The Admiral's Ward

by Dinah McLeod

  Delia decided to have a look around in an effort to distract herself from the thoughts that kept her heart beating rapidly in her chest. She stopped her pacing and let her eyes rove. What she saw made her pulse quicken and her mouth go dry. She wondered how she could have missed it in the first place. Directly behind his large wooden desk lined up against the wall were four canes in varying sizes. Mounted on the wall were two large paddles. And next to those was a leather tawse that hung on a hook.

  She reached out and grabbed the arm of the chair so that she would not faint. How humiliating would it be for him to find her that way, an unladylike heap on the floor? If she thought it might save her bottom, she would give in to her lightheadedness, but she knew the admiral better than that.

  She should have known better than to leave the room after he had told her not to, but it would seem she liked to test her boundaries. Soon, she would find out just how far she had pushed him.

  Needing to tear her eyes away from the wall of horrors, Delia turned away and found herself facing two large bookcases. The wood looked to be a hard cherry, and they were tall, well-made cases. She walked over and ran a hand over spine after spine of tomes. Impulsively, she took one off the shelf and examined it. The cover was hardbound and the leather had been dyed purple.

  With the book still clutched in her hand, she turned to inspect the office further. There were many signs of wealth. There was a beautiful oriental rug on the floor, and expensive clasps on the curtains. She was bent at the waist, inspecting the desk when she heard a throat clear behind her.

  Delia righted herself and whirled around, shocked and embarrassed to see him standing behind her, arms clasped behind his back. “How did you... I was only... I did not hear you.”

  A single dark brow rose. “Evidently not.”

  Flushing, Delia realized that she was still clutching his book in her hand. Embarrassed at being caught unawares—and with his things, nonetheless!—she set it down on his desk, hoping he would not notice.

  Unfortunately for her, the admiral was not a man who missed a thing. “Which one caught your attention?”

  “Ah... that one... Flights of Fancy.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  One sharp nod met her words. “It is a very good book. Perhaps after you have finished The Three Musketeers, you can move on to that one.”

  She felt herself relax slightly. “That would be most kind of you.”

  “That is, if you are even reading the book,” he added as though she had not spoken.

  Delia’s brow furrowed. “I do not know what you mean.”

  He uttered a little laugh. “Do you not? I find that strange indeed. You are a bright woman, Delia. But I am smart, too. Smart enough to know when I have been lied to. I thought your behavior strange this morning, but I had chalked it up to... female oddities. And yet, here I find you, trying to pass yourself off as a member of the crew.”

  She swallowed hard. She had thought her father quite fearsome, but he had never been able to inspire this kind of remorse in her. “I... I am sorry, sir, truly, I am.”

  He turned away from her, but not before she saw his jaw tighten. “You are not, madam. You are not sorry for anything that you do, only that you have been caught.”

  Delia felt her heart constrict at the stern, hard words. She found that she regretted the transition back to madam. She very much liked it when he called her by her given name. “That is not true, my lord. I—”

  “I am not a lord,” he interrupted, his voice cutting. “I am Admiral James McCray, and you will address me as such.”

  “Y-yes. Yes, Admiral.” He turned those flashing eyes on her and she felt her stomach swoop. Whether from fear or yearning, she could not be sure.

  “Explain it to me. Make me understand why you would do this, despite my explicit orders.”

  She had not expected to be given a chance to defend herself, and she hesitated. “I... I was bored.” As soon as the words left her mouth she winced, knowing just how childish and entitled they sounded.

  “I see. Well, madam, if I may remind you, this is not a pleasure voyage.”

  Her cheeks flushed hotly. “I... I know that, sir.”

  “Do you? Then why is it that you expected to be entertained?”

  The words rose to her lips. She could tell him that as a highborn lady she had rarely had to endure boredom or loneliness. If she happened to feel those things, there were lessons, or horseback riding, or apple picking. And if all of those options seemed tiresome, she could always persuade her governess to tell her a story. But she swallowed back such explanations. She knew he would not take kindly to once again being reminded of her privileged upbringing.

  “I see you have nothing to say for yourself.” His lips compressed in a thin line.

  “Only... only that I am terribly, dreadfully sorry,” she replied, her voice a murmur.

  “Very well. Remind me, if you will be so kind, what did I say would happen if you left your quarters?”

  Delia blinked at him in surprise. Did he truly not remember, or was it some sort of test?

  The admiral tapped his foot impatiently. “Come now. Surely you have not forgotten.”

  “You told me that the men would be unsettled to see a woman aboard.”

  “That’s right. And before I agreed to let you come aboard this vessel, I told you that you would follow my rules. You agreed to that, did you not?”

  She was feeling smaller by the moment and she shifted uncomfortably where she stood. “Yes, I did.”

  “And what did I say would happen if you failed to obey?”

  She averted her eyes and swallowed hard. Indeed, she remembered all too well now that they stood in his study across from the wall of implements. “That there would be consequences,” Delia answered in a mortified whisper.

  “Right again, my lady. I am very pleased we are in agreement about what will happen next.”

  “Please, sir... please, I am so very sorry.”

  “Are you truly?” He looked her directly in the eye.

  She was surprised by the question, but eager to prove to him that she was. “Yes, very much so.” She nodded fervently.

  “Very well then, I shall give you an opportunity to prove it.”

  Delia held her breath, waiting for what she felt sure was a test.

  “Give me the name of the man who helped you.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She had not known what to expect, but that was not it. “Wh-whatever do you mean?” she stammered.

  “Come now, madam. I am no fool. We both know that you had to have someone help you. How else did you get those clothes? How did you know where the deck was?”

  She hesitated. Barnabee had given her the clothes, but she had never thought it would be noticed by the admiral. Then again, she had never expected to be caught. Clearly she had thought too much of her own cleverness. “I... I will not lie to you,” she said, finding her tongue at last.

  “How refreshing,” he replied, his tone dry.

  “I... I did have assistance.”

  He nodded, waiting.

  “But... he was not endeavoring to do anything wrong, only trying to help me. I do not wish to get him into any sort of trouble.”

  “Very admirable of you, madam, but it was not you he offended.”

  Delia stared at the oriental rug and said nothing. She had thought her heart could not beat any faster, but she found herself mistaken as it pounded against her chest, threatening to break through.

  “I will have the name, if you please.” His tone was still courteous, but impatient.

  She met his gaze, her eyes filled with tears. “I... I am sorry, but I cannot.”

  “I see. Well, let us see if a dose of the cane does not change your mind, shall we?”

  Unable to fight back a wince, Delia watched helplessly as he walked over to the canes leaning against the wall. She gave them more attention than she had earlier and could not help but notice how fearsome they seemed. They were lined up a
ccording to width, and as her gaze followed him, her eyes rounded fearfully as he selected one of the medium ones and walked back to her.

  The admiral leaned the cane against the desk and turned one of the chairs around to face her. “You will lean over the chair,” he instructed, “and put your hands on the seat. I will take down your trousers and spank the seat of your pantaloons as before,” he informed her, his voice brisk and matter-of-fact.

  Delia did not know what was happening to her. She was frightened, terribly so, and yet his words evoked something strange and wonderful in her. Was she... was she longing for him to smack her bottom? Her eyes flew to the cane and a shiver stole through her. No, surely not... and yet, the sight of it, and knowing that the tough-as-nails, yet kind captain would wield it excited her in a way words could not express.

  “I will not abide any more disobedience.” His words cut across the room like a whip and Delia hurried to follow the commands he had given.

  When she was leaning over the chair, her palms flat on the seat, she felt him move behind her. She should have only had thoughts for the treatment her poor bottom was about to receive, but instead she found herself wondering what he thought as he looked at her backside. Did it appeal to him, or did he only think of turning it bright red? Or did that notion appeal to him as well?

  It was such a deliciously naughty thought that Delia felt sure she deserved the smacking she was to receive, if not for the reason the admiral had given.

  She felt his hand smooth over both of her cheeks in turn, causing her breath to hitch. Perhaps it did appeal to him after all. Then his thumbs were in the band of her trousers, tugging them down. He kept moving the clothing until it bunched around her knees. Delia could feel him move away and could not help but crane her neck back to see what he was doing. She watched, her mouth drying even as her lady bits flooded with warmth. It was the strangest sensation, to feel both excited and humiliated at the fate that awaited her.

  She watched, spellbound, as he picked up the cane, deftly testing it with a practice swing. It whistled as it whipped through the air and the sound made her wince. Then he was walking toward her again. Delia swung her head back around, hands shaking as they pressed into the seat.

  “You had your first smacked bottom just a few days ago,” he reminded her, his voice firm, yet gentle. “I had hoped you could go the rest of this journey without another taste of my palm against your backside.”

  Delia turned to look at him. “You... you are not going to... use that... thing?”

  “Oh, I certainly shall, madam. I promised you a caning, and I am a man of my word if nothing else. But I will smack your bottom with my hand first until it is quite hot and red and then I will give you your caning.”

  The words made her shudder. Her thighs quivered too, but with surprising heat pouring from between her legs.

  Without another word, the admiral began to execute the plan exactly as he had laid it out to her. His hand descended quickly, smacking first one cheek and then the other.

  Delia braced herself against the chair, but as the smacks kept coming one after the other she found her body shuddering with each blow. It was not long before she began crying out with each hard, swift spank to her bottom. He was not taking his time during this smacked bottom, but peppering her skin with firm, unrelenting smacks that quickly warmed her rear. But he did not stop there. True to his word, he did not let up even though she yelped with discomfort.

  Nor did he stop when she began to plead with him to do so. “Please! Please, sir! I am so sor-ry!”

  His only response was more firm spanks falling on her upturned bottom. She felt her cheeks jiggle with each one as the heat from his paddle-like hand spread over her burning nates. As horrid as it felt, she forced herself to keep still and take what he decided she deserved—she did not want to give him any reason to lower her pantaloons as he had last time.

  Unlike the last time he had spanked her, where his hand had fallen again and again on the same spot, this time he varied the swats, spanking her upper cheeks, then the middle, then the bottom. She was dismayed to find his hand falling lower still, where her bottom met her thigh, making her cry out most embarrassingly.

  Suddenly, Delia wondered about the guards posted outside. He had sent them to attend other work, surely? They were not hovering outside the door, listening as he beat her bottom and she cried out for him to stop?

  And cry she did. Her pleas had turned to loud cries for mercy that rang throughout the study, but still, he was deaf to her entreaties. The heat in her bottom grew until she was unable to form words any longer. With each smack to her bottom from his tireless hand, she let out a gasp or a yelp. Soon even those melded together until she was breathless with exertion.

  “Please,” she gasped, the one word she could muster. But when he still did not relent she found her eyes filling with frustrated tears. They began to run down her cheeks and she was sniffling as she tried to stop them. But soon the pain was so much she could not even think about her tears. She could think of nothing at all except the rise and fall of his hand scorching her rear. The tears fell faster, coursing hotly down her face.

  Delia’s shoulders shook as she cried, and she was so absorbed in the pain in her hindquarters that she could feel nothing else. It was several long moments before she realized that he had stopped. She wanted desperately to wipe her face, but daren’t move until he gave her leave to do so.

  Then she felt his hands on her shoulders, gently turning her around to face him. Then it was his fingers wiping her cheeks free of tears.

  “Tell me, Delia: are you truly sorry, or was it merely your hot, sore bottom that made you plead for mercy?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sound of her name on his lips. She could feel her sex throbbing. Why did it do that, when it never had before? She wished she could ask him. She had a feeling he would know the answer, but something told her it was a forbidden subject she must not broach.

  “I am sorry, my—James,” she amended hastily.

  Something in his face changed when she said his name. His normally sharp blue eyes softened, and his full lips curved softly.

  She felt a flutter in her breast. Could it be that he enjoyed hearing her say his name as much as she relished him saying hers?

  He lifted a hand, gently stroking the curve of her face with his finger. “Then prove it.”

  “Tell me how,” she murmured.

  “Give me the name of the man who helped you.”

  Her heart fell. “Oh. I... I cannot.” The light went out of his eyes and she rushed to explain. “Please, please, James, try to understand. I would be getting a man in trouble who only tried to help me. How could I have that on my conscience?”

  “It is you who needs to understand, madam.”

  She winced at his return to formal language.

  “This is my ship and I am responsible for every person aboard, including you. I cannot sail comfortably if I am being betrayed by members of my crew. I must know who they are.” He waited while she shifted from foot to foot, feeling wretched at not being able to give him what he wanted. Then, while she watched, he picked up the cane. When the admiral spoke again, his voice was resigned. “Bend over the chair.”

  Chapter Six

  The command made her tremble from head to toe. She could not take her eyes off the cane that seemed to grow in his hand as she looked. Though Delia knew she would have received lashes with the cane regardless of her answer—for he had told her she would—seeing the tender expression from moments ago replaced with a stern mask would make even the toughest soul shake.

  “I am sorry, sir. I—”

  “You keep saying that, and yet I see no evidence that would support your claim.”

  Tears rose once more to her eyes. She felt so conflicted. She wanted to tell him, to vindicate his trust in her, and yet, she could not. She thought of The Three Musketeers. Would any of them have betrayed the other? She did not think so. Besides which, it was
not Barnabee’s fault that she was in this position. She had made the decision to disobey, and he should not have to pay for her mistakes.

  Taking a deep breath, Delia did as the admiral had instructed, bending her body back over the chair, placing her hands firmly on the seat.

  She felt the cane tap her bottom, feather-light. “Bend over a bit more, push your bottom out toward me.”

  Delia obeyed, a frisson of delicious naughtiness running through her as he said bottom. How she wished he would stroke her cheeks again, his touch soft, exploring. But that was not what was in store for her.

  “I feel I should warn you, my lady, the cane hurts quite a bit. Prepare yourself.”

  What did that mean? And how was she to do that? She was helpless, bent over this chair and waiting for what punishment he deemed necessary.

  Yet, he did not begin straightaway. Instead, while she waited she felt him move behind her, his hands nothing but methodical as he pulled her pantaloons down to join the trousers puddled at her feet.

  She bit back her protest just in time, but could not help but swivel her head around to look at him. The moment he met her gaze, however, she whipped her head back around—but not before he saw her cheeks flame with embarrassment, surely. She could hardly endure the idea of him seeing her bared bottom, but having been caught looking at him while he did it was a thousand times more humiliating. She did not know how she would ever be able to look him in the eye again.

  The admiral did not comment on her evident disgrace, and she didn’t dare turn around again to see what he was doing. She could well imagine.

  When the first stroke of the wicked cane fell she knew what he’d meant when he’d spoken of the pain. Though Delia felt sure there was no way she could have prepared herself for the unbearable sting, she knew at once she should have heeded his advice and tried. The cane strokes he measured out slowly, allowing the line of fire to burn across her bottom and begin to subside, ever so slightly, before delivering another stroke. Each one fell just below the one before it ensuring that not an inch of her already throbbing rear was spared.