The Knight's Prisoner: A Medieval Romance (Medieval Discipline Book 1)
Page 6
It was not till later, when Sir Ferrum had left the tent and was taking the ribbing from the men outside with good humor, that she realized how stupidly she was acting. This man was keeping her against her will. She should not be throwing herself at him like a cat in heat. Especially since it seemed her need for him was only growing.
Chapter 4
“Sheep's. Cunt. Those are the only two words I have to say to you right now, Ferrum. Go lick one!”
Ferrum sighed and gave Dani five more hard spanks before he pulled her up to stand. He was tempted to send her to fetch a switch, but spanking clearly wasn't working. It was not even remotely effective. Respect had to be earned—he couldn't beat it into her. They'd been at odds for days now—he'd delivered spankings as often as three times a day to no effect whatsoever. She obeyed him well enough outside the tent, but it was the disrespect that was the problem. So it didn't truly merit the strap or a switch, yet she continued to sass him and resented her spankings.
Oddly, she still offered herself up to him, night after night, seeming to want him even more after he'd spanked her. And God help him, he couldn't possibly keep his hands off her when she tempted him. He'd flip her on her back and pinion her wrists, possessing her roughly before she could protest, not that she ever did.
She was standing before him now, her legs spread into a wide stance, her eyes flashing defiance, daring him into action. He needed to change his approach with her.
“Do you wish be in charge of me, Danewyn? Because I will follow.”
“When donkeys sing,” she sneered.
“I am completely serious.” He rubbed his hand over his scars. “Two people can't lead, and you clearly resent my leadership, so I will follow you.”
She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowed. “What kind of trick is this?”
He shook his head. “No trick.”
“Oh, and I suppose you'd let me beat you like you beat me?”
“You may do as you wish to me. I doubt you'll find that effective, but I'm sure you can come up with punishments that are. I will obey you, so long as your orders don't interfere with the prince's. ”
She looked at him warily. “You jest.”
He shook his head. “I do not jest. I'm not afraid of taking orders from you.”
“Take off your clothes,” she tested him.
He stood up and disrobed while she watched, the mistrust melting slightly from her face.
“Lie down. On your belly,” she said, indicating his bedroll with her chin.
He obeyed. He heard the rustle of clothing and turned his head to the side to watch her remove her outer dress, then pull his sword belt off the heap of his clothes. She stalked over to him with unmistakable purpose. His ball sack tightened. The thought of her whipping him was arousing. She stood at his side and swung the belt, catching his arse in the downward arc. The bite of it was a welcome sensation. His cock hardened. She lifted her arm again and swung again. He saw the darker tips of her nipples through the thin linen shift, and the movement of her breasts as she swung the belt over and over again. Her face was flushed, and her focus on her task intense. Her aim was poor, sometimes striking his legs and sometimes his back, but he didn't mind. The sting of the leather added to the rising heat flowing through his veins, a molten lust that was rapidly transporting him to some other place, where only the two of them existed.
She paused, her breasts bouncing, her fine silky hair slipping free of its braid. “I'm not hurting you at all, am I?” she panted. He couldn't speak. Something in his face must have given him away, because her eyes narrowed. She nudged her foot under his hips. “Roll over!”
He rolled over, and his cock stood at full attention.
She made a noise of indignation. “You find this arousing? So, this is the trick of it!”
He smiled guiltily. “I didn't tell you to whip me,” he reminded her. “Mayhap it's not the whipping but the state of your undress that has me aroused.”
Her mouth twitched with a little smile. She swung her leg over him to straddle him standing, so he had a full view of her sex—that dark pink heart he so longed to caress. She was watching his face, and she must have liked what she saw, because her lips curved into a seductive smile. She'd seen the power she had over him. Slowly, sensually, she pulled the shift up, revealing more of her legs, then the provocative curves of her perfect arse, traveling up over her flat belly, and finally freeing those magnificent bobbing breasts as she pulled it off her head and tossed it to the ground.
He wanted to grab her and yank her down on top of him, but he controlled himself. She was in charge now. She was his master. And the idea of that was just as arousing to him as the idea of dominating her. She reached her fingers down and stroked her sex, and his breath escaped him in a soft moan. With two fingers she spread the lips of her sex wide for his view. “Is this what you want?” she asked, her voice low and throaty.
“Aye,” he gasped.
The wicked smile curved on her lips again.
“Beg for it.”
He licked his dry lips. “Please, Dani. Please, let me lick it.”
Her own face lost composure for a moment, then she grinned like a satisfied cat and slowly lowered herself over his face.
“Aye, Slave Ferrum, you may,” she purred.
He cupped her round bottom in his two hands and set to work eagerly—applying his tongue from her pleasure pearl to her arsehole and back again—sucking, licking, and penetrating. He watched her face, noting with satisfaction when pleasure started to overtake her and she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back, her bottom starting to tighten in his hands.
“May I use my fingers, Dani?”
“Aye,” she gasped.
He slipped two fingers inside her, moving them in and out, noting a place inside where the flesh hardened under his fingers, and she started to moan. He worked that place rapidly until she gripped his head between her thighs and roared through her clenched teeth, her inner muscles spasming with the release.
She looked dazed as she dismounted him. “Go and get us some wine, slave,” she said breathlessly.
He got up, debating whether it was safe to leave her alone for the few moments it would take to get the wine. Aye. He started to pull on his leggings, but she stopped him.
“Did I say get dressed?” she demanded. “Go and get the wine as you are.” The look of challenge showed she clearly did not believe he would. She folded her arms across her chest again. He lifted his eyebrows but just shrugged, stepping out from the tent and stalking toward the fire.
“Oh, God's balls, Sir Ferrum, that's disgusting!” one of the men cried.
“What are you doing, man?”
He heard sniggers and laughter from the younger boys and some grouchier rumblings that were probably about the way he treated Danewyn. He picked up the wine and walked back without a word.
Yesterday she'd been spanked over his knee three times, and today he was walking about naked upon her command. She simply couldn't believe it. Not that it looked like it bothered him in the least. He walked with his head held high, his cock swinging proudly and freely in front of him. It was breathtaking to see him this way—his enormous body was all hard, sculpted flesh. He was barrel-chested with broad square shoulders and massively muscled arms. His legs were equally strong in appearance, set off by the tapered waist and lean, hard belly. He moved past her into the tent, and her breath hitched in her throat.
She wanted to make him suffer by denying his sexual release, but she also wanted him again—the real way. His cock inside her. “Get on your hands and knees,” she ordered. His cock stiffened again, which made her even hungrier for him. “Spread your knees,” she said, nudging his knees apart.
She slapped his ball sac, between his legs, spanking him there. He grew even stiffer, and she heard his breathing turn ragged. She kept at it for a while until, she hoped, he felt as chastised as she did when he finished with her.
“On your back.”
“With pleasure,” he said hoarsely and climbed over her. She guided him in and closed her eyes as he slammed into her with an intensity bordering on violence. But that was nothing new with Ferrum. And as usual, she loved it. She climaxed right after he did, and she wrapped her legs around his waist to hold him tightly against her.
“Mmm. Very good, slave,” she murmured.
Sir Ferrum was resting on his forearms, looking at her intently. “Permission to kiss you?”
There was a sense of wrongness to the question. Her game of playing master was over, and really, she didn't want her permission asked. She wanted him to do with her what he wanted to do. That was more desirable than him following some command she gave. The question made him sound weak, somehow, and she found she didn't like it at all. She released the lock hold her legs had around him and turned her face away in rejection.
Sir Ferrum climbed off and settled next to her. “Hand me my shift,” she said. It was a command, but the fun of it was over for her. She felt only depressed now. He handed her the shift, and she pulled it over her head. “You won't be tying my wrists tonight.”
She was not surprised when Sir Ferrum shook his head. “I'm sorry, my lady, but that command is impossible for me to obey.”
She sighed and held her wrists out to him, and he gently wound the linen around them and then the rope. He pulled his leggings on and bound her wrists to his own as usual, settling against her back.
“Good night, slave,” she said tiredly.
“Good night, my lady.”
The next day she considered trying to humiliate him more in front of the men, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. For one thing, he might refuse her, because weakening his status with the troops might be in violation of serving his prince. And for another thing, it simply wasn't right. Instead, she gave him quiet orders, demanding that he sit at her feet while she sat upon a log, or that he fetch her more wine the moment he got himself comfortable to eat his meal. He followed all of her orders with a seeming devotion that after a while, she found quite humbling. How could he so easily bend to her will? It was impossible to goad the man, though she tried and tried again. And she was finding him less and less attractive. She was frustrated with their interactions—they felt all wrong. She wanted to enjoy dominating Sir Ferrum, but she truly didn't. Finally, desperate for some kind of release of the torturous discomfort she was feeling, she brought a bullwhip into the tent. It was the kind they used to flog soldiers for serious infractions.
She ordered him to strip and lie down on the mat. Her heart was racing already at her daring. She took the whip and swung it with her full might, connecting with his low back. As usual, he did not flinch in the slightest, but in the seconds afterward, blood seeped from the stripe she'd made. Oh, God. What had she done? And why? What was she trying to prove?
She sank to her knees, shocked. She felt tears burning behind her eyes.
Sir Ferrum looked over his shoulder at her. “What?”
She burst into tears.
“Stop that,” Sir Ferrum commanded gently, all of his authority suddenly returning. “Come here.” He sat up and reached for her, pulling her into his lap, cradling her head against him.
“Ferrum,” she choked.
“Shh. It's all right. You can't hurt Ferrum.”
“Why would I even try?” she choked, disgusted with herself.
“It doesn't matter. You just wanted to see how it felt. It's all right.”
She pressed herself in tightly against him, fully aware of the irony of Sir Ferrum comforting her in this moment.
“I don't want to be master anymore,” she sniffed.
Sir Ferrum said nothing.
“I preferred it the other way.”
He still didn't answer.
“Did you?” she asked, pulling her head back to look at his face.
He looked at her and shrugged. “I don't care for you being miserable.”
“I won't be miserable,” she promised, giving her head an emphatic shake. “I won't fight you anymore.”
She lay curled against Sir Ferrum's chest that night, her wrists bound to one of his, waiting for the familiar feeling of resentment at being held against her will to well up in her. It came, as it always did, but it did not seem so strong or right. For the first time, she felt like there might be an alternative to wallowing in that feeling—and that confused her.
“Ferrum,” she whispered, several nights later, tugging at her wrists which were bound to one of his. She'd woken to a sharp sense of danger.
“What?” he answered in a whisper. He sounded wide awake and alert, as if she hadn't just woken him from gentle snores.
“Something's wrong.”
Ferrum was on his feet instantly, hauling her up with him by her bound wrists.
“What is it?” he whispered so softly it was no more than a breath.
“I don't know.” She couldn't tell, but she was sure there was some threat very close. He unbound them and moved silently about the tent, pulling on his boots and leather armor, sheathing his sword. She pulled on her overdress and laced the bodice tight. As stealthy as a cat, Ferrum moved his big body through the tent flap, pulling her smoothly along beside him.
Completely noiselessly, he woke the prince, then went about rousing the entire camp with the quietest of whispers. She heard the occasional scrape of metal or rustle of movements, but incredibly, the camp remained silent as the men armed themselves and prepared their mounts. Then they waited. At a certain point, she realized if her Sight had been wrong—or if she'd interpreted incorrectly—the men would never forgive her for ruining a good night's sleep. The longer nothing happened, the more her anxiety grew.
Ferrum pressed a dagger into her hand. “If something happens, I want you to climb up a tree or find some other place to hide and stay there, quiet as a mouse until it's all over. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
By the first light of dawn, they heard muffled sounds outside the camp. Phillip made a war cry, and his men leaped on their mounts and went on the offensive.
“Do as I said,” Ferrum said tersely and squeezed her shoulder as he left.
Clutching the dagger in her hand, she slunk toward the protection of the trees, surveying their dark forms in the blue-black light to see if any might be climbed. Instead, she opted for a cluster of large rocks which she could crawl into at a crouch. The camp had exploded into noise—shouts and war cries. The clang of sword striking sword made her teeth ache, and the clenching feeling in her belly grew tighter and tighter as she listened.
And then it finally occurred to her—this was her moment to escape. She was on the opposite side of camp from where King Benton's men had been waiting. It was dangerous, but so was staying with the Red Fox. She closed her eyes a moment and breathed deeply, gathering her courage about her. It was not the sort of escape she'd imagined. She had no provisions, but she did have the dagger, which was more than she'd had the last time.
She crept out of her hiding place stealthily, moving in the cover of the trees, away from the battle. When she was far enough away to avoid attention, she broke into a run, keeping in the brush but following the path of a stream, so she didn't make the same mistake she'd made the last time. She ran and she ran, and she didn't look back. A stitch in her side finally made her pause to catch her breath with her hands on her knees, her head down.
As she panted, her mind flicked to the battle. She wondered how it was going—how Ferrum fared. A pang of regret washed through her at leaving him. Not out of any sense of obligation to the Re
d Fox, but because it felt like something personal between them was unfinished.
A wave of vision flashed into her mind. Ferrum was wounded. She couldn't see his face, but she saw his torso, his tunic, soaked with blood. Ice washed over her, and she let out a loud ragged breath—the sister of a sob.
This wasn't her battle. And this was her chance to be free. She started up again, walking briskly this time, glancing over her shoulder every now and again to be sure no one had followed. But the vision of the blood soaked tunic wouldn't leave her mind. Ferrum. Injured. Mayhap he needed her. She was probably handier with a needle than any of the rest of them. She could stitch him up. She could tend to his needs so he could recover. She slowed her walking, indecision tearing her purpose in two.
He might be dead. The thought was like a stone in the center of her chest.
But to be practical, if he were dead, she wouldn't want to go anywhere near the Red Fox's camp again. Ferrum was the only one who made being a prisoner bearable. She tried to feel into it—was he dead? She saw him cutting a man down with a single stroke of his sword, his face covered in blood, his tunic a deep red. Mayhap it wasn't his blood at all. He looked every inch the fearsome warrior, not injured at all. But no, she saw him pressing his forearm to his ribs as if to staunch the flow of blood as he whirled around.
She stopped walking. Shite. Damn, shite, damn it all to hell.
She turned and started walking swiftly back the way she had come.
He'd known the moment she left. He had been throwing glances over his shoulder in case she needed help. He'd seen her move from the rocks where she'd taken shelter and flee to the cover of the woods. It had been curious sort of pain he'd felt at it. One part of him was happy for her—he knew how badly she wanted her freedom. One part felt gutted at the loss. One part was relieved she was safely away from the melee of the battle, and one part feared she'd get lost or meet trouble fleeing them.