by Viola Morne
The key turned with a little effort. He'd not been in here since his father died. Dimly he could see the cobwebs that festooned the ceiling. The layer of dust carpeting the floor gritted against the sole s of his slippers. It looked smaller than he remembered. The window panes were filmed with dirt. He crossed the room to thrust up the sash and let in the cool spring air. He took several deep breaths , and turned around. The bench stood in the corner, swathed in sheeting. Winter grasped a corner of the cloth , and pulled it off.
The dark oak gleamed in the bars of moonlight admitted by the window. He ran a hand over the smooth leather padding. How many times had he been forced to clean it? The restraints still dangled at either end. He bent to examine one. Yes, his father must have repaired it. He heard the slice of the whip , and the weight of it on his skin, like being touched with flame.
Winter shook off the memory. Time to set the room to rights. He thought of spreading Elinor over the top, fastening the leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles. His cock swelled. His little ward would have to earn her place in his household, just as he had, many years ago.
CHAPTER FOUR
Elinor awoke with the dawn on May Day. She heard giggling and footsteps as the housemaids ran out into the morning to wash their faces with dew. She pulled on her robe and crossed to the window. The sun had not yet topped the horizon. One of the maids saw her at the window and beckoned to her. Even Mrs. Henry was down there. Why not? Elinor ran down to join them, shivering in the cool air. She wet her hands on the damp grass , and rubbed them over her face. The sun broke over the far hills, staining the sky a wild rose.
She heard a shout. A group of men approached across the north field. They dragged a log behind them, exchanging jests and laughing.
Mrs. Henry tugged on her sleeve. "They're bringing the May Pole. You should get dressed, Miss Elinor."
"Yes, of course." She saw Winter at the head of the group, pulling as hard as any of the young men. He was hatless, as usual, a wide smile spread across his face. He looked happy, she thought with some surprise, without the weight of his everyday cares and troubles. She slipped away from the servants. Time to get breakfast ready.
Planks had been placed on trestles to form long tables on the drive. Elinor found Mrs. Henry bustling around the kitchen. "There you are, miss. Would you check on the muffins?" She turned on a serving girl. "I said to pour the ale, not spill it . ? Lord bless me, I wish this day was over!" Elinor bent to the oven, where several trays of muffins were ready to be pulled out. Outside, she heard a swelling of voices. "I think they're hungry."
The household gathered on the makeshift benches beside the tables. The curate had been invited, and now he murmured a blessing. The major raised a tankard of ale to offer a toast.
"We come to welcome the spring , and celebrate the season. After breakfast, we'll take an hour to deal with any necessary chores, and then we'll prepare the May Pole. God bless you all."
They all shouted "Huzzah!" , and set to the alfresco meal with an appetite. There was much good-humored chaffing and laughter. Winter was in the thick of it, drinking a single glass of ale before switching to coffee, downing sausages and eggs and muffins. He noticed her watching and flashed a grin, teeth white against his sun-bronzed skin. Her breath caught. He looked so vital, so at home in the role of lord of the manor. Happiness threatened to bubble over, and she let it, reveling in the sensation. She was home.
The time spent in doing chores flew by. Elinor mixed scones and peeled potatoes. She picked spring flowers and packed them for transport to the feast, which would be held in the village. The staff were abuzz with excitement. The major seemed to be everywhere at once, directing operations , and shouting out orders. When he finally called a halt, the entire household climbed onto the farms wagons , and were trundled down to the village.
Another wagon carried the May Pole, festooned with multi-colored ribbons. The men planted it in a hole dug in the middle of the green, and the pole was raised, while the village cheered them on.
Elinor scurried over the green, assisting the village ladies to set up the tables for the May Day Feast. A crowd gathered to see the crowning of the May Queen and her consort, a popular young couple who were much in love, judging by the young woman's blushes and her escort's broad smiles. She couldn't help sighing a little. She thought of Thomas , and what she'd lost. But then one of the children grabbed her hand to join in the dancing. Elinor grasped the end of a ribbon, weaving her steps through the other dancers, as the ribbons wove around the May Pole. She glanced at the major, who toasted her with a mug of ale. She forgot her woes then, as the intricacies of the dance commanded her attention. The others dancers shared their smiles with her, welcoming her to the celebrations. Her heart swelled. Finally there was somewhere she belonged.
#
The glorious day wound to a close. Winter would remember it, when Elinor was gone again, back to London , and to her future husband, who would cherish her , and take her to his bed. Winter shook his head, trying in an effort to stem his thoughts. Elinor was here now, with him, her hair whipped by the May dancing, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes bright as stars. Sometimes it hurt just to look at her. He embraced the pain by catching her around the waist , and swinging her back into the dance. Elinor protested, laughing, almost out of breath. They had danced for hours , to the sound of the fiddles.
The music wound to a close, and Elinor stopped, panted, her hand closed tight around his. This contact, this ability to touch her , without fear, was the sweetest part of the day. Her hem was coming down, her hair was tumbled over her shoulders, and a streak of dirt marked her forehead. She had never been more beautiful.
The last song was a slow one, a country ballad. A woman stepped onto the makeshift stage. Her voice was sweet and true, as she sang of love and loss. Elinor swayed to the music, her lush curves beckoning. Just this once couldn't hurt. Winter pulled her close , and slipped an arm around her trim waist. Her hair was soft against his cheek. She smelled of new-mowed grass and clean crisp cotton, of spring and hope. He held her lightly, when he really wanted to meld her body to his, to grind his cock into that sweet juncture of her thighs ; so she could feel his hunger , and know how desperately he wanted her, as a man desires a woman.
The memory of her soft rounded flesh beneath his hand was a constant spur to sin. She'd been over his knee. He could have slipped his fingers between her legs, to her sweet little cunt that was the constant object of his craving. Elinor stumbled over a bit of rough ground, and he caught her, pulling her up against him. Christ, the sweet pressure of her breast against his chest. Winter bent his face to her neck, where the warmth of the day perfumed her skin. He wanted to lick her, press his teeth into her neck, and mark her as his.
The song wound down to a poignant close, and Elinor threw her arms around his neck. She must be a little drunk. Her breath puffed across his skin. Winter looked down. Her lips were parted in a dreamy smile.
Winter wanted that mouth. He longed to thrust inside her, boldly, licking along her tongue, exploring her moist depths. Christ, he was hard. In olden times, he could have dragged her home and made her his, as the lord of the manor. To keep her in his bed until he tired of her. As if that would ever happen. Any man lucky enough to have Elinor would never let her go. He was damned sure he wouldn't.
The music swelled and stopped. The dancers clapped, weary and happy. Elinor smoothed her hair and smiled at him. "Let's go home," he said.
Winter kept her hand in his as they walked to the wagons, waiting for the rest of the household to pile in for the return trip. Elinor murmured that she'd forgotten her reticule. She pulled free , and walked back to the green. He watched her, almost dizzy with happiness, before something caught his eye.
It glinted overhead, like the sun catching on metal. Up there, in the church tower. The setting sun dazzled his eyes. He squinted, sharpening his gaze. There he was, the bastard, almost hidden in the shadows. A rifle barrel poked out of the tower window. The rifle
man didn't move, didn't realize he'd been spotted. Why didn't he shoot? What was he waiting for?
Time slowed to a crawl. He saw Elinor moved free of the crowd, and he leaped towards her, propelled by instinct. He shoved her to the ground, just as the rifle cracked, the report deafening in the quiet evening. Fire bloomed in his arm. He was hit.
Winter bellowed over his shoulder. "There's a sharpshooter in the church tower!" Stunned silence followed his shout, and then several of the village men took off at a run. The rifle fired again. He rolled with Elinor out of the way, and the bullet hit the dirt in front of him.
Elinor lay beneath him, still, breathing hard.
"Are you all right?"
She nodded.
He heard a cry. The church door flew open, and a man ran out, head down, bent on escape. It must be the sharpshooter. Winter couldn't see a gun ; , he must have been forced to leave the rifle behind. He saw movement up in the tower. One of the village men waved from the window. All clear.
Winter shoved himself upright , and took off after the shooter. The man charged across the humpback bridge that which divided the village from the main road. He was headed for the home wood which abutted the village, a wood that Winter grew up haunting, that he knew like the back of his hand.
The forest was woods were dim and cool after his exertions. His arm twinged. Bastard must have just winged him. He could hear him running ahead of him, his boots thumping on the beaten path that wound through the forest before ending up on Winterhill's back lawn. The question was, did his assailant know that? How much time had he had to plan his assault?
Winter's chest heaved with effort. He was getting tired. Never had he felt his years so acutely. If the shooter kept on the main path, Winter could cut through the evergreen planting , and head him off. He took the next left and kept running.
This portion of the path followed an ancient ridge. Winter bypassed the small waterfall , and splashed through the brook as he ascended the trail. He would have a moment, if he could get there in time, when his path ended in a rock formation that which overlooked the main trail. His quarry would be beneath him for an instant. Winter had one chance to take him down , before the shooter made it to the house. Once there, the bastard could steal a horse and be gone, out of his reach.
Winter couldn't keep going at this speed for much longer. A stitch twisted in his side, a sharp point of agony. He struggled on upwards. He couldn't stop, couldn't let the man escape. Not when he threatened everything Winter held dear. He held on, stumbling over the rocky ground. There it was, a hollow, and then the trail petered out on the overhang. He threw himself on the ground , and slowed his breathing, so he wouldn't betray his presence to the fugitive below. Thirty seconds passed, a minute -- , there ! , A a glimpse of the intruder's back. Winter was on his feet in a moment. A picture of Elinor flashed before his eyes , as he launched himself into the air.
The moment of impact hurt like hell. He felt the shooter's breath explode from his chest. Winter pulled him up by the hair. Out cold. Winter rolled off his quarry , and sat up. He dropped his head on his knees. Christ, that had nearly killed him.
Now, how to truss up his prize? The man had been wearing a pack. Winter rummaged through its contents. He found a length of fine cord, and tied the shooter's hands behind him, and then turned him on his back. He'd seen this face before, during the war, curse him. Winter slapped the other man's face lightly, until the fellow's eyes fluttered , and then opened. The shooter blinked, trying to figure out what was happening.
Winter spoke to him in French. "Vous êtes un ami du monsieur le marquis?"
Comprehension filled the man's eyes, but he shook his head. "I don't understand." The hint of a French accent colored the words.
"Too bad." Winter kicked him in the ribs. The Frenchman grunted , and tried to roll out of the way.
"Oh, you're not going anywhere, mon vieux. Not until you tell me everything I want to know."
The Frenchman worked his jaw , and spat on the path.
Winter smiled grimly. He set his foot on the fellow's ankle. "Last chance. What are you doing here, and why did you attack my ward?"
"Va au diable!"
"Oh, I think you'll be with the devil long before I will." Winter lifted his boot , and bore down on the man's ankle until he heard the bone snap. The shooter screamed.
"Now, let's try that again, shall we?"
#
Winter left the Frenchman tied up in the stables, under the watchful eye of his head groom.
"The bastard tried to kill Miss Elinor. If he moves, put him down like a rabid dog."
The shooter's eyes widened over the handkerchief he had stuffed in his mouth. The screams had started to weary Winter. "I'll be back once I check on her."
Elinor was shaken and confused, but unharmed.
"Are you sure he was trying to shoot me?"
"I don't know who his target was, or why he's here." Winter hated to lie to her, but expedience won out over honesty. His primary goal was to keep her safe. Let her think this was some random attack by a madman. That way, she wouldn't have to live in fear.
"You rest now, my dear. I'll handle the matter."
"You're hurt!" Winter glanced down at the blood oozing from his arm.
"It's only a scratch . , I'm fine. Stop worrying."
Elinor bit her lip and nodded. He pressed a kiss on her forehead and headed back to the stables.
"He ain't moved an inch, sir," the groom informed him.
The man was tied to a post, his ankle roughly splinted. His face was tinged with green, and he sweated freely, in spite of the evening breeze. Winter bent over and removed the gag.
"How is my old friend, the marquis? Still as slippery as ever?"
The prisoner sat mute, eyes fixed on the floor.
Winter kicked his injured ankle.
The man stifled a scream. But he looked at the major, murder in his gaze.
"Did the marquis ever tell you how we met? It was in Portugal, back in '09. We were on patrol in the countryside around Porto. We'd heard rumors about some Frogs who were preying on the Portuguese - thieving, rape and torture. I'm sure you remember all the vile acts you committed while working for him. We finally tracked the French down , and cornered them like rats. We gutted them like rats , too, till the ground was red with good French blood."
The prisoner cursed.
Winter laughed. "The marquis tried to get away. Shot his own man to do it. He didn't care about anything but saving his own skin. We caught him, though he escaped later. I hear the Portuguese commander still wears two of his fingers around his neck." He knelt in front of the prisoner. "Point is, little rat, that commander ain't the only one who remembers. Now, where is he?"
"I will never talk, never betray my leader," the prisoner spat at him.
Winter looked at him , and felt something like regret. "I believe you." He stood , and then broke the man's neck with a twist of his hands. "Get rid of the carcass," he told the groom , . " s S omewhere he won't be found." Then he walked out of the barn, without a second thought. He'd do whatever it took to keep Elinor safe.
#
The dream was always the same. It occurred regularly, especially when Winter was worried or overtired. It was never welcome.
He was at Winterhill, a quarter century ago, in that room on the second floor , which his father kept locked. This marked the first time he had invited Winter to join him when he administered a punishment.
"Come in, my boy."
Winter walked into the room. A woman, stripped naked, lay on the punishment bench, arms and legs spread wide , and manacled with leather cuffs. Her exposed bottom was plump and round. His cock stirred.
"Say hello to Molly." The girl turned her head, an expression of patient suffering on her face.
"Don't worry about Molly. She wants this, don't you, girl?"
"Yes, sir." Her soft country voice offered no fight at all.
"Now, Molly has been a naughty girl, and let the crea
m spoil. She is here to be punished, and you shall act in my place. One day, you will be the master here. You must learn how to discipline your staff." His father walked over to the bench. He caressed her buttocks gently, parted them to reveal her feminine parts.
"Once you've whipped her, you can fuck her. She's clean . , I broke her in myself." His father thrust a finger inside her and pulled it out. Molly moaned. "The little bitch is wet already."
Winter cleared his throat. He wanted to walk away. This was not how he imagined his first time would be, with a woman tied up and waiting to be punished. But he was afraid to disobey his father, afraid that he'd be the one on the bench. His cock had a mind of its his own anyway. He was hard as stone, wet with excitement.
"Start with your hand. Enjoy the feel of her flesh, knowing that she belongs to you, to punish or pleasure as you see fit."
Still, Winter hesitated.
"Hit her!" his father barked. Winter jumped , and touched a tentative hand to her bottom. Christ, her skin was soft and warm. He smoothed her buttock , before he raised his hand and struck her square on one cheek. Her flesh jiggled, the imprint of his hand bright pink against her creamy flesh. His fingers tingled.
"Again," his father commanded.
He spanked the girl until her bottom was bright red and swollen. At his father's nod, he tore open his breeches and thrust inside her. Sweet Christ in heaven. She was wet and sleek, moaning beneath him. He didn't last long before coming so hard, he felt dizzy. His father clapped him on the shoulder.
"Now you can call yourself a man, my son. Next time, try the cane. The bruising is lovely."
Molly cried out, twisting in her leather straps, her bottom quivering.
"You may go, Caine. I'll finish up with Miss Molly." His father lifted a riding crop and slashed the girl across both reddened cheeks, and she screamed while his father chuckled. Winter shivered and slunk through the door, guilt and satisfaction churning in his gut. So that was what sex was supposed to feel like. He made it outside before he vomited. Then he ran down to the brook at the bottom of the garden, flung off his clothes, and threw himself into the water to wash away his sin and his shame.