by Maren Smith
This was not one of those days.
In fact, on this particular day, he actually felt too bloody old. He was also hung over, which may have accounted for that ‘too old’ feeling at the ripe age of thirty-four. He rubbed his blood-shot eyes. His mouth tasted as if he had spent the night licking out the insides of both boots, which he might have done. He wished he could remember...
Given his druthers, Varden would have stripped back down and gone back to bed. Unfortunately, he had new recruits on the Field. And that meant, no matter how much he wanted to, there would be no going back to bed.
He stood up instead. It took forever to crawl into his bulky practice armor. Stringing his scabbard onto his belt was easy, getting the belt around his waist was only marginally more difficult, but it took four attempts to loop his belt through the buckle and actually get it fastened. When he finally succeeded, he lost his balance and sat back down. Holding his head in his hands, he groaned again, then sighed. “Go ahead. Say it. I know you want to."
Just coming into the room, Kenton carried a silver breakfast tray laden with warm ale to the bedside table. “I told you so. There, feel any better?"
"No."
"Good, then my work here is done.” He prepared Varden a cup and handed it to him. “Perhaps tonight you'll drink less. At the very least, try to pass out in your own bedroom. I am not picking you up off the stairs again. Considering the position I found you in, it's a wonder your back doesn't ache too much to move."
"It does.” Varden stretched slowly. “I was wondering what happened."
While Kenton picked up Varden's discarded clothes from the night before, Varden stared at his cup. He took only a sip before setting the cup aside. He didn't think his stomach could handle anything more.
"If you plan to see the Field at all today, you had better get going,” Kenton reminded him.
"I know, I know.” Varden staggered to his feet, stretched and stumbled toward the door. He stretched again as he walked, gradually regaining coordination as he crossed the room. “Have someone saddle my horse. I'll be down after I check on Claire."
"No need. According to the maids, Her Grace is still Bedlam bound.” Kenton picked up Varden's discarded cup. “The only noted improvement has been her disposition. Hm, the ale is a little too warm."
"Nothing can sweeten that disposition.” But as Varden opened the door and leaned inside, he froze.
He had not expected to find Claire out of bed. Well, all right. Maybe he had expected her to be out of bed, but not out of her clothes and prancing naked in front of the mirror. Submerging his head in a cold barrel of rainwater could not have cleared his hangover faster.
Her body still bore all the signs of her recent pregnancy. Her breasts were full and heavy with milk; even as he watched, a creamy drop leaked from one budding tip and she wiped it away with her finger. Then she turned to look at her back in the mirror, smoothing her hands down over her flanks, and one thought set itself above all others in his mind: she had another lover. Why else would she be studying herself like this? It certainly wasn't for him that she wanted to look beautiful.
His hands clenched into fists. All but growling, Varden said, “Who is it this time?"
Claire spun with a startled gasp, then swayed and grabbed the back of a nearby chair. It was several seconds before she could regain her balance enough to risk bending over. Snatching her nightgown back up off the floor, she held it in front of her as if it were a shield. “Don't you ever knock?"
"Not when the house is mine. Besides, if you are hoping to cover yourself, mon âme, it is a wasted effort. I have seen you dressed, in various states of undress, and I have seen you covered only by me. I could draw your form from memory: every curve, valley, and secret little place—wet and hot and freshly touched by me. Ah, but I forget. It's not for me that you primp these days."
"You look awful.” She took a hesitant step toward him. “Are you drunk?"
"Not any more, unfortunately.” Varden glanced over his shoulder at Kenton, who had come up silently behind him. “Never mind about the horse. I don't think I'll be going to the Field right away."
Kenton glanced into the room and immediately backed up a step. “I can see how your attention might be redirected. Still, with only a mere twenty-two paid instructors to cover your absence, I only hope the new lads can survive a day without your personal expertise to guide them."
"I am the master; you are the servant,” Varden said for his ears alone as he stepped through the doorway into Claire's room. “Try to remember that."
"Hm,” was the only comment Kenton made before Varden softly closed the door.
She looked lovely. The sun shone through the uncovered window behind her and sparkled in her hair as if the red curls were on fire. Her skin glowed in the light and that nightgown wasn't hiding a thing, though he doubted if she knew it. And it did absolutely nothing to cover her backside, either, of which the mirror provided an unhindered view. He almost had to remind himself that they were enemies. Funny how he seemed to keep forgetting.
"Dare I ask who you seek to enthrall with your charms today?” Varden asked, his tone as soft as the satin gown she held to her breasts, deceptively gentle as he slowly stalked her from across the room. “Even were Godfrey not making use of the Training Field right now, I doubt your current state would appeal to him. Lecherous sod that he is, my brother still prefers his women somewhat thinner."
Shoulders drooping, she looked at him as though depressed. “Oh no, there's a brother mixed up in this mess, too?"
"I walked in on the two of you,” Varden said. It took effort, but he kept his hands from clenching into fists. “Don't pretend to have forgotten him. I'll never believe it."
Sympathy crept over her features. “Oh, Varden. What Claire must have done to you."
"Don't look at me like that!” Varden drew back as sharply as if she'd slapped him. “I don't know why you have taken on this charade, but you are not insane!"
"You're right, I'm not,” she agreed. “I'm perfectly sane; I'm just not your wife. I think you must have loved her very much."
"Love has nothing to do with it."
"Then why are you so angry?"
"Perhaps I want revenge,” Varden said as he stalked her. “Maybe I want to give back a little of the hell I've received these many years."
"Even if I'm not Claire?"
"End this ridiculous game. What can you hope to gain with a title like Crazy Duchess? That's the nickname the servants have given you, you know. The Crazy Duchess of Cadhla. I can't say I'm in love with the new title, although it does have a catchy ring to it."
At that, Claire grinned. “I know. I helped select it. You should ask Grete what they originally came up with: The Mad Whore. How very unflattering. She was so amused that I would pick my own moniker, she cheerfully offered to help spread it around the floors. Took all of yesterday afternoon but Grete says word has finally reached the kitchens and everyone's using it now. We have a little bet running on whether the title reaches the village before Friday. I don't suppose you could spare me a penny, just in case I lose."
"The Crazy Duchess of Cadhla,” Varden repeated.
"If they're going to call me something, I may as well pick a title I like. I'm just happy it caught on so quickly."
He couldn't believe she was smiling so proudly.
She lowered her voice, leaning toward him as if they were conspiratory partners in the joke. Her green eyes positively sparkled. “Do you like it?"
"No.” His palm began to itch.
"It was a toss-up between that and The Babbling Bedlamite, but I thought it too much of a mouthful. You don't like that one, either, I suppose?"
"No.” He folded his arms across his broad chest and tried to look as stern and as unsmiling as he could. It was very difficult. She looked almost adorable with her sparkling red hair and her nightgown shield to cover her.
"That's because you don't think I'm crazy. This is all an act, and I am just pretendin
g to annoy you."
"Right,” Varden said in agreement.
She leaned even closer, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Is it working? Are you annoyed yet?"
Hell, yes. But he wasn't about to admit it. “Is that your goal?"
"Nope.” Her smile turned smug. “It's more of a bonus, really."
"Then you should be prepared for the consequences of rousing my temper."
Her smiled faltered. For the first time she seemed to notice how close he had come to her. She sidled around the chair in an attempt to put it between them, but the obvious ploy didn't work. He merely picked up the chair and moved it to one side, his predatory eyes never leaving her.
She cleared her throat softly. “Consequences?"
Varden was almost close enough to grab her now. “I told you that to get up before I allowed it would earn you a trip across my knee. Apparently, the prospect must not be an unpleasant one, especially since you seem to take such glee from nettling me. Let's see if I cannot change your mind."
She took another hesitant step backwards, absolutely no trace of her smile anywhere in sight. She looked almost afraid of him. For some reason, which he cared not to study closely, that irritated him even more.
"I—I just want to go for a walk."
"And I just want you to obey me."
"I'm a grown woman. I don't have to obey anyone if I don't want to. And since it's my decision whether I stay in bed or not, I—I'm going for a walk,” she stammered with a tiny, defiant lift of her chin. It was such a small gesture, a less angry man might have missed it all together. Varden did not miss it. He sure as hell wasn't going to ignore it, either. When he reached for her, panic borne of self-preservation had her blurting, “I've decided that you can come with me! It's a beautiful day; we could walk in the garden together!"
That stopped him. With his hand on her arm, he stared at her as though he hadn't heard her right. “You want me to come with you?"
He could not have been knocked more off kilter had his legs been swept from out beneath him. Claire hated the outdoors. She hated the wind that mussed her hair and the weather that ruined her clothes. She claimed the sun put freckles on her skin and that she could not breathe the air for the stench of the courtyard animals. Yet here she was, accepting his offer—and only with him no less! The vulgar, brutish, English barbarian.
His eyes narrowed. “Why?"
She had cringed away from him as though wishing she could dissolve herself of her arm. “I—I'd miss y-your sunny personality?"
He glared.
She relented. “All right, I don't want a sp—um, a spanking. There, I said it. You have a very hard hand, and it hurts when you do that."
"It's supposed to."
She flushed. “I know it's supposed to, but I don't think I've done anything to deserve to be beaten."
"I have no intention of beating you,” he stated coldly. “I am going to spank you. There's a difference."
"Not to me there isn't. Besides, I still haven't done anything wrong.” She tugged timidly at her arm, but his fingers only tightened around her.
"I beg to differ.” Varden held up his free hand and began to tick off the reasons. “You are endangering your health. You are disobeying me by prancing around the room after I have warned you, repeatedly, to remain in bed. And you are attempting to distract me from my purpose by proposing this garden walk of yours."
She flushed even brighter. She looked distinctly uneasy. “I'm feeling much better than I used to."
"Which is why you've nearly fallen over twice since I've been watching you."
"I've got low blood sugar,” she lied.
"And you're about to have a very soundly spanked bottom to go with it.” Varden snagged the back of the chair with his free hand and thumped it down on the floor next to him.
"Please don't!” she protested even as he sat down. “I just need a little fresh air!"
Varden studied her for a long moment in silence. “And you want me to come with you?"
The relief that swept through her was visible. A trembling smile touched her lips. “Yes, please. To be honest, I don't think I could find my way outside without you."
"All right,” he said finally. “We will go for a walk. But first things first."
"No, don't!” Claire tried to yank her arm from his steely grasp, leaning stiffly backwards, though it certainly didn't keep her from tumbling facedown over his lap the very first time he pulled. She fought wildly, kicking and clawing to get up again.
Her elbow caught him in the side and, through clenched teeth, Varden growled, “When I get done with you, Madame, you're going to wish you had a smaller bottom."
"Oh!” Her hand snapped back, palm up to ward off the blow she knew was coming. He merely caught her wrist and pulled her only defense out of his way. “You can't—you—don't you dare—do this and I'll kill you—you son of a—OW!"
His broad hand cracked across her unprotected bottom, flattening both cheeks simultaneously and causing an instant, bright pink mark in the shape of his palm and fingers to stain her skin.
Varden could count on one hand the number of times he'd held his lovely wife bottom-up across his lap. Three times in all: the first time just after they were married when, in a fit of unreasoning temper, Claire had struck an upstairs maid. Twice more this last week alone—two pitiful displays of authority that only counted as spankings in the remotest definition of the word. And then, of course, there was now. By God, he was going to enjoy this.
With a hoarse, unladylike voice, Claire bellowed, “You have no right! Ow! Oh! Stop it! Stop it! Ow!"
Varden laughed, a sound that had absolutely nothing to do with amusement. He clutched her waist tightly with one arm and, with his other, paddled her vigorously, vindictively, his hand never once missing its target, no matter how she kicked or squirmed or cursed him. And she did curse him. Fluently. Colorfully. He never realized what a foul-mouthed little hellion he'd married until—despite the vigor with which she'd initially fought him—Claire suddenly drooped limply over his knees and let loose with the filthiest string of obscenities to ever fall from a gentle-bred lady's lips. Not only did she bring into question the validity of his birth, but whether or not his parent's were human and his own sexual preference, which according to her ran to diseased camels. The other half of what she said, he had never heard before and barely understood. That in and of itself was rather impressive, considering that he spent the majority of his time surrounded by soldiers.
If he weren't so angry, he might have laughed. As it was, Varden intensified his efforts, expanding his target to include the tops of her thighs, and spanked until there wasn't a hint of white left anywhere to be seen on the bouncing, juddering bottom before him. Claire shrieked like a banshee, kicking when he repeated his attack on her thighs. She began cussing all over again, but halfway through the second round, she burst into tears.
Varden's open hand came to rest on her writhing flanks. His arm was tired and his hand stung, but damn if this wasn't a satisfying sight!
"I hate you,” Claire sobbed.
"I don't much care for you, either,” Varden lied, and dumped her from his lap onto the floor.
Her nightgown lying in a forgotten heap, she climbed slowly to her feet. Crying hard, she simply stood in front of him, holding her wounded buttocks in both hands. Any other woman would have been dancing around the room, stomping her feet and carrying on like a well-punished waif should after a spanking the likes of which he'd just given. That his wife merely stood there on wobbling legs was a testament to how unwell she still was. Varden felt a momentary twinge of guilt, which he had to work at swallowing.
"You're a monster!” she sobbed at last.
"You deserved every bit of that, and a hell of a lot more."
She pointed to the door of his adjoined chambers. “Get out! Just—just go away!"
"No,” Varden said simply. “We're not done."
He watched her tear-filled eyes snapped open wide as h
e stood up from the chair. He listened with relish as her horrified gasp followed him to her vanity. He wondered if perhaps she thought he was there to retrieve the wood-backed hairbrush that rested near the mirror. But he much preferred her priceless look of dismay when he took his knife from his belt and cut a sliver off the cake of lye soap that he picked up.
She covered her mouth with two fistfuls of crumpled white nightgown, backing away from him even as he calmly pursued her all the way into the corner.
He held up the piece of soap. “Open your mouth."
Claire shook her head.
Softly, dangerously, he said, “Do we need another lesson in obedience?"
Very, very hesitantly, she lowered the nightgown and her soft ribbon-pink lips parted. She whimpered once as he placed the sliver directly onto her tongue.
"Close."
She made a face, shuddering at the awful taste spreading through her mouth, but obediently closed her lips. Her shoulders hunched as she gagged.
"If I ever hear such profanity from you again, I will scrub out your mouth three times daily until I have used up that cake of soap and am satisfied that all filth has been washed from your vocabulary."
She gagged again.
Varden put his hand on the back of her neck and turned her until she faced the corner. He couldn't help but twist the knife a little, and leaned in close to whisper against her ear, “Naughty. Naughty. Naughty."
Claire bowed her head. Her blistered bottom facing the room and the horrible lye coating her tongue, she began to sniffle and then to cry all over again.
Victory.
Varden returned to sit in the chair and savored every bit of it. As the minutes stretched on, he let her cry it out, knowing the lye had probably melted in her mouth completely and she would likely be desperate to rid herself of the taste. He should have done this years ago, he mused, admiring his handiwork. Perhaps things would be different now if he had.
Claire sniffled and with the nightgown wiped at a few lingering tears. Very softly, she asked, “May I please come out now?"