised that she had scarcely given him a thought since she had sent
off that stilted letter weeks ago. There had been no sign of a reply, and she had not looked out for one. She tried to recall his face, which had used to make her heart jump, but its outlines kept blurring and shifting in her mind. All she could see when she pressed her face into the pillow were the dark, clever eyes of Sir Duncan, and the quirk at the corner of his mouth.

  He had put his hand into her breast. He had teased her nipple with gentle fingertips, the same hand that minutes before had wielded the strap that lashed her bare backside. The same fingers that had brushed so lightly over that naked bottom. Her breath came shorter. She knew for certain that if, while he was holding her close, he had run his hand under her skirts and touched the secret centre of her womanhood, she would not have drawn away as she ought. She would have gasped in delight and pressed against him.

  Her own hand strayed down there at the thought, under her belly, between her slightly-parted legs. She rucked up her skirts carefully, and found it hot and wet there.

  It would be so easy, she thought with a tremor, to fall. With a man like Sir Duncan Buccleuch, it would be so dangerously easy.

  And yet when Mr. Carmichael had offered her the same outrage, she had been repulsed. Not for a moment had she felt anything like this yearning, this quickening of passion, when he had pinned her against the wall with his mouth and squeezed her breast. There had been no temptation to yield, she had felt nothing at all except anger and disappointment in him.

  But she could be nothing to Sir Duncan, except the thing that she would never be. At this realisation, her eyes filled with tears. He was, as he had told her quite bluntly himself, not a good man. He was a rake, a seducer, a ruiner of female lives. He would never offer her marriage, she knew that—she was nothing more than the daughter of a schoolmaster, of no family—and she was quite certain that even if he did, she would be out of her mind to accept him. He was not the sort of man to make a wife anything other than wretched.