Varden's Lady

by Maren Smith

  * * *

  Newsite Web Services Publishing

  www.disciplineanddesire.com

  Copyright ©2006 by Maren Smith

  First published in 2006, 2006

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  * * * *

  Varden's Lady

  By

  Maren Smith

  A Newsite Web Services Book

  Published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2006 © by Maren Smith

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part,

  by mimeograph or any other means, without

  permission of the author or Newsite Web Services, LLC

  Published by Newsite Web Services, LLC

  P.O. Box 1286, Loganville, Georgia 30052 USA

  newsitewebservices@comcast.net

  disciplineanddesire.com

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my family, and my parents in particular, who were so excited when I began writing spanking stories that they couldn't wait to tell my grandparents. Who told everybody else. Until now pretty much all of Utah knows I'm into spanking. Just one more state I can never go back to.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Prologue

  England, 1587

  Near the Scotland border

  Seven mounted riders and two footmen lined the grassy hillside that marked the lip of the Wooler forest. With green grass under their boot heels and endless meadow spilling down below, becoming a golden ocean of rippling autumn grass, they waited and watched as the sun gradually sank to the horizon. All but one wore the green and blue plaid kilts of the Kincaid clan. The one without wore the noose.

  "Why nae get on with it?” the eldest among them said. As his dappled pony shifted nervously, the grizzled old man rested his sinewy forearm across his kilted thigh and chewed on a stretch of dried mutton. “Hang the mon so we can all go home!"

  "We wait for the Sassenach,” said another mounted rider—a man Varden presumed to be the leader. “The bloody English kins t’ watch and I kin t’ get paid."

  Varden de Lyssoue, Duke of Cadhla, the fourth Baron of Landborough and holder of several other minor titles, struggled to remain in his saddle. The snorting, restless beast had been his mount for four days, a length of time that proved just long enough for Varden to cultivate his newfound hatred for ornery Scottish ponies. As it stamped and shifted impatiently, each jerk pulled the noose that much tighter around his throat. Varden had nothing to hold onto. His hands were tied so far up his back that his shoulders ached and his fingers felt numb from a lack of circulation. His legs ached, too, though not so much from injury as from clinging to the saddle for so long in so awkward a position without any help from his arms.

  While a footman held tightly to the reins, the pony leaned an inch forward and the noose pulled Varden another inch back. Balance was a precarious thing, and he was out of inches. Any more and Varden would hang himself by toppling backwards out of his saddle. An undignified death, to say the least.

  Concentrating only on breathing, Varden closed his good eye. The other was swollen shut, a remnant of Scottish hospitality. He shivered. Little better than rags now, his once fine linen shirt did nothing to protect him from the cold. Alternatively, to hide the nasty blue-black bruise that had spread the previous night from a few inches below his left armpit, down over his ribs to his chest, and around his back almost to his spine. Breathing hurt. Leaning backwards in the saddle was nothing short of agony. But even the acute pain of a few broken ribs vanished from thought as the noose tightened again and suddenly Varden found that he could not breathe at all. An aristocratic urge to die with dignity abruptly gave way to the indomitable need to force his next breath of air into his aching lungs.

  While the Scots looked on with interest, Varden choked. His mouth gaped like a fish on land, opening and closing as he strangled. Like the relentless boots of a marching army, his blood pounded in his temples. Pinpricks of light flared and died before his eyes.

  "Back it up noo,” the leader called out. “Tis nae time for that yet."

  The leather saddle creaked as the footmen forced the pony back and the noose loosened. Varden could breathe again. He gulped air greedily, glaring daggers at a point between the pony's ears. One more step and Varden could sit comfortably in the saddle again.

  He was not grateful. The beast belonged in hell!

  Above his head, nature bowed to a chilly gust of wind. Trees waved their branches to the sky. Like the beckoning arms of children, they reached ever upwards to touch the pink, orange and red hues cast across the clouds by the failing sun. Multi-colored leaves shivered and let go of their branches, flying free for only a moment before tumbling back to earth, swirling and scattering dryly across the ground around the ponies’ hooves.

  Varden was running out of time.

  With each passing moment, the evening sky dulled, its earlier brilliance fading into shades of indigo, while thunder rumbled overhead. Swelling black clouds stalked them from the east. Varden breathed in the heavy scent of rain, wincing as his ribs complained. It was a gloomy night, perfect for a hanging. Even his own.

  He shouldn't think such things, he chided himself. He couldn't die right now. He was simply too busy. And what of Claire, his tiny, green-eyed sprite? If this really were, as he suspected, the beginnings of yet another border war, his executioner would hardly be likely to spare his wife and child.

  "I dinna kin the man will show,” the leader finally admitted.

  The older Scot laughed. “One less Sassenach in Scotland be payment enough for me, lad."

  "Aye.” The leader urged his mount to the rump of Varden's restless brown pony. He studied Varden with a dark, remorseless stare. “For what it's worth, lad, t'were an honor t’ match wits wi’ ye. A good soldier, ye are. Kept us right on guard wi’ all those patrols. It were a stroke of bluidy good luck seeing ye and yer lass out alone. Imagine that, bluidy luck felled a giant."

  The black clouds were now overhead and still chasing the sun, which had finally disappeared below the distant horizon. As the first few drops of icy rain hit Varden's face, lightning split the sky. A booming roll of thunder promptly followed, shaking both heaven and earth. The pony tensed beneath Varden. It tossed its head nervously and the noose again pulled taut around Varden's throat.

  The old Scot looked up. “That's done for it, lads. We're for a good watering now.” He pulled the folds of his tartan up over his head just as the first scattered raindrops became a freezing deluge. Within a minute, they were all soaked to the skin and shivering.

  As the leader raised his arm, the two footmen stepped back from Varden's restless pony. Varden lifted his face to the rain and closed his good eye.
>
  Claire—

  With a watery smack, the Scot clapped the hell beast's rump and the horse lurched for freedom. The noose jerked Varden out of the saddle. He swung backwards into empty air...

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

  Seattle, Washington, 2001

  With absolutely no memory of how she had gotten there, Mallory stared at the ceiling. The tip of her freckled nose was a scant two inches from the fluorescent light fixture, which buzzed and rattled in time with the air conditioner somewhere below. She had to be drunk. It was all she could think of. Either drunk or hung over, in which case this was not unlike waking up after an all night Jack Daniels spree with a wedding ring and a new tattoo. Except that to find oneself suddenly immune to gravity was slightly more unnerving than the words ‘I love Doug’ in a heart on your arm, regardless of whether or not you knew anyone named Doug.

  Yes, she must be suffering from the effects of a nasty hangover. That really was the best of all possible explanations.

  Too bad Mallory didn't drink.

  It was also too bad that—next to vomiting, a headache, and discovering that you've married a total stranger—as far as Mallory knew, involuntary flight was not a known side affect of drinking.

  She had to get down from here. What if someone walked in and found her like this? How could she possibly explain without ending up a freak in a circus sideshow?

  "How typical,” Mallory muttered as she pushed back against the light. “Can't get tattooed like everyone else. No, you up and learn how to fly."

  She rolled off the light fixture, onto her back, and looked down. Good Heavens, she was in a morgue!

  The fluorescent lights emphasized the stark white walls and white tiled floors. Even the plastic wall clock was framed in white. Cold, slate-gray steel doors and equipment provided the only splash of color, and galvanized refrigeration units lined the north wall at her feet and the south wall a good ten feet from her head. Directly below her, parked in front of unit number twenty-three, refrigeration door ‘B', was a single, stainless steel cadaver transport. Somehow, Mallory knew the body beneath that white morgue sheet was her own.

  This was not right. This had gone beyond not right. Not only was she in a morgue, but she was dead!

  Mallory covered her mouth with one hand and her stomach with the other. If only it were a physical one, she'd be sick to it right now.

  The heavy steel doors swooped inward as the pathologist in a full-length, blue smock and cap, and a balding, plainclothes detective in a gray suit led Mallory's boss, Jeremy Flynn, into the room. Flynn's eyes darted uncomfortably to the transport and then away. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and cleared his throat as the pathologist took his position opposite of Flynn at the head of the cadaver transport.

  "Ready?” the pathologist asked.

  Flynn cleared his throat again and then nodded. But when the sheet was lifted, he turned away with a grimace of revulsion. “Oh my God!"

  Mercifully, the sheet was not peeled back far enough for Mallory to see her own corpse.

  The pathologist immediately let the sheet drop back into place while the detective took Flynn a short distance away.

  "Why do I have to do this?” Flynn asked. He bent over, his hands braced against his knees as he took several deep breaths.

  "Her wallet was stolen before police arrived at the scene. The only thing on her was a book stamped with your bookstore's name and address.” The detective opened his notebook, flipped a few pages, and then took a pen from his shirt pocket. “Again, Mister Flynn, I apologize, but any information you can give us would be greatly appreciated."

  "She works for me ... er, worked, I guess. Her name's Mallory Connally."

  "Any family you know of?"

  "Uh, no. Nobody. Her father died about a year ago, I think. She lives by herself. I've got her address back at the store, if you want it."

  Mallory didn't hear the detective's reply. Suddenly, she was remembering walking to the bus stop. Two days of drizzle had left the roads wet and slick in places. If not for the screech of tires sliding on blacktop as the taxicab slid sideways up onto the curb, Mallory might never have known what hit her at all. The force of the impact had thrown her against the side of the brick Savings and Loan building. She gently touched the back of her head, beginning to shake.

  She really was dead!

  "Is that it?” Flynn asked as the detective led him from the room. “Do I need to sign anything, or can I go now?"

  Their voices trailed away to nothing as the giant swinging doors swooped shut after the pathologist. Mallory stared at her covered corpse. What was she supposed to do now? Where could she go? Back to her crummy two-room apartment down on Riverside? She didn't want to live there when she was alive; she sure wasn't going to haunt the place now!

  Two fingers lightly tapped Mallory's shoulder. When she turned her head, a pretty blonde woman was lying next to her on the ceiling. She looked to be somewhere in her thirties. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners of her sparkling blue eyes when she smiled, and dimples dented each side of her mouth. Apparently, gravity didn't affect her either since the full-length white dress she wore hung straight down her body, as if she were standing upright instead of lying upside-down against the ceiling.

  "Hello, Mallory,” the woman said.

  Mallory returned the greeting without thinking. “Hi."

  Barbie, she thought. The woman looked exactly like Barbie might have if she were a real woman instead of a ten-inch tall plastic doll. Mallory would have given her eyeteeth to look like that. Instead, she had been cursed with straight black hair, cow-brown eyes, and a half a million ugly brown freckles.

  And to add insult to injury, Mallory didn't even get to wear a cool, white dress. She was still in the same blue jeans, black and white Woodland Park Zoo T-shirt and black, holey sneakers she had died in.

  "Are you an angel?” Mallory asked. Realizing how ridiculous the question was, she added, “I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say."

  "It's all right,” Barbie said, her smile widening. “It's surprising how often I get asked that. My name is Monica. I'm like you."

  "Dead?"

  "Influenza pandemic. Summer of nineteen-eighteen."

  "Oh.” Now that she thought about it, Monica's white dress did look like an antique nightgown. “Are you ... haunting the hospital? I didn't think it was that old."

  Monica grinned. “I'm here for you, Mallory. I'm your guide."

  "My guide?"

  "It's time to go."

  "Go?” Mallory echoed. “Go where?"

  "Home.” Monica gave her hand a reassuring pat, then took Mallory's arm and pulled her up through the perfectly solid light fixture, through eight inches of buffer space filled with electrical wires, water pipes, and fiberglass insulation before floating up through the floor of a very busy admitting room.

  A television hung from one wall whispering the six o'clock news to a man sitting in a wheelchair. His foot was wrapped in ace bandages and propped out in front of him. Three empty chairs separated him from a woman holding a fussy baby in her arms and a sleeping four-year-old against her left shoulder.

  At the reception desk, an oriental woman stood cradling her right arm, while her husband argued in Chinese with the haggard-looking nurse. As he paused to catch his breath, the nurse pointed at the clipboard on the counter between them. “But I need you to fill out these forms,” she said, and he started up again.

  To the left of the desk, a teenage boy with a black eye and a cut on his forehead was holding a cold pack to his split lip and dropping quarters into a soda machine.

  As Monica pulled Mallory up toward the ceiling, a couple came through the automatic sliding glass doors. The ashen-faced man had his right hand wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth. Behind him, his wife carried a plastic sandwich bag filled with ice and two fingertips.

  "I told you not to hold it that way,” she said, her voice high-pitched and near to pani
c. “I told you. I told you."

  The man stopped just short of the reception desk and turned on her. Very softly and very dangerously he said, “You say that one more time, and not only am going to dust your seat, I'm going make you eat those fingers."

  The woman shut her mouth, and Monica pulled Mallory up through the next floor into an empty hospital room with two neatly made beds. The next floor was also a hospital room, with the second bed occupied by an elderly woman on a heart monitor and respirator. She was watching Wheel of Fortune.

  "Man of La Mancha,” she said in a brittle voice, talking to the television. “'N,’ you idiot!"

  "Is there an ‘R'?” the woman contestant on the television game show asked.

  The buzzer signaled no, the audience dutifully oh-ed its disappointment, and the old woman smacked the blankets that covered her with both hands. “Is there an ‘R’ in Man of La Mancha, you brainless ninny?” As Monica and Mallory floated up to the ceiling, she took two shallow, wheezing breathes. “Man, I need a cigarette!"

  From there, Mallory found herself on the roof. The sun was preparing to set. The sky was bright blue with clouds like tufts of white cotton, gathering and swelling directly overhead. A gentle tornado funnel formed, extending down from the sky until it touched the rooftop near their feet.

  "Time to go,” Monica said. “Your family is anxious to see you again."

  That was when it hit Mallory. Really hit her. She was dead, and she was leaving. No more two-room apartment in a building that should have been condemned forty years ago. No more struggling from month to month to pay bills that just kept growing. No more bus stops spray-painted with street gang graffiti, or running to catch a cab in the rain, or dodging the prostitutes and drug dealers that hung out on the streets in front of the building she called home. No more bookstore either. Or old Star Trek re-runs. Or hot mocha lattes on cold winter mornings. Or escaping real life, however briefly, between the covers of a good Tom Clancy novel.

  Mallory began to panic. What was going to happen to her cat, Charley, who slept with her at night and kept her feet warm in the winter when her dinosaur of a radiator invariably quit working? And who would see to her funeral? With both parents dead and no siblings, would anyone even attend, or visit her grave in the years to come? She was friendly enough with most of the regular clients at the bookstore, but she doubted many would do more than inquire when a new counter clerk suddenly appeared to take Mallory's place. Mallory didn't even have a will ready. The idea of her landlord going through her belongings made her shudder. And then she remembered what she had hidden between her mattress and bedsprings, and she blushed.