Ana Adored: Mistress of the Castle (Masters of the Castle)

by Anastasia Vitsky

  "Two," Miranda warned.

  Her squeal more of a laugh than real distress, Ana took off running as fast as her legs, packed into her tight-fitting riding trousers, would let her.

  Miranda did not run, but stalked her down with stately grace all the way home again. By then, Ana was breathless, her legs were wobbly, her heart was racing, and she was even a little sweaty, but she didn't care. Apparently, neither did Miranda, who simply pressed her up against the entryway wall long enough to strip away her clothes and kiss her absolutely senseless.

  She took Ana there on the living room floor. Before it was done, Ana had rug burn in four different places.

  She didn't care about that, either.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ana lay on her stomach crossways over Miranda's bed, her head pillowed on her arm, her dark hair still slightly damp from the shower they both had shared. She hadn't bothered to dress yet, but simply lay with her ankles crossed and her legs swinging lazily up behind her. Miranda's phone lay on the coverlet beside her. Every time the screen saver kicked on and blackened out the background, Ana would run her finger over it and bring the picture winking back on again. She liked it. She liked it a lot, but there was something missing.

  The hum of the hairdryer in the bathroom switched off, and a few minutes later, Miranda stepped out into the bedroom.

  "That's not dressed," she commented mildly, crawling onto the bed every bit as naked as Ana was, her long body stretching out against Ana's, her leg hooking over the back of Ana's, her soft breasts brushing up against Ana's arm as Miranda combed her fingers through Ana's shorter hair. Together, they admired the picture.

  "My preschoolers will love it," Ana mused. "We've got little toy horses in the classroom, and when we play with them I always say how much I'd love to ride one someday. Now I have."

  "It's perfect," Miranda said, but Ana shook her head.

  "No, it's not." Pushing the phone aside, she twisted around enough so that she could roll over. She and Miranda lay together face-to-face, bare inches of nothing between their hips, bellies and breasts. "You're not in it."

  "Ah." A tender smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, Miranda continued to play with her hair, brushing stray wisps back from Ana's eyes. "Well, I still think it's perfect. In fact, I think it's my new favorite background for my phone. But, since my lovely is discontent, how about we go down to the photographer's studio and you and I have a picture taken together. We'll have two copies made so we each can have one. I'll even buy you a pretty silver frame to put yours in. How does that sound?"

  Ana perked. "Can we get it taken with Fire Dancer?"

  Playful fingers moving down from Ana's hair to lay circling caresses along her spine, Miranda said, "We can get it taken any way you like." Her fingers played all the way down her back until, smiling, she laid a light slap upon the fullest curves of Ana's bare bottom. "But first, you have to get dressed."

  Though that slap hadn't been anywhere near hard enough to sting, much less leave a mark, Ana still sat up with a jolt and a squeak that was affront in tone only, but which lacked all sincerity. Especially when she started laughing and followed Miranda's lead, scooting down to the edge of the bed before standing.

  That was as far as she got, though. When Miranda turned and went back to her closet to dress, Ana found herself just watching. She loved the way Miranda moved, all long limbs and subtle curves, her graceful femininity so regal that she could easily have been mistaken for a queen. It was such a shame to cover that kind of beauty with that drab servant's uniform that made up her daily attire. If left up to Ana, the Master of the Castle would have been out of a job and his Lady's crown usurped, shifted to grace the head of the only woman within these old stone walls who honestly seemed born to wear it above all others.

  Or maybe she was just biased. Ana smiled faintly, shaking her head at her own silliness. She was acting like a high-school-aged girl with her first real crush. She started towards the chair in the far corner, the one that had over the past few days become an armoire for her clothes. Her riding outfit lay draped over one arm, her pajamas over the other. She gathered her purple noblewoman's dress off the back of the chair, only to become distracted all over again, this time by the sparse scattering of pictures among the knick-knacks on the shelves all around the dresser mirror.

  Her dress held to her chest, Ana stepped in close to get another look at the one picture in particular that had attracted her attention once already. "Miranda?"

  "Lovely?" Miranda called back from deep inside her closet. From the slightly muffled sounds of it, she was probably crawling headfirst into her costume already.

  "Who is this?"

  "Who is who?" Miranda wandered out of the closet, already wrestling to fasten the dozens of tiny pearl-like buttons that closed the front of her servant's uniform from waist to neck. She stopped when she saw where Ana was standing, and for just a second, sadness passed over her. Her eyes shuttered first, and then the rest of her expression fought back what, to Ana, looked suspiciously a lot like grief. Real grief. Fresh and still very raw. She came to join Ana at the dresser and together, they looked at the picture. "A very dear friend," Miranda finally said. She combed her fingers through the back of Ana's damp hair, bent to caress a kiss upon her shoulder, and then lightly swatted her bottom again. "Please get dressed."

  Without looking either at her or the picture again, Miranda disappeared back into her closet.

  Ana was almost sorry she asked. Almost. Curiosity burned inside her like a living flame. Miranda had done so much for her. The last thing she wanted to do was cause her pain, and apparently just looking at the picture was extremely painful, but at the same time, Ana found it impossible not to wonder about it.

  She dressed quickly, crawling up through the bottom of the dress. She had no buttons. Her fastenings were a corset-like lacing that ran up her back and would require help, so she stood there once she was done, staring into that frame, wondering, until Miranda came back out again, her stockings gartered into place up under her full skirt and her shoes already buckled on.

  "Can we put my picture up here?" Ana asked, as Miranda silently came up behind her and began to close the lacings up her back.

  "The one we're going to take?"

  "The one that's already on your phone," Ana specified. "If we can get it printed out, can we put it up here? Just while I'm here? I won't move any of your things, I just want to see it."

  It was a moment of extreme selfishness, and Ana knew it, but the desire to see something of herself reflected on one of these shelves, with all the rest of the trinkets that seemed to mean something to Miranda, burned like jealousy inside her.

  Miranda shifted behind her, her hands stilling over the laces. A nudge at Ana's shoulder was nothing less than a wordless command for her to turn, and when she did, she found herself looking up into Miranda's softening eyes. "I would happily put a picture of you up on every shelf. Don't you know that?"

  Was she that easy to read? Ana fought the urge to cover her now burning face with both hands. "I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have asked. I don't want to cost you any more money—"

  The softening faded instantly behind a flicker of mixed irritation and amusement. Miranda tsked. "I'll spend my money where I want to. Besides, what's the point in having an employee discount if I don't use it on occasion? You're my guest. Say thank you and let me spoil you for as long as I have you."

  Ana shut her mouth fast before she said something pathetic and silly like, You could have me forever, if you want to. She quickly faced forward again, afraid Miranda—who seemed to read her so well—would see that too.

  "I love showering you with gifts," Miranda said. Finished lacing up the back of her dress, she swept the short dark hair off the nape of Ana's neck and dropped a kiss upon the bare skin there. "I note you still haven't said thank you."

  "I wish I could give something back," Ana said wistfully, her eyes once more tracking to the picture of the man.


  The hand that settled on her shoulders, turning her all the way around, was no longer the gentle hand of Miranda the Lover. It was Miranda the Mistress who stood before her now, ominous warning darkening her chestnut eyes and, although a smile did curve her mouth, there was warning. "Young lady, you have given back to me every day you've been here. You cook every day; we haven't been to any of the Castle restaurants yet. And every night, when you lay down beside me, you let me spread your beautiful little legs and sup from the finest—"

  "Miranda!" Ana yelped, both laughing and appalled. This time she did cup her face, flushing hot from embarrassment.

  "You have no idea how darling I find your modesty," Miranda said, grinning. But then that grin faded, and a hint of hidden sadness crept back over her. "I meant it yesterday when I said you're the only thing keeping me sane right now. You'll never know how very glad I am that you're here."

  Why? If ever she was going to ask, this was her opening. But just as quickly as Miranda offered it, she stepped back, turned away, and Ana could all but hear the reverberating slam as that opening slammed shut.

  "A lot of people think living in this place is like living at Disneyworld, but what they fail to see is all the work that goes into making other people's fantasies come true."

  Ana physically flinched. "I-I'm sorry."

  Halfway back to the closet, Miranda snapped back around. The surprise on her face became instant sternness when she said, "I did not mean you, Ana. I meant my job. I adore having you here." She came back, closing the distance in only a handful of steps, to catch Ana's chin in her palm and force her eyes to lock with Miranda's own. "I adore you," she said again, giving Ana a little shake. "I'll admit I said that badly, but I dislike it when you leap for every chance to mistake what I say and turn it into something awful for you. This is what we talked about that first night, do you remember?"

  For Ana at that moment, it was impossible to think of anything beyond the quiver in her stomach, the sternness in Miranda's eyes and the gentleness in the hand that held her chin so completely captive.

  "This is what I meant when I said you hurt yourself. This," she gave Ana another tiny shake, "is what I will not tolerate."

  A small part of Ana tried to rebel against the sternness. It even tried to summon up a pale shade of that awfulness she had felt so many times when it had been her facing down Peyton's angry stare, but there was too much of the rest of her that surged into a feeling of gratefulness. It had been so long since anyone had cared for her enough to say anything like this.

  "I'm sorry," she said, because she was. Truly sorry that anything she had said—even though she hadn't meant it quite the way it was being taken—would upset Miranda like this.

  Still, it was a long time before Miranda relinquished her chin. "I said it badly," she repeated, only now it seemed she was talking more to herself than to Ana. "For that reason only, I'm not going to spank you."

  Pure nervous anticipation crawled up the backs of Ana's thighs to prickle at the curves of her bottom.

  "But understand," Miranda warned. "You'll not get another reprieve from me. Not for this."

  Adored, Miranda had told her. But it wasn't until that moment, as Miranda leveled on her the full severity of that Look, that Ana felt the depth of what that word meant. She felt adored. Protected, even from something as silly as her own offhand remark. She'd thought with Peyton that she had understood what it meant to be in love, but it was Miranda who left her feeling both weakened and built up. Chastened and cherished all at once. "How did I get so lucky?" she asked, so lost in the moment that she barely knew she was speaking. "No one like you has ever wanted me like this before."

  Miranda tipped her head. She shook her head once, as if marveling, and then she tsked. She touched Ana's cheek, cupping it in her warm palm, then tsked again. "You can't say you weren't warned. Put your shoes on," she said, then turned and walked out of the bedroom. "We're going shopping."

  "For what?" Ana called after her. "Why?"

  When Miranda didn't answer, some of that gratefulness dissolved, first into confusion (she thought back over it, but she couldn't find anything derogatory or hurtful in what she'd said), then anxious dread. She found her socks and the lavender slippers that Wardrobe had found for her because they matched the princess-style gown she now wore. Her fingers fidgeting in the folds, she followed Miranda's path out into the living room, although by now Miranda had made her way to the kitchen, where she stood making cucumber sandwiches.

  "What are we going shopping for?" Ana asked again, twisting her fingers in the folds of her skirt so tightly that she began to feel the pulse of blood restriction in the tips.

  "You'll find out soon enough, I'm afraid." Miranda hardly looked at her. "Would you like water or tea with your lunch?"

  "Tea, please." Ana twisted her fingers even tighter, making the hurt grow, honestly perplexed. "Are… are you angry with me?"

  "Disappointed, I think, is the word you're looking for."

  Short of being tossed out of the Castle and told never to come back, she'd imagined that Miranda being angry over something she'd said was as bad as it could ever get. Disappointing her, Ana discovered, was much, much worse. "Why?" she asked again, her tone turning almost pleading against her will. "What did I say?"

  Sighing, Miranda set the knife she'd been slicing cucumbers with aside. "What do you think you said, lovely?"

  "I was being honest with you." Hearing that endearment laced with tones of displeasure didn't make Ana feel any better. In many ways, it made the conversation worse. "Don't you want me to tell you how I feel? I was paying you a compliment."

  "Keep digging," Miranda said shortly. She picked up the knife, cut two more thin slices of cucumber, and then abruptly changed her mind and put it down again. Bracing her hands upon the counter, she glared over the half wall that separated the kitchen from the living room, and herself from Ana. "How is implying that you aren't worth my time a compliment to me?"

  "That's not what I said!" Ana protested.

  "Isn't it?" Miranda countered, her voice rising slightly. "You said 'someone like me'. Implying what exactly about who you are?"

  Ana opened her mouth, but then she stopped, not at all sure what to say. She had no answer, because she hadn't thought of it that way. "I didn't mean…"

  "How did you mean it, then?" Miranda's glare did not soften. "I stood right there and told you it wouldn't be tolerated, and without skipping a beat, you simply found another way to tell me how awful you find a woman I hold great fondness for." She picked up the knife again. "Do you want cream cheese on your sandwich, or salad dressing?"

  Ana didn't know what to say to that either. Suddenly, all she felt was very small. "Why are you making me a sandwich when you're this angry?"

  Miranda stopped what she was doing all over again. She blinked, with exaggerated slowness, as if struggling not to lose her temper. Eventually, setting the knife aside for the last time, she leveled Ana with another Look and said, "Because I can be angry with you and still want to take care of you. Why don't you know that?"

  Lost, all Ana could do was stare at her until Miranda, very softly, said, "Turn around."

  She was in the kitchen. Ana was in the living room. She couldn't spank her from over there, and right at that moment, Ana was glad for it. She didn't think she wanted Miranda to spank her when what was happening between them wasn't at all pleasant. It felt… disciplinary. And never mind that Ana had, many times, fantasized about this very thing. She'd even fantasized about Miranda doing this, taking her in hand when the situation was real and giving her a spanking to match it. It was a stark reminder of just how vast the differences were between fantasy and reality.

  Ana turned around, casting her long stare across the green-growing jungle that was Miranda's living room.

  "Pick a corner," Miranda told her. "I want you to put yourself in it, hands on top of your head, and from now until I call you to the table, I want you to think about what I've just told you."
>
  She didn't have many options when it came to easily accessible corners, at least not in the living room, and rather than walk, it felt as if she slunk all the way into the one she ultimately chose. It wasn't even a real corner, rather just a section of the wall that abutted up to the side of Miranda's desk. All the other ones were either overgrown with plants or blocked by furniture. All except one, which was accessible and not blocked by furniture, but it only took a glance for Ana to realize that tucking herself up into that one would have meant tucking herself out of Miranda's sight. She would have had to lean well out over the half wall or walk out of the kitchen entirely just to see Ana, or for Ana to see her. It felt like abandonment, although Ana couldn't say for sure who exactly she felt was abandoning whom.

  Pushing her nose right up to the wall, she laced her fingers behind her head and tried hard not to cry. Failing miserably, she opted instead for crying as softly as she could, letting her mouth stay open and keeping her breathing as slow and as even as she could make it.

  It had been a good day up until now. Less than an hour ago, they'd been entwined in bed, a tangle of arms and legs, sweaty bellies and clutching hands. Thirty minutes ago, they'd been in the shower together, washing one another in the lazy, languid aftermath of sex before spooning up and simply holding one another until the hot water ran out. Ten minutes ago, the conversation had been playful and light.

  She really did ruin everything she touched.

  And weren't traitorous thoughts like that the very reason she was standing here, with her hands behind her head and this sinking, sickly feeling tangling in her gut? Why did she keep thinking them? Saying them?

  Lost as she was, Ana didn't notice Miranda had come out of the kitchen until she felt two arms sneak around her waist, drawing her back into the cradle of Miranda's embrace. Although no directive to come out of the corner had been given, unable to bear it, she took her hands off her head. She turned, throwing her arms around Miranda in turn and burrowing in to let her tears be absorbed by the softness of that ugly black Miss Hardwick costume, a thing so ill-fitting to the person Miranda really was that Ana could hardly stand to have it between them.