The Knight's Prisoner: A Medieval Romance (Medieval Discipline Book 1)

by Renee Rose

  She drank deeply from her prone position and passed it back. She couldn't even think about moving. The idea of peeling herself off the log seemed impossible. Sir Ferrum got to his feet and seemed to realize it, because he picked up one of her knees and slowly swung it to meet her other leg, bringing them both to touch the ground as she hissed. He tossed her skirts down, and she winced at the sensation of the fabric on her delicate skin. She shifted from foot to foot, wondering how she would walk. She was stiff and still in more pain than she'd have thought was possible.

  Ferrum picked up the cloak and wine and then shocked her by scooping her into his arms without ceremony and walking briskly. She hesitated, then twined her arms around his neck and laid her head down on his shoulder, not understanding the sense of closeness she felt with this man, but not denying it either. Before long she heard the sound of the river, and Ferrum placed her softly on her feet.

  “You'd best walk into camp on your own,” he said. Every step felt stiff and pained, but she walked the remaining way into camp, where the carts were loaded and the men were sitting around looking as if they all were waiting just for her.

  The Prince approached them. “Nice tracking,” he said to Sir Ferrum, and the knight nodded in reply. “Come,” the Red Fox said to her, holding a hand out.

  “I've already punished her,” Sir Ferrum said preemptively.

  “So I see,” the Prince said mildly, and she wondered what he saw. Probably it showed on her face. She placed her hand in the outstretched one he offered, feeling strangely like he was treating her more like a lover or a sister than a prisoner as he led her away from the other men. He stopped and eyed her. She shifted, her bottom too uncomfortable for her to stand still. “He is terribly good at punishing, isn't he?” the Prince asked without any hint of mockery. “Most pages he whips don't ever step out of line again.”

  She wondered if that was why the prince had cautioned him to be gentle the first night.

  “Perhaps I should have been clearer with you,” the Prince said. He brushed the hair back from her face in an oddly intimate gesture. She got the chills when she realized it was likely because in his view, he owned her. “I am very impressed with your gift of sight, Danewyn. I would like for you to be my Seer. You would be an honored member of my camp, and when I have regained my kingdom, you will be rewarded handsomely.”

  “And if I say no?”

  She saw the faintest hint of a smile play on his lips and then disappear. “You know the answer to that question already.”

  She felt a surge of anger, and she narrowed her eyes.

  “You do have a choice, though, you see. You may choose to accept a position in which you will be honored and your gifts will be exalted, or you may choose to remain a prisoner of my camp.”

  She wanted to say something nasty, but she didn't dare. She would play along until she was able to make her escape. “I choose to be your Seer,” she said stiffly.

  “When your thoughts match your words, you will treated as such.”

  Her eyes widened. “What does that mean?”

  He touched her cheek. “You know how I feel about lies.” She felt a shiver run through her, as she once again had the feeling that this man was capable of seeing right into the depths of her mind and heart. “I'm not asking for your answer today. I want you to think on it. You'll be treated according to what I see in your heart.” He released her from the intensity of his scrutiny then, and she felt suddenly like weeping. She blinked back her tears as she watched his retreating back. To her relief, Sir Ferrum appeared next to her, taking her elbow and leading her to a horse.

  The thought of riding a horse on her sore bottom was devastating, but thankfully Sir Ferrum placed an old fur blanket atop before he handed her up. He climbed on behind her, holding the reins in his left hand, wrapping his right arm around her waist. She looked down and studied the arm that held her. He really was huge—his forearm alone was the size of her calf, and his hand was twice the size of hers. His fingers—her sex contracted—they were the size of the cock on some men. Before she could stop herself, she was imagining one or more of those fingers pushing inside her, and her sex contracted again. Dear God.

  As the pace picked up, her fingers clutched at Ferrum's arm, trying to use it to brace her bottom from receiving the full impact of the bumps as her feet had no stirrups in which to stand. She was amazed to feel Ferrum's arm tighten around her waist, holding her above her seat for particularly hard bumps. She tried to contemplate what would make a man deliver such a harsh whipping and then protect her from the pain of it immediately afterward. She placed her hand on the one at her waist and interlaced her fingers over the tops of his by way of thanks. She sensed his reaction—a stilling in his seat—and then he gave her fingers a squeeze. Though she knew she must be imagining it, she felt love pouring into her every place his body touched hers.

  The delay of searching for Danewyn had set them back a bit—Phillip had planned on visiting two villages to rouse support and new recruits, but they only made it to one. They had gained quite a bit in supplies, and three young men had joined the troops, so it was considered a success. They now counted more than one hundred soldiers, most of whom were well-disciplined and trained. The plan was to gather up as many men as possible before meeting their foster father, the Duke of Umbria, and his troops. Then, they would make a run at Camelot.

  Ferrum's heart ached for Danewyn. He'd had no choice but to discipline her for running away and he’d had to make it memorable, but he couldn't blame her for trying to escape them. He was hoping once she had a little time to adjust, she might find this life was better than the one she'd left. Of course, if she felt like she had to service him, it was no different. Hell. He cursed himself for not having been able resist her enticing body that morning.

  He took her to bed early that night—he knew she was exhausted from the stress of the day and the pain of her punishment. He bound her wrists together and waited for her to get onto the mat before he attached them to his own wrist. She lay on her side with her bound wrists curled in front of her, but rolled her belly toward the floor, so she did not lie on any part of her sore bottom.

  “Comfortable?” he asked.

  She made a small snorting sound.

  “Right. Well, I guess that's the point of it, isn't it?” he muttered more to himself than to her, wondering why he felt so compelled to ease her pain when he was the one who'd given it. He lay down facing her and attached the rope from her hands to his lower wrist, leaving his upper hand free to pull the covers around her and squeeze her shoulder. She was watching him with an unfathomable look.

  “Are you the daughter of a marauding Saxon, Danewyn?”

  “Dani,” she said softly. “You may call me Dani… if you'd like.”

  He smiled at her, his heart lifting a bit at this sudden show of trust. “Dani suits you,” he said.

  A silence stretched between them as he waited to see if she would answer his question this time.

  “Aye, you guessed it right,” she said at last. “My mother was a lady—daughter of a nobleman, though I never heard which. Their castle was sacked by a band of Saxons, and she was raped and beaten. Her father was killed in the battle, and his brother inherited the title. When it became apparent my mother was with child, my great uncle sent her to a nunnery, but my mother had no interest in being imprisoned by nuns. She left her escort on the way to the nunnery and rode instead to whore in London.”

  “Brave. Like you,” he said, picking up her braid and toying with the end of it.

  She looked surprised. “You think me brave?”

  He nodded. “Extraordinarily brave, little flower. You've handled your capture with courage, and though your escape today was ill-advised, it took a great deal of pluck.” He tickled her neck with the end of her braid, and she smiled and ducked away from it.

  He held up the braid. “So you got the Saxon hair coloring.”

  “Aye. My mother hated it because it reminded her of the r
ape. I think I must look quite a bit like him.”

  He wanted to reach out and pull her body right up against his, but he was resolved not to take her again, not to abuse his position as her keeper. He settled instead for running his hand lightly up and down her back. To his surprise, she inched closer to him, a hobbled sort of scooting, since her hands were bound. She curled her upper body in against him and threw one leg over his legs, so her bottom was still in the air but she was supported by him. He wrapped his arm around her waist and held her against his chest, rubbing her back until she fell asleep.

  Why was it some part of her actually enjoyed being Sir Ferrum's prisoner? She pondered this the next day as they rode to another village to politic and recruit. Was it the attention? She certainly had never been paid so much regard by anyone in her entire life, including her own mother, which probably wasn't saying much.

  But it was more the manner in which he paid her attention—so gentle, so thoughtful. He had braced her for bumps again as she rode in front of him, and he always made sure she had food before he ate. And he'd switched her, yes, but it had been so… tender, somehow. The way he'd spread his cloak for her to lie upon on the log. The way he'd held her hand during the spanking. She wanted more of him.

  When they stepped inside his tent the following night, Sir Ferrum reached for the ropes to bind her hands. “Wait,” she said and quickly stripped her clothing off. Sir Ferrum stared at her in complete astonishment. “If you're going to bind my hands and play marauding Saxon, I need to be prepared.”

  Ferrum seemed struck dumb. He stared at her breasts and shook his head mutely. “Nay. I, uh, I'm not going to play marauding Saxon.”

  “Then you can't tie me up,” she said pertly.

  Ferrum let out a surprised sort of chuckle. “Woman, you are mad. What is your game?”

  She folded her arms beneath her breasts and used them to jiggle her best asset. “I thought it was plain. Tie me up and 'fuck me,' as the Saxons would say.”

  He looked like he was torn. She saw the bulge under his tunic and the way his eyes danced around her naked form, but clearly he didn't trust her motivations. She took a step toward him and watched with amusement as he took a step back. She launched herself at him, wrapping her legs around his waist tightly and biting his ear when she settled on her perch. He stumbled back with a grunt and then made a growling sound, tightening his hands on her bottom. He knelt on the sleeping mat and lowered her onto her back. “You have no idea what you're getting yourself into,” he warned.

  She scoffed. “Surely you forget what I am.”

  He shook his head. “You asked for it.” He pinched her nipple hard and turned it, causing her to gasp and arch. “You will win no favors from me with your temptation,” he said in a low, husky voice. She reached up and tried to slap him, but he caught her wrist. He wrestled both her arms until they were bent behind her, underneath her as it were, and then he held the elbows. “Open for me,” he growled, indicating her thighs with his chin.

  She laughed at her success and drew her knees up. He lowered himself and caught her sex with his tongue, licking and sucking. This—this magic he made with his mouth… She had only heard tell of such a thing before, and she had not believed it would be so incredible. She bucked against him with desire, crying out and trying to wrestle her arms free, but he merely tightened his grasp and continued to torture her with the intense pleasure of his tongue. She panted with need, aching for release, but he didn't give it to her. He pulled his head up abruptly and let go of her elbow long enough to slap the side of her arse. She jumped and gasped, still sore from the switching he'd given her the day before.

  She struggled even harder to free her arms, but he held her easily. “What? You want these free?” he drawled. “I thought you wanted to be tied up and fucked, as you put it.”

  “Aye, tied up, not twisted in torture.”

  He slid her elbows out, then pinioned her two wrists together over her head, gazing down at her with a look of such heat and intensity that she felt as though steam might come out of her skin. He took her nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, then nipping it hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. He made a growling sound as he twisted her arms under her knees and then pinioned her wrists together in the air, effectively lifting her legs and hips with them. He slapped her exposed bottom hard, and she bucked. She loved the way he dominated her so easily—he was so strong and huge compared to her. He mounted her in that position, he on his knees, she trussed up with her own tangled limbs so he controlled all four of them with the grasp of just one of his huge hands. He rode her rough, and he rode her hard, and the position did not allow for any softness about it. The sheer physicality of the way he took her answered some craving she'd never known she had. She wasn't afraid of him at all. The roughness provided a release for the tension and fear that had been steadily building since she'd been hauled out of London. She bit and struggled against him, and he took her like his cock was a weapon. When he tired of that position, he released her legs and she slapped at him, forcing him to hold her arms down until they climaxed in unison—a crashing, jerking, fingernail-digging frenzy. One like she'd never had before.

  It fascinated her—the rough animal nature that had emerged from her gentle giant and her burning desire to be possessed by him. She had never liked a man to be rough with her before. But then, she had never trusted a man not to hurt her. Somehow, even though Ferrum had caused her pain during the lovemaking, she felt implicitly safe. Which was only strange if she didn't account for the fact that he was also a man who held her hand while giving her the worst whipping of her life.

  “How is it,” she mused the next morning when she woke, still bound to her captor and lover, “that you can be so gentle when you punish me, but so rough when you fuck?”

  Sir Ferrum froze. “Did I hurt you, Dani?”

  She was touched by his obvious concern. She rolled her head languorously from side to side on the mat. “Nay… I liked it.”

  He relaxed and unbound their hands. “Good. Listen, I don't want to hear that kind of language out of you. If you say 'fuck' again I'll spank your little bottom red.”

  She grinned wickedly. “Fuck,” she said. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

  He shook his head sadly, hiding a smile. “Bad girl.” He pulled her over his lap and began smacking her bare bottom, much lighter than he had the last time. She giggled and pushed her hips back to meet his hand, enjoying the sting he was starting to create. As the spanking became more intense, she stopped giggling, her breath growing ragged as his huge hand came down harder. She closed her eyes, drowning in the sensation of his hand and her pain, the loud slap of flesh on tender flesh, the exchange of energy—his will imposed on her body. She floated away for a moment and then came drifting back as she felt his hand rubbing her heated bottom.

  She moaned. “Fuck me, Ferrum,” she pleaded.

  He made a tsking sound. “Do you need a taste of my belt?”

  She squeezed her cheeks together as if to deflect an imagined stroke of his belt. “No, sir!” she said quickly.

  “What did I tell you about saying the word 'fuck?'” he inquired, slapping her bottom several times to punctuate his question.

  “You said not to use it,” she gasped.

  “So why did you just use it?”

  “Because I want you to.”

  “You want me to what?”

  She hesitated. “Fuck me,” was really the best way to describe what she wanted, the way she wanted it. But he'd threatened her with his belt, and she was not dumb enough to tempt him.

  “Take me. I want you to take me, Ferrum,” she panted.

  He chuckled. “That's better.” He pushed her off his lap, and she crawled onto her hands and knees, ready for him. “If I take you,” he said slowly, his warm hand stroking down her flank, “It will be the way I want to take you. And I may just want to keep on taking you.” He gave her arse a slap. “I may want to keep you for my own.”

  H
er breath hitched in her chest at that—torn by the desire those words inspired in her and the knowledge she would not be staying for anyone to keep her. She chose to focus on the desire, looking back over her shoulder with an invitation. He shrugged doubtfully, as if to say she'd asked for it, and then rubbed his cock on the outside of her slick sex, gliding smoothly in her juices. He did not enter her there, though. Instead, he withdrew and pressed against the entrance of her arsehole. She used to charge extra for this or refuse it altogether. She'd never liked it. But surprisingly, she felt if Ferrum wanted it this way… she did too. She wanted him to take her however he pleased, to give him whatever he wanted. She liked the way he controlled her, demanded of her, took every last thing she had to offer.

  She tried to relax the muscles of her bottom as she pushed back at him with her tight little hole. She whimpered, and he murmured, “That's a good girl. You take it where I want to put it.”

  “Yes, sir,” she moaned, making another conscious effort to relax and allow him to fill her.

  “You're my girl now, aren't you?” he murmured lovingly, and he slowly slid in and out of her tight hole.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl.”

  She moaned. He began to gradually pick up speed, and she was thankful for his careful, smooth strokes. He only started getting rough right before he climaxed, and she grunted as he held his hips pressed against her bottom, spilling his seed. He pulled her up off her hands to stand upright on her knees and reached around and rubbed her nub of pleasure till she lost all control, climaxing with his fingers pinching her in front with the pressure of his cock still pressed in her arse.