“I thought perhaps I needed a session in the shed.” There she was, Morgan with a smile and golden hair and shimmering blue eyes.
“And why is that?” I asked, trying to get over the shock of her unexpected appearance.
“I’ve been awfully foolish, thinking I could leave this place and you,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s all I’ve been thinking about since I left. Your books are going to need constant attention if you hope to keep this place running. And I’m worried that you’re not handling it. I mean, you’re hardly out of the woods and I hate to see you go under just after I get things all straightened out.”
“I see. So, you’ve been negligent in your duties, perhaps?”
“Absolutely,” she replied.
“And you need to be punished for that, I suppose?”
“Most assuredly. I never should have left this in your hands,” she pointed to the ledgers still sitting where she left them on my desk. “It looks as though you haven’t touched them?”
“You’re right about that,” I agreed, peering at the desk. “And so, you think you’d better stay on?”
“Only if I’m a welcome addition to your staff. I wouldn’t want to encroach where I’m not wanted, but I do think you’ll need at least a part-time accountant and there’s no one more suited for the job.”
I nodded my head and flashed her a smile, then picked up the riding crop feeling a warm rush of energy begin to pour into the shoulder and arm that relished drawing back the implement and letting it fly across her dimpled ass cheeks.
“Well, then, Ms. Morgan Rice,” I said. “I think you’d better get to the shed so we can get this over with and on to other matters. I do believe that justice should always be meted out promptly.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” she replied with a quivering smile, as she sexily pushed a lock of her hair back with her hand.
And with that, we were off, knowing how the hour would end, and the day, and likely a lot more days down the road.
Incident In The Cellar
The wind howled about the moonless night, sending dead leaves in rustling waves along the dry grass, to settle again until the next gust sent them in another direction. Ella pushed her way against the elements, holding her tattered sweater against her shoulders as she fought one current of cold air after another. When she came to the door of the angular mansion on the hill she was out of breath, and before knocking, sagged wearily against the thick door frame. A broken gargoyle scowled, looking as though it would jump from its concrete cloak and bury its beastly paws into her flesh. The image of blood spilling down the entrance stairs, and the fright behind it, gave her the impetus to bang on the door for entrance. It had been three years since she’d last felt the hard surfaces of that aging door, or had rested her eyes on the towering mansion, or had caught the old scent that permeated its walls with fear.
The knocker banged against the brass plate, the noise of it filling her ears with memories. Yes, it had been three years, but when the door swung wide, Bigsby greeted her as though she’d never left. His officious manner hardly warmed her, though she was nonetheless heartened by the sight of his familiar face.
“Ella, you’re quite cold,” he said as she stepped into the entry way, her eyes immediately glancing upward toward the intricate hunting scenes carved into the rising canopy that was the ceiling “Would you like a sip of brandy while you wait for Master Clive?” The dutiful servant ushered her into the small drawing room off the entrance—Clive’s personal sitting room.
“That would be fine,” she answered. She still hugged her shoulders. The mansion was always drafty.
She took a seat in the small leather chair in front of the fireplace and drew a wool afghan over her slight form. Bigsby poured her a sifter of brandy. Once it was in her hands he clicked his heels, gave her a respectful nod and started toward the door. “I’ll tell Master of your arrival.”
“I would be just as happy if you didn’t let him know I’m here, not yet, anyway.” She started to rise with anxiety suddenly catching her in the throat, remembering Clive.
“I’m afraid the Master would be most distressed to have your return kept from him. If I can be so bold as to say this,” he added, “some things are best handled straight-away as letting them linger.”
Ella stared at him thoughtfully. This was wise counsel, but not one she welcomed. “I’m sure you’re right,” she finally said sighing. Returning to the warmth of the chair, Bigsby continued with his mission.
Waiting for Clive, Ella rested her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. For just a moment, she could feel a sea breeze on her cheeks, and imagine her face toward the sky, the bright ball of flame hotly baking her skin with its fierce warmth. Just one small vision, it flit through mind and then was gone. Her thoughts returned to the drawing room, and the dankness of its spirit that surrounded her. If it weren’t for the fire in the grate, she’d be bathed in a coldness that would sink deep into her bones. Even with her eyes closed, Ella could feel her surroundings keenly: the mahogany paneling, the shelves of the leather bound histories, the rich oriental carpet and the purple velvet drapes across the windows—the kind so thick you could hide within their folds and not be seen. She’d done that as a child.
If only the picture of the seashore would return, just one last glimpse of its gentle beauties—perhaps it would take away the gloom of this horrifying return to the place of her childhood. And yet, just minutes steeped inside its walls, she was captured by the gothic aura of Faltz House, once again enveloped in its charms and mysteries and its terror. It would be some time before the peaceful pictures of her excursion away from this chilling house would return.
Hearing the door open, Ella’s eyes jerked open. Clive had entered. She knew that without turning toward the door, his essence went before him like a herald.
“So, I see you’ve finally given up your maverick jaunt,” he said, his voice sweeping her with its chill.
“Yes, sir,” she said. She automatically rose from the chair and faced him. Perhaps if she was obedient from the outset, he’d have some pity on her. If she submitted without a fight perhaps he wouldn’t remember how she’d left in a defiant panic three years before.
“And you’re ready to yield?”
“I am.” She looked him squarely in the eye, hardly meek, yet still compliant. Her first gaze into his face, she could see he’d hardly changed. Perhaps his inky black hair was a bit longer, now a beautiful mane of ebony he brushed back off his imposing shoulders. His eyes were as icy as she remembered them, but beautiful in their coldness. He’d been dressed for bed, she imagined, and had donned these clothes hastily when Bigsby informed him of her appearance. Dusty jeans—perhaps he’d been riding that day, a loose white collarless shirt tucked inside them, and his riding boots—he was never without them. If he’d come to her in stocking feet, she might have earned a reprieve from her inevitable fate, but then that wouldn’t be like him to put necessary business aside for any reason.
Clive Faltz was in his late thirties, yet he had an ageless mien. He was the perfect replica of his father before him, with his gothic masterpiece mansion and his old-world taste for women, justice and beauty. Indeed, given his age, Clive might be more startling that Victor Faltz. To have developed this fierce style so young was unexpected. But then, Clive was an unusual man. Like his father, he was an anomaly amidst the vast ranchlands of Montana. These renegade expanses suited his temperament well—rigorous, often forbidding and always willing to allow a man to live as he chose—though Clive seemed more like an English nobleman than a rough cattle baron. In spite of the fact that he worked his ranch with the lust of any cowboy, he remained a gentleman’s gentleman, reeking with good breeding.
“Perhaps the wider world has been ungracious to a flower as sweet as you,” Clive opened the encounter with the withering, weathered beauty. The wayward woman looked gaunt and tired. Her locks of pale red hair were plastered to he
r head with rain, and were only now drying, hinting how they could shine lustrously. She was slight of build, her body like a bending willow, her breasts delicate handfuls of translucent whiteness, her waist slim, and her rounded hips providing an alluring swell to an otherwise unremarkable appearance. Her jeans were a size too big and her sweater was baggy as if it came from some goodwill bag. Where once Ella had been the fairest bloom in the county, her face was now colorless, and her hazel eye seemed devoid of light. Staring into her pitiable expression, Clive was moved, knowing instantly what was required to restore her. All the gloom would go away and her mood would brighten as soon as he’d removed the great burdens from her conscience.
“For a while I was happier than I’ve ever been,” she told him almost proudly. Then her eyes looked down at her feet tucked into the small pink flats. “But it didn’t last,” she added. The admission was one filled with heaviness.
“You should never have attempted a cause so feeble,” he told her as though that truth was self-evident.
Staring into his cold eyes it was hard to admit he was right, but time, distance and three brutal three years between this and their last confrontation, convinced her he was right. Then too, Clive was never wrong. Oh, how things might have been different if she hadn’t been so doggedly stubborn that night. In a quarrelsome fit she fled the mansion, and had since paid dearly for that blunder. Thinking that she could live without Faltz House and the master of that manor was an error in judgment she’d come to regret after just six months on her own.
“I made a mistake,” she told him. “And I’m here to take my due.” Though she looked tired and vanquished, her voice did not waver as she spoke.
He nodded in acknowledgment, turned his back to ponder for a second and then turned back.
“I’ll chastise you in the cellar as I promised,” he said in a flat monotone. “I hadn’t expected your return, so I’ll need to prepare, but I’m sure I can make do.”
“You’ll be using birches as you swore?” she asked.
“Of course, my dear, I never break my word. Though I suspect that I’ll begin with something else, perhaps warming you with the bite of wood.”
She shuddered. There was not a nerve ending in her body that wasn’t lit with fear and heat. Yet the more she stared into Clive’s face, the more she witnessed what drew her back to him after a vow to never lay eyes on him again.
“In the cellar,” he said.
Turning, he opened the drawing room door and motioned her to exit with him. Winding her way through the downstairs hallway, they came to a door just outside the kitchen and she opened it gingerly. Descending the stairs, the chill that had begun to relent with the brandy and fire returned to her body, settling into her heart. Her loins, in contrast, were on fire, the flame from them would not die—not until this ritual had reached its end.
Clive lit the oil lamps along the dark staircase, though there was little illumination; this was a dark so black it swallowed light like food to feast on. The smoke and fumes rising into the dank air brought memories Ella would not forget—those other times. Hitting the cellar floor, the two turned left moving into a chamber where there was nothing but a small stool for her to sit on and a three foot long bench.
“Give me your wrists,” he said, reaching for the two slight hands that were now callused from some hard labor, the red nail polish chipped.
His command quickened every atom in her body.
Offering herself, she watched as his deft hands worked a rope around her slim wrists several times so they were immovably bound. Pleased with his handiwork, he next removed her pants, yanking the garment to her feet, taking panties and all in one swift move. Pulling the pile out from under her feet she stood before him bared and humbled though he had one more task to perform before he was ready.
“Sit, I’ll return shortly,” he said, and though anxious to leave, he waited while she complied. The low stool required her to bend low and land ungraciously on the hard surface. The height of the stool made her bent knees a good bit higher than her ass, so her thighs naturally parted into an ungracious pose. Resting her bound hands between them, Ella watched Clive vanish as if by magic.
The walls leapt out at her with the shadows and ghosts and memories of her visits to this punishment chamber. She remembered the stone, the cracked mortar and the loneliness that crept in round her. The silence was deafening. She knew that any moment, Clive would suddenly sweep into the room, his gritty determination preceding him, his powerful aura pouring from him with haughty arrogance and command. Ella had been a child and youth and woman that needed to be bridled and constrained and Clive was an expert in that task—one of the many skills that had been handed down to him by his father. She’d been a homeless waif when Victor Faltz rescued her from sure destruction. Over the years, he’d championed her, disciplined her spirit and brutally dealt with her misdeeds. But it was to his son, Clive, that Ella owed her allegiance and her affections, even if Clive was often as brutal to her as his father. Even though she’d banished herself from Faltz House for three years, the facts of their relationship would never be altered. She would greet the next hour trembling in terror though she would endure knowing the satisfaction that would flow once she’d paid for her crimes.
By the time Clive finally returned to the cellar, Ella’s legs ached and her ass end felt numb. Perhaps that would be in her favor considering the plans Clive had to punish her. A second fierce shudder raced through her when she saw what he brought with him: in one hand the paddle he’d used on her many times before, in the other hand, a bundle of fresh-cut switches from one of the trees in the woods some twenty yards from the house.
Seeing the random assortment of slender branches tied together, she gasped quietly. “They’ll rip me to shreds.”
“Then so they shall,” he returned, pulling her to her feet. Her legs had become weak, and she was hardly able to stand.
“Clive, I …” she began to stammer.
“Hush, my darling. You knew when you left the price you’d pay if you returned. I trust that you’ve thought this through clearly?”
Returning was all she thought about since the day she left. Even when she was living a life on her own without the men of Faltz House, she could not dislodge them from her mind. They remained with her, both fixed and fluid images. Fixed in their heartless resolve and yet fluid in the way the picture of them would follow the moods she’d see on their faces: resilient, stern, compassionate, unrelenting and, at times, utterly kind.
“Your treachery and disobedience are as fresh now as they ever were, Ella. Don’t do yourself a disservice and try to negate the impetuous recklessness that drove you from this house.”
“I would never do that,” she replied. “I was only hoping that I could do this without the bonds at my wrists, that I could come to you freely without the need for this to cloud my willingness.”
“I understand your willingness, and appreciate that ready compliance—even though it’s been so long in coming. Still, you will be bound. Let the ropes remind you of how you are bound to me irrevocably. Perhaps the marks they leave will make an imprint that will not easily fade from your foolish mind.”
Clive turned Ella around and shoved her toward a rough-hewn bench. Pushing her to her knees, she straddled the end like a saddle, a leg on either side of the foot wide seat. The sharp edges of the boards cut into the flesh of her inner thighs. Her body rested along the length of the board, and her roped hands were drawn in front of her, fastened down buy a leather cord that was looped between them and tied securely.
Letting her cheek lay against the wood, she waited.
The punishment proceed with the paddle, just as she knew it would. The flat surface of the well-oiled implement landed briskly several dozen times to warm her flesh and make it glow brightly. Clive laid it on with an even stroke, being patient, thorough and unwavering, despite the mounting protest the penitent woman waged. She had no way to bodily revolt as securely as she’d been immobiliz
ed, but within her confinement she churned as she could for the pain mounted steadily. Most of the paddling was aimed at the center of her ass cheeks, but he also strayed lower and higher to more tender flesh where the burn was vicious instantly.
When Ella’s behind had turned the proper shade of red, and her cries were at level of anguish he knew well in her, he abruptly halted. With the finish, the room became utterly silent, just the sound of the two breathing heavily—Ella from her anguish, Clive from the energy he’d just expended delivering the paddling.
As she lay impassively, the pain turned to warmth, invading her limbs, her loins and her churning belly. The air around her tickled the raw skin. She might have giggled under different circumstances. Not now certainly, she had a good deal to dread with this chastisement only half over.
Gathering himself, Clive moved away and picked up the bundle of birches, whisking the seven thin branches though the thick cellar air with an awesome sizzle. Another swish through the air, and Ella was certain that this next would strike her ass, but again they hit the empty space around her without striking a thing.
Now, ready to begin the heart of her atonement, Clive stepped to her ass once more, noting that the lustrous crimson on her cheeks was beginning to wane.
“I didn’t get a chance to soak these in brine,” he said, “that would have been most suitable for the occasion, but perhaps this hastily made concoction will do as well.” That said, Ella felt a sudden sting on her bare behind. Clive had sprayed some homemade brew about her bottom and the instant the potion hit, she jerked feeling a vile sting. Though he’d not broken the skin, the roughed up places were singed with a biting sensation, one that only promised to become more agonizing once he began with the birches.
“Clive …” she uttered quietly, a gasp, a plea, a trace of hope in her voice.
But Clive was beyond that. What he heard from her in woe did not move him. Rearing back, his powerful arm came downward toward her naked derriere and delivered the first of many incisive strikes.
Birches, Cowgirls & Angels Page 24