by Louisa Trent
She whimpered a little then.
To help her relax, he rubbed her breasts, then her belly, then between her legs. He would do this for any distressed animal. He kept petting and whispering to her until the leather phallus was buried deep, and then ministered to her clitoris. She started to buck and writhe, small needful moans were emitted from her throat.
His captive was about to come. The crest was a fist in her belly, hot and molten, about to explode; he knew this for he felt that same betraying agony in his own body.
It was time.
Leaving the phallus lodged deep in the passage, he led her by the hand back to the four-poster bed. Because of the thickness of the embedded leather, she walked with her thighs spread akimbo and her bottom lifted. He smiled at this, as captivated as he had ever been by anything in his life.
At the side of the bed, he took her by the shoulders; his eyes searched hers. “Are you sure?"
“I wish it too. I wish to belong to you in every way a woman may belong to a man."
Swallowing his excitement, he helped her up onto the bed, situating her on the very edge of the tick. A hand on her spine rounded her over.
“Tuck your legs underneath you,” he told her, and waited while she did.
His palm on her left buttock, his thumb curved into crevice, he said, “Raise up more."
He watched while she did.
Now that her long legs and elegant arms were tucked in under her belly, and her hips were raised, her bottom was very nicely presented.
“Comfortable?” he inquired.
“Aye."
“I will not tie you.” He paused. “Unless it becomes necessary."
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“But I will have it all the way in. No half measures, Aeschine,” he warned. “Done deep. Full penetration. All three holes."
“What will go in my mouth?"
“My thumb.” As hot, wanton lust rushed to his loins he smoothed his hand freely over both of her bottom cheeks. “Afterwards, I will install a plug.” He probed a finger between her elevated buttocks. When Aeschine offered him no resistance, continuing to remain docile despite the immodesty of her positioning, he pressed the digit against her back opening.
As still no resistance was forthcoming, he wiggled the finger up inside the delicate hole. “The plug will keep you open between subsequent occasions."
There were hours remaining ‘till the end of their agreement. No sense pretending he would have her this way only once. Once a lady has allowed the forbidden, there is no going back.
“You must have worn a similar devise with LaTourne,” he said, not expecting nor receiving an answer; Aeschine never spoke of her past lovers. “In between occasions, I will take you for a walk along the turrets. ‘Tis a lovely night for a stroll, and I would see your beauty under the moonlight."
“The guards?” she asked, her voice muffled in goose feathers.
“Will be there. ‘Tis a little late now for maidenly vapors. And besides, I would enjoy showing you off. But if you would rather I not..."
“I have agreed to everything."
She was right; she had agreed. To everything.
His finger, oiled during the application of the leather phallus, stayed against the forbidden portal, pressing, pressing, until her muscles went lax and the digit entered, only up to the knuckle at first.
Though he was gentle, she cried as he stretched her. Despite her whoring ways, the lass possessed a romantic heart, and this was not the stuff of poetry.
He persisted until he had widened the dimple sufficiently enough to accept the addition of a second oiled digit.
“You are very dainty, darling. Pretty too,” he soothed her, when she began to cry a little harder at the prohibited congress. “I promise to be very careful."
It was time.
His cock surged in anticipation, the heavy jut prodding the undefended cheeks apart and delving the forbidden hole, the plum-head, moistened with pre-come, trying to get inside. Shivering with an arousal so intense, so darkly carnal, he knew that nothing, neither the promise of heaven nor the sanction of hell would stop him, he sodomized Aeschine with one hard push.
Weeping, she came on the first full stroke.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Come see the new gowns!” Ellen cried. “They must be from himself."
“A parting gift to a whore,” Aeschine answered, scathingly, scarcely giving a look at the contents of the trunk.
“Nonsense! Whores receive gifts of shiny jewels and gowns of lustrous silk. These gowns are well made and of good quality material, but they are plain. Not whore's fancy garb at all. Why, any noble lady might wear these gowns with pride.” Ellen held one up. “Gad, this is sensible!"
Aeschine took a bracing breath of air and pulled back her shoulders. “I need boots. Winter is coming on and I cannot go shepherding barefoot in the snow."
“There are fine heavy boots inside the chest. You should thank the warlord for his consideration."
“Thank him? Why should I thank him? Those gowns are not a gift; they are payment, and as such, they are an insult. Should I thank him for insulting me?"
“Do you ken that himself roams the keep at night like a lost soul? Will tells me the man does not sleep, that he rarely sits down to eat. He is working himself into an early grave. He will sicken in that cold chamber he uses at night. No fire in the hearth. No tapers on the walls. No bed. No rushes on the dirt floor. Cold and damp and as dark as a tomb is that chamber. He is a strong man but he will not last the winter if he stays there."
Aeschine sighed. Sage had looked more fatigued than usual the last time he had inquired about her health. Upon hearing that she was well, he nodded his head and moved on down the dark hall, alone.
The warlord of Cheviot Hills was always alone. How did a soul live with such aloneness?
Aeschine felt the tight knot of hurt give way inside her.
“Himself saved Peter's life,” Ellen said as she put the new gowns away. “You do not credit him enough for what he did."
“He whipped Peter! He did so out of jealousy and spite. The warlord thought Peter and I were lovers and so he punished my good friend..."
“You must grow up, lass! This is an armed fortress on the borderlands, not a peaceful farmer's village! The warlord keeps control here only through the exertion of the strictest military authority. There was a near revolt in the soldier's quarters after Peter broke with the law. The call was out to have the shepherd drawn and quartered. English soldiers do not take kindly to Scottish spies."
“Peter is no spy! He left the gates that night to trap wolves, not to give away military secrets!"
“That is what we know now; ‘tis not how it looked then. Had himself not punished Peter, the crowds would have torn the shepherd apart on the spot. If he had survived that assault, his guards would have killed what was left of him later in the dungeon. The only reason he still lives at all is because the warlord punished him publicly. Now, he is almost healed from the lashing, and once again, ‘twas himself who saw to his care. Peter owes his life to the warlord. Even the shepherd concedes that."
“But Peter was innocent of the charges!” Aeschine insisted, angered at the injustice.
“He was not innocent of breaking the law! Peter knows now that he was wrong to sneak out at night. He understands that going off as he did placed this battlement in jeopardy. A fortress does not remain impenetrable for long if the very inhabitants who need its protection leave it open to attack. And Peter holds no ill will towards the lord."
“Well, he should!"
“Pigheaded lass! Will you not see this for what it is? Himself saved the shepherd's life for you, Lady Aeschine. He did it for you! If the warlord is jealous of your relationship with Peter, it is because the man loves you. Why else would he have combed the countryside looking to absolve a prisoner? Why did he bother? Why not let the man rot in a cell next to yours in the dungeon?"
“I ken not why he does
anything,” she mumbled.
“I shall tell you, then. Even with whipping Peter, he had not secured your position. Now that the soldiers believe in the shepherd's innocence, your situation has also changed. Understand this—the warlord controls this fortress only so far as his soldiers allow him to. If they lose respect for him, his authority is no more. Punishing Peter kept you both alive; otherwise, the mob would have stoned you both to death on the spot."
“The warlord gave me away, to be used as whore,” Aeschine argued, holding on to a small corner of her hurt.
“Aye, he did, and that was wrong too. You are no whore. But you did shame him in the courtyard in front of the spectators when you cried off as his leman."
“I said I would pick who I slept with..."
“Lady Aeschine, you are young yet so you are to be forgiven. But when do we females, queens or servants or whores, ever truly pick who we spread our legs for? You are a captive here, a prisoner, yet you have a hut and a flock of sheep. You have the run of the place. Give o'er, luv. A woman must put her childish dreams of romance away and get on with what is important. Himself was wrong to give you away to Kendle, but you angered him, and more importantly, you shamed him in front of his own men. What chance do we all have of staying alive on the borderlands, of making a good life, if the warlord whose rule we depend upon for our protection, loses the respect of his soldiers?"
Picking up her russet skirts, Aeschine raced for the portal.
“Where are you off to now?” Ellen called after her.
“I am gone to pick buttercups,” Aeschine replied.
“'Tis too cold for buttercups!"
“Then, I shall find some other green growing thing to light the gloom of the warlord's heart."
* * * *
In his hand, Sage held a message from John Tuttrell.
LaTourne had been found, and by order of the King, executed. The traitor's head now adorned a spike at Westminster. To show his gratitude to his childhood friend for ferreting out the sodomite's treachery, Rufus had decided to pardon Lady Aeschine of Scotland—with the stipulation that she wed the overlord of Cheviot Hills.
According to Rufus, an alliance between an English overlord and the daughter of a Scot clan leader would do much to promote much needed harmony on the borderlands. Only a wedding would stay Aeschine's execution...
What a cruel jest!
This was no boon! Sage raged. The King forced his hand, done to ensure that warfare would not deplete royal coffers! Once again he was coerced into a marriage of political expediency. Only this time, his bride was not a dear friend, but the betrothed of a perverted murderer ... of Sage's own wife.
Was the message in his hand Aeschine's death sentence or a call for a hurried wedding?
Light footsteps came to a halt outside the portal. Sage took up his sword, blade pointed at the entrance.
Aeschine swept under the weapon and into his private chamber.
“You may put that down now. If I had any plans to harm you, milord, you would have been dead long ago."
He had very nearly run her through! Would her impetuousness never end? Would she never learn there are consequences to heedless, incautious behavior? Or at the very least, would she learn to knock?
“This chamber needs a flower to brighten it,” Aeschine said softly, and twirled about the room. “Right here, I should think."
She placed a frozen—weed, he guessed it was—in a crockery dish on his writing table. That accomplished, she went to the hearth and knelt down, as though to rekindle the split wood.
“No fire."
Her hand stilled. “I shall grow chilled if there is no blaze."
No choice left to him, he bade her to rise from her knees and he took over the task.
He turned to her. “Why are you here, Aeschine? Do you need something for your sheep?"
“Nay. The sheep are fine."
“Something you need, then?"
“I need naught.” She lifted his leather-bound account book. “You worked on the ledgers before I interrupted?"
Nay, I was reading the King's warrant for your death...
“I detest balancing the accounts,” he said evasively.
“Allow me to do them. I am quite good with sums. Free of bookkeeping, you will have extra time. Extra time will allow you to take me for that walk you promised me a while back. I would show you my flock before the snows start."
He frowned. “You ask to go walking with me?"
“Aye."
He wiped a hand over his burning eyes. “What is this all about, Aeschine?"
“Ellen explained about Peter. How whipping him publicly saved his life. ‘Twas my fault, you know, that he broke the rules. ‘Twas my fault that you were forced to whip him. Had I told you about the wolves, none of what followed would have happened. My thoughtlessness caused Peter pain, not your hand. You nearly lost control of this fortress because of my misplaced loyalty, and I am here to tell you that I am sorry. I shall try to grow up, Captor. I know you do not love me, but we might still be friends. Might we not?"
“Nay, we cannot be friends."
“Oh...” she said, forlornly.
“Never friends. But I would have us wed."
“You wish to w-wed me?” Her eyes shone bright. “You do love me then?"
“Love you? Nay!” he said, crushing that sparkle of hope in her eyes. “What I feel for you is lust. Unholy desire."
Sage thought back to the terrible forbidden ecstasy they had shared that last night they were together. Christ, but he had wanted her!
He still wanted her, and in every way. But the wanting had naught to do with love.
“The cleric will speak the words in three days,” he told her. “No sense delaying."
“Such a romantic proposal! Are you not afraid you will turn my head?"
Her attempts at levity would not sway him; their lust for one another was too dark for laughter. “You will take no lovers, now or in the future. You are for my exclusive use."
“I have remained faithful! You gave me to Kendle!” Her hands went to her hips. “And what of you? Will you stay faithful to me?
“I have not had another lover since you, Aeschine,” he said quietly.
“What of Yseult? Does she not count?"
“I got into bed with her and got right back out again without ever touching her."
Her hands came down from her hips; she reached to him. “Do you ken that LaTourne will not come for me if he knows I am wed?"
“The pervert is dead. He will never come for you now, anyway."
* * * *
“You made a lovely bride,” Ellen said.
Aeschine smiled as her maid wiped a sentimental tear from her eye. Three short days since Sage's proposal and she no longer served the warlord as his leman; now she was his wedded wife.
“The new cleric spoke some holy words, that he did,” Ellen continued. “Moved, I was. As was everyone in attendance."
“Aye, the ceremony was most meaningful,” Aeschine said and smoothed her hands lovingly over her pretty new blue gown, another gift from Sage.
When Sage bestowed a respectful kiss on his bride's cheek, Ellen wiped again at her misty eyes.
“We will leave you two alone now. I would see to the wedding banquet, ensure everything is perfect. All that food and drink! These castle walls will shake with merriment all eve,” Ellen said, scurrying away to the hall with Will trotting along beside her.
Aeschine was alone with her husband for the first time.
Her husband...
As they made their slow and stately procession down the corridor to the hall, Aeschine's hand placed formerly on her husband's arm, she beamed up at the lord, proud to be his wife, anticipating the joys of the wedding bed following the banquet that night. “I am glad you invited all the new villagers, milord, to help celebrate this day with us."
“As many people as is possible must observe our bliss,” was her husband's rather cool explanation.
Wha
tever was wrong? Aeschine fretted.
She had not seen Sage since his proposal, but he had acted sweet and loving during the ceremony...
What had happened? Was it something she had said? Done? What had changed Sage from the solicitous groom of a few moments ago to a distant stranger?
No time to ask. From the brightly-lit hall, she heard their guests, chatting and laughing; the happy sounds spilled out into the corridor. She saw the troubadour just inside the portal. A signal from the warlord, and he would herald them into the banquet hall in jubilant welcome. Minstrels would begin to play their instruments then, and the dancing would begin.
Aeschine felt the bubble of happiness swell within her chest.
Sage took her elbow. “Over here,” he said and yanked her into a dark and narrow alcove.
“Sage?” she questioned.
“'Tis either fuck you here where there is some privacy or out there in the corridor. Why not collect what I paid for with the coin of my freedom?"
Oh, God! Something was terribly wrong! How could he mean what he was saying? To make love directly outside the hall, in this little dark dreary corner where cobwebs hung from the ceiling, with the smell of mice droppings fouling the air! On their wedding day!
She craved her husband's lovemaking with an unseemly anticipation, but to give way to passion here when their guests expected them to arrive promptly after the ceremony would give reason for speculation...
“Do not play virgin bride with me,” he shouted for all to hear.
Shame filled her. True, she was not a virgin, but still a bride's first time with her husband should be slow and rapturous, not sordid and hurried.
With a curse, he fisted the veil that covered her hair, a bride's symbol of purity, and flung it to the floor. Then, he went back to attack her dress, deliberately pulling at the modest square neckline, tearing at the laces, coldly and calculatingly, ripping the bodice until it gaped. Reaching inside, he fisted her fine linen shift and tore it down the center. Her teats spilled out.
It mattered not. ‘Twas only a gown. Only a shift. Her concern was for him, her husband, the man she loved, the warrior she had only just wed.