“Answer aloud. I wish to hear it from your own lips.” He gave her two more swats, at the place where her bottom met her thighs.
“Aye!” she cried. “Aye!”
“Four more to seal the bargain.”
Boo-hoos and sobs followed, but Tom held to his word and spanked her thighs two times each. He tossed the hairbrush onto the table, put Brandywyn’s skirt down and took her into his arms. “There, there. It is all over. You will be a good girl now.”
She nodded, her face pressed against his chest, her tears wetting his tunic. He patted her back, waiting for her sobs to abate.
“Give yourself leave to cry, sweeting. If anyone has earned her tears, ‘tis you.”
“I am sorry, Tom. You have been nothing but kind to me and I have repaid you poorly.”
He would have agreed aloud, but there was no need to rub salt into her wound. “I forgive you.”
“And I forgive you for not believing me to be who I am.”
“Brandywyn, let us not begin that argument again.”
“But ‘tis true! Please believe me!”
Tom thought ‘twould be bad for her did he do so. She could not behave like a spoiled princess. She needed to embrace her humble situation. Brandywyn especially needed to get control of her temper. Instead of giving in, he took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up. “Mayhap you are not royalty, but to me you are as precious as any princess in the world.” Tom gazed into her green eyes, falling into their leafy depths for a moment, then lowered his head to take her lips—her ruby lips, so soft, so tender.
It was a gentle kiss at first. Tom did not wish to scare her, but as she slowly came to know his tenderness, she also came to find her passion. It showed in the movement of her lips on his. As he pressed her a bit more, holding her tight against him, she opened her mouth and he explored her teeth, her tongue. He tested her experience, and found her untried, hesitant, but with ardor growing.
Brandywyn was breathless as he slowly withdrew from her. Her eyes opened, half-lidded with desire. “Aye, sweeting. That is how it is with us.”
“I have never kissed before,” she admitted with a blush. “Can we do it again?”
Tom chuckled, delighted. His answer was to bend his head and take her lips again, this time with greater force—not enough to scare her, but enough to prove his deep desire. Brandywyn hesitated only a moment before she became more aggressive. Her tongue played with his, her breath became his. He drank her up and she refilled his cup.
Sliding his hands down her back, he cupped her rump gently. He knew she was still sore from her spanking, but he wanted the feel of her full behind in his hands. Rewarding him, she squirmed in his grasp. Tom wanted more. He snaked one hand between them and moved it up her chest, finally cupping her breast. Her nipple was hard, a nubbin against his palm and between his fingers. He worked it free of its confining garment, manipulated that tender nipple and fondled her breast.
“Oh… oh, Tom…” she sighed.
Bending further, he took the tip of her breast into his mouth and wound his tongue around it, coaxing it to greater hardness. He nipped her gently and she gasped, pressing her breast against his mouth to encourage him. If he did not cease, he would have her naked and in the bed soon. ‘Twas not the way to take a maid, all at once, without wooing. She was willing, though, and that was gratifying. Carefully, he withdrew, pulling her chemise and bodice back into place.
“We must cease, love, else we shall do something regrettable.”
Brandywyn touched his face gently, and he heard the rustle of his beard beneath her hand. “I would not regret it.”
He smiled and retreated a bit. “I would. You deserve wooing, sweeting, not some rough tumble after a single kiss.”
She frowned and took a step back. “As you wish. If I do not please you…”
Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to her palm. “You please me greatly. Too greatly.” Verily, it beset him to think of her leaving him. It was not something he cared to consider, so he pushed it to the back of his mind.
Chapter Five
Parting from him, Brandywyn sat down in the single chair, her bottom aching on the hard wood. She was unsure about what to do. Tom certainly did not believe her, and yet, her story was true. It was very pigheaded of him to insist she was someone who was out of her head and making her identity up. However, she could not find her way back home, and so long as the villagers did not recognize her, she was without help. In time, if she persisted, Tom had to come around to believe her. He had to! If she confronted him time and again with her regal bearing and fine manners, she would certainly convince him.
Tom’s kisses had been pleasant, however. She would have liked more of those, but in this case, he had to remain her enemy until he came to see the truth of her words. Unfortunately, it all meant that she was stuck there in the humble cottage with the huntsman for a while.
Brandywyn watched him gather up a few things and put them on the table. Flour, eggs, milk, a chunk of tallow, a bit of leavened dough in a small canister, and a bag of salt. “What are you doing?”
“I am getting out the ingredients for bread making. I thought you could make the bread while I go catch a few fish in the stream.”
“M-m-make bread? You cannot possibly think a princess would make bread. Why, my hands would blister! My arms would harden. I have seen cook at the task, and it is not something I would care to try. In all my ten and nine years, no one has asked me to do such a menial task. No, Tom. You make the bread.”
He scowled at her. “No, Brandywyn. You will do it. If you cannot remember the steps, I shall teach you.”
Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes, but Brandywyn fought them back. “How can I remember what I never knew?”
“It will come to you. Perhaps this task will jog your memory.”
“You are insufferable. I refuse.”
“Then you will go hungry.”
Fury filled her head and added venom to her tongue. “You would starve a princess?!”
Tom sighed and turned to build up the fire in the small brick oven built into the hearth. “I shall not starve a princess, no. I shall remind a woman of her place in the world.”
“My father will—”
“You know, Brandywyn, I suspect your father is a simple tradesman, a cobbler, or goodly yeoman who tills his fields. Once you remember, I shall take you to him. But I shall not roam the countryside asking every person I meet if they are missing one spoiled daughter.”
Brandywyn ground her perfect teeth together. “I cannot remember what is not true.”
“You will remember, given time. And I have plenty of time for you, my girl.”
“Of course you do, you peasant.”
He laughed. “I may be a peasant, but here you are with me in my humble home, eating my humble food, and wearing my humble shoes and shirt. At this moment, Brandywyn, you are as much a peasant as I.”
She pounded a fist on the table and the bowl jumped and the eggs rolled close to the edge. Tom caught them, gave them an impressive juggle, and put them in the bowl for safekeeping.
“Enough of your temper tantrums for the nonce, Brandywyn. You need to get this bread in the oven.” He picked up the flour and poured a bit in the big wooden bowl. “Here is how you do it. Stop me when you remember.”
Brandywyn watched him mix ingredients, stirring and adding this and that until a dough had formed. He floured the table some and turned the dough out upon it. “Now we knead it.”
“We do?”
“Aye. Do you not recall kneading dough? Surely it was one of your childhood tasks.”
“Never! Princesses do not cook!”
He gave her a hard stare. “Of course they do not. But since you are not a princess, the question remains.” He pulled her over to the dough and floured her hands. “Here, like this.” Taking her hands in his, together they kneaded the soft, fragrant mass. It was a sensual feeling, the yielding of the dough beneath her fingers, the slightly ta
cky outer skin with the glutinous texture beneath. It was lot like flesh—soft, pliable flesh. Brandywyn flushed at the thought of kneading Tom’s much harder flesh with her same two hands. At about that time, he withdrew his guidance.
“Do that for a moment or two more, then rub the bowl with tallow and put the bread in it. Cover it with a clean cloth and put it by the hearth. Not too close, mind you. The bread will rise and then you will knead it again.”
“Again? But my hands tire.”
“Come, come, girl. You are sturdier than that. I have to go fish for our supper. Do you follow my instructions and we shall bake when I return.”
She was left with no choice, as Tom spun on his heel and strode confidently from the cottage. Brandywyn set to it, clumsy though the movements were.
About two hours later, Tom returned with several plump trout hanging from a string. “Supper!” he announced.
Brandywyn was startled from her kneading and the risen dough fell on the hard-packed dirt floor at her feet. It was of little concern to her. She reached to pick it up again.
“Nay!” Tom threw the fish into a basin and hurried over to her. “What goes here? You must start over! We cannot eat bread with dirt upon it.”
Brandywyn’s face heated. “‘Tis but a little dirt. See? I shall dust it away.” The floppy mass did not react well to her dusting attempts.
“Brandywyn…” He drew her name out like a building thunderclap. “How many times have you dropped the bread on the floor?”
To tell the truth or not? She eyed the bread, seeing bits of black dirt sprinkled throughout. A pebble fell down onto the floor with a tick. Lying a little might get her off lightly. “Twice?”
“Twice? Only twice?”
“Well… thrice. But only thrice! Truly!”
He took the bread from her hands and tossed it out the door. “That is naught but refuse for the midden, Brandywyn. A little dirt never hurt a man, but I do not wish to eat pebbles and mud with my food.”
Brandywyn wiped her hands on her skirt, and looking down, realized that it was filthy again, with flour and tallow stains. It was his fault if the bread had gone bad! He insisted that she create it herself, knowing full well that princesses did not cook. Had she not told him the same? If ‘twas ruined, ‘twas no fault of hers. She rounded on him, hands on her hips. “Serves you right, you addlepated nitwit! I told you I could not cook and yet you insisted. Eat your trout without bread. I do not care. The task is beneath me.”
“No, Brandywyn, what lies beneath your angry mien is your untarnished bottom. I shall see to that and right away!”
Immediately, Brandywyn covered her bottom with both hands. “No! Do not spank me! For every spank, you will feel ten blows of the whip, I vow!”
His frown was deep and he took two strides to reach her, grabbing her by both arms and giving her a little shake. “No more of your threats, Brandywyn. You and I both know that I shall not fall under the whip for saving you from harm—even harm you bring upon yourself. Go and kneel next to the bed.”
“Tom, you only build the case against yourself. My father will have none of your ‘mistaken identity’ excuses. He will punish you!”
“I shall take my chances.” When she did not cooperate, he muscled her over to the bed and pressed upon her shoulders until she was kneeling next to the low platform. Tom pressed her face into the mattress lightly, and stood up next to her. Brandywyn heard some rustling and then the sound of his belt buckle. She turned her head to see what he was planning and saw him wrapping the belt around his fist, buckle inward, but leaving a doubled length out. This he snapped against his palm and Brandywyn jumped and made to get up. She did not want to feel a belt on her bottom again!
“Nay, stay, girl. Take what you deserve.”
“I do not deserve it. ‘Twas only a little dirt!”
“A little dirt, some pebbles, and perhaps we have broken teeth for dinner!” he countered. A moment later, he lifted her skirts and exposed her soft behind. Brandywyn struggled, but his hard, strong hand held her down against the bed. She was his captive and now he was going to thrash her. But the first strike of the belt was not so hard. She peeped, but more from the surprise than from the hurt. The second blow was but a bit harder, but the belt made a loud snap when it connected with her flesh. The third spank, however, was forceful, and Brandywyn yelped as a burning sting swept over her bottom cheeks.
“Now you are ready for the punishment,” Tom told her. “I shall not go easy on you. You have defied me too often.”
With that, he struck her half a dozen times in quick succession. Brandywyn gasped and cried out. The belt was much worse than his hand or the hairbrush. She could see him swinging the objectionable leather out of the corner of her eye, and it looked like he was taking full advantage of his position standing over her. More strokes added fire to her behind, and more again. Her bottom was on fire, molten fire, and the pain radiated through her whole middle and up to her ears, which burned with shame and frustration. It had been wrong of her to try to give Tom dirty bread. The first time she had dropped it, she realized that it was ruined, but she spitefully decided that he deserved the disgusting food for his mistreatment of her. She would not deign to eat it, of course. But the small pebbles and bits of mud only enhanced her revenge on him. After a few more minutes of kneading, the bread accidentally dropped off the table again. She was mightily satisfied and pleased with her handiwork. The bread making went on like that, adding glee to her chore. Of course, then Tom had to catch her doing it again and all of Hades had been released against her. Now she was paying the price.
Tom’s lecture did not help matters. “You will take more care when preparing food, Brandywyn. You will mind my instructions and keep the food clean and edible.”
Her bottom was screaming. Each new blow added to her misery tenfold. She might deserve it, but she would not take it easily. Brandywyn struggled against his hold, tears brimming over her eyelids. “Stop!” she cried. “I shall be more mindful! Please, Tom!”
Tom applied the belt to her bottom and down both tender thighs. The pain jarred her through and through and she began to cry in earnest. “You will complete your chores with greater care in the future, Brandywyn, for I shall not find it amiss to leave you naked and red-arsed for all the hours of the day.”
Horror jolted Brandywyn. Surely he would do no such thing. Oh, the humiliation of such base treatment! Spankings were enough, but to be treated like the meanest slave would be anathema. “I will do better! Please, Tom, do not treat me that way!”
“I want to hear you say you are sorry, Brandywyn.” He smacked her another half dozen times and her sobs got louder and her wails more forlorn. She wished with all her heart she could behave like a strong, royal, stalwart princess and take her beating without a flinch. But, oh! The pain was a torture!
“I am sorry! I am so, so sorry! I shall never do it again, Tom. I promise!”
“Hm…” His blows got somewhat lighter, though they kept falling for a long, agonizing minute. Brandywyn was a blubbering mass of jelly when he relented.
Invisible flames scorched her entire backside and down her thighs. Brandywyn sobbed and cried into the bed’s blanket. She truly was sorry for her behavior. It had been reprehensible. Tom had been kind to her, if rather demanding. “I-I-I am sorry, Tom.”
He sat upon the bed and pulled her up into his arms. Her peasant’s skirt scratched her tender bottom as it fell back into place, but still, sitting in his lap was not so bad. Tom pulled her in close to his chest and wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head. As he stroked her hair, he murmured nonsense words to soothe her. It worked. Her tears soon dried and her sniffles abated. No longer did the sobs shake her to the bone.
“Behave, Brandywyn,” he reminded her. “I shall show you the cost of your misbehaviors every time you try them.”
“Aye, sir. I shall do better.” At least, Brandywyn hoped she could do better. Who knew how long she would be stuck here
with Tom Huntsman. Since she had no intention of saying she was other than a princess, it could be a very long time indeed.
Tom supervised her making the bread, moving around the cottage for a bit and then sitting down to sharpen his arrows. Brandywyn dutifully followed the instructions she knew and upon learning how to bake the loaf, she was transported by the delicious smell as it cooked.
When the bread was finally brought to the table, Brandywyn stared at it as if it was a magical thing. She made it herself! Princess Brandywyn of Ring had baked a loaf of bread.
Tom beamed at her from across the table, where they were enjoying their trout, dandelion salad and the amazing bread. “You did well, Brandywyn. I knew you could do it.”
“I did do it,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “I did!” Preening, she went on. “It should be no surprise to you that a princess is an exceptional person; even under the meanest of conditions, she will rise above the peasantry.”
His smile disappeared entirely. “You are too arrogant by half, Brandywyn.”
She ate a bit more supper. “I say only the truth.”
“Being obnoxious will not work with me, young lady. I shall not bow to your regal majesty. You are a girl, a girl with a poor attitude. I shall fix that and return you to your home a better person than you were when you left.”
Brandywyn was too pleased with herself to argue further, so she let it drop.
The day drew to a close and, wearing only Tom’s shirt, she climbed back into the big bed. She rather liked the idea of sharing it with him, though Brandywyn had no intention of telling him so. But, under these trying circumstances, his warm, stalwart presence was a calming influence on her battered nerves.
She was asleep in no time, but Tom came into the bed somewhat later, and it woke her slightly. Semi-slumbering, she felt him pull her up against the front of his body and hold her tight, like two spoons in a drawer. It was comforting to have him there, so she dropped back into a deep sleep.
* * *
The Princess and the Huntsman Page 6