Betrothed (6 page)

She glanced at Bronson for permission before she spoke up.  “I am Lady Julia,” she said, stepping forward and removing her cap.  The steward looked her up and down coldly. 

“I see.  Well, your proper attire awaits you in the same chamber you occupied the last time you were here.  Stephanie, show her the way,” he said flicking a wrist at a serving woman who was standing at the ready.  Julia glanced at Bronson who was looking grim. 

“Come to me when you are dressed,” he ordered.  She curtsied and turned to the steward.

“Where will I find my lord?”

It was the steward who answered.  “The king wishes to see you both.  You will dress and eat and then meet in the antechamber to the throne room.”

Bronson seemed to be trying to tell her something with his look, but she couldn't be sure what it was.  She guessed it was that she should not speak to the king before he did. 

The bath Stephanie drew for her felt divine, and she took her time bathing and dressing.  She chose a green dress to bring out her eyes and though her hair was cut short, she pulled it back from her face and wove a few ribbons into it to give illusion of length.  She ate the bread and cheese that was delivered to her room and washed it down with ale. 

When Stephanie led her to the antechamber, Bronson, Sir John and Sir Andrew were already waiting.  They stood when she entered and all three of them froze, staring at her.  She faltered for a moment, and then remembered it was their first sight of her in women's dress. 

Bronson stepped forward, holding out his hand to take hers.  “I have to say, I found you more than fetching in your page's clothes.  But now that I've seen you in a dress...” he brought her fingers to his lips.  She couldn't help feeling pleased with his compliment.  But the moment was interrupted by a messenger throwing the doors to the throne room open grandly and waving them in.  Bronson kept her hand in his and led her forward to the throne.  It was an enormous hall, the walls draped with intricate tapestries of dragons and unicorns as well as some of knights and swords and still others of holy crosses and other religious symbology.  Rather than rushes on the floor, there were even tapestries there, and it felt strange to walk upon such beautiful works of art.  The king was on his throne, a silver crown with embedded jewels upon his head.  Next to him, the small queen sat regally.  There were a dozen or so advisers standing around them, and guards flanking the walls.  When they reached the throne, the four of them knelt on one knee in homage to the king.

He said nothing for a long time, just left them kneeling, heads bowed.  Finally, he said, “Welcome, Bronson.  I see you have recaptured your bride for me.” 

They stood but Julia kept her eyes lowered demurely.  “Aye, my lord.  I am deeply honored by your decision to grant my marriage to the Lady Julia.” 

The king pursed his lips.  Bronson launched an explanation, “She fled your castle because she was very much afraid I would exact vengeance for the sins of her father— an understandable fear.  But I've made her see reason and she will wed without protest.”

Julia held her breath.  It occurred to her that the king may have changed his mind about the marriage.  He could lock her in a tower or send her to a nunnery or give her to another man.  And though the queen had been civil enough the first time Julia had been brought here, she did not imagine that she would speak up for her.  Her fate was suspended by a thread, dangling in the wind here. 

“Lady Julia,” the king's icy tone reached her ears.  “Who makes the decision about who you marry?”

“You do, Your Highness.”

“And if my decision does not suit you?”

“Your decision is my pleasure to honor.”  She held her breath as silence stretched out in the hall.  “Please forgive my earlier impudence,” she said, her voice not more than a whisper. 

“Pretty words,” he said dismissively. 

“Your Highness,” Bronson said.  “Lady Julia's mind was much affected by the treachery of her father and his subsequent death, along with the deaths of her brothers.  She was not herself when she fled your castle without leave.  But I assure you, her good sense has returned to her.  I have no doubt she will now be a most loyal subject to you and an obedient wife to me.”

The king raised an eyebrow at her.  She tried to look very humble. 

“There is the matter of the horse you stole.”

“She meant to return it, but it was killed in combat.  As the battle occurred under my authority, I will certainly repay you for it at any price you name.”

The king waved this away with a flick of his fingers.  “The price will be taken from
your
hide,” he said, leveling a cold gaze at Julia.  She swallowed.  “One hundred lashes.  Take her to the library,” he said and two servants stepped forward. 

“Your highness,” Bronson interjected.  “Please allow me to take them in her stead.” 

Julia gasped.  It was chivalry in the truest form.

“No.”

The servants each took one of her arms.

“Then allow me to administer her punishment.  Privately.”  The conciliatory tone was gone.  Bronson's voice was grim and held the edge of challenge in it.  He met the king's eyes with a level gaze.  Julia held her breath.  The servants had hold of her arms, but were waiting for the king's judgment. 
Sweet Jesu...

The king considered them for a long time.  “You have grown fond of your bride.”  It was a statement, rather than a question.

“Aye.” More challenge.  He left off the “your highness” this time.  Lord Bronson was powerful, she knew that.  And he had fought and won many battles for the king.  That was why he had been rewarded with her extensive property.  But there was no accounting for the arrogance of a king.  And to insult him this way was very dangerous. 

At last he nodded slowly.  “Very well.  One hundred lashes.  Tonight.  You'll marry her on the morrow.”

Bronson looked relieved.  “Thank you, Your Highness.”  He bowed.  Julia curtsied low when her arms were released. 

“You're dismissed.”

They bowed and curtsied again backing their way out, as it was considered offensive to turn their backs on the king. 

* * *

Outside the throne room, Bronson sighed and put his arm around Julia's shoulders.  She was trembling like a flower in the wind.  He led her to his chambers where his squires awaited him.  He waved off their help.  “I don't need your help undressing.  Go and fetch me wine.  Lots of it.”  Lord knew she was going to need it. 

The door shut behind them and Julia stood stock still, looking petrified.  “Well, it looks like you'll be giving me the whipping of my life, after all,” she said wryly.

He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling completely defeated.  “Aye, and you'll be afraid of me for the rest of your life.”

She crossed the room to him.  “No I won't,” she said softly, stepping in so she stood between his knees.  “I will remember for the rest of my life that you offered to take it for me.”  When he looked up, she stroked his hair out of his eyes and smiled sadly.  He wrapped his arms around her waist and leaned his head against her breast, his mind working out the details of how it was all going to work.  She probably couldn't stand for that many lashes, which meant he'd have to strip her and lay her on the bed...

He suddenly wished he had not been so chivalrous about saving her virtue for their wedding night, since it now seemed she would be whipped raw and probably not speaking to him when it came time to consummate their marriage.  He stroked her thigh absently, breathing in the sweet scent of her skin, fresh from a bath. 

A short knock on the door announced his squire.  “Come in,” he called as Julia stepped quickly away from him.  The squire had two full flasks and two silver goblets.  “Well done,” he said and the squire beamed.  “Pour the wine and then leave us for the night.”  His squire served them, and then left with a bow.  “Drink up,” he said to Julia, watching the goblet tremble in her hand.  He threw his own wine back, then stood, setting the goblet down and sweeping Julia up into his arms and carrying her to the bed.

“Julia, my flower.  Let us pretend tonight is our wedding night, shall we?  I fear tomorrow night you will not feel... amorous.”  Julia's eyes were wide on his, but she did not say a word to refuse him.  He laid her down and slowly slid his hands up her legs, lifting her gown as he went.  Her legs were shaking and the smell of her skin was intoxicating.  She must have bathed in rose water.  He nipped along her inner thigh and she made a warbled sound— half moan, half exclamation.  He pulled off her underclothing and parted her thighs.  She made the same sound, and he found he was echoing it.  He licked into her, determined that her first time would be pleasurable, if for no other reason than that she'd soon be experiencing enough pain.  She bucked her hips, but he held them down firmly, sucking and plunging his tongue into her core until her moans became fast, panting cries and then she went silent with a strangled sound, her muscles tightening with a mighty shudder.   Then he moved his way up, peeling the dress and shift off her head, stopping to simply gaze down at the perfection of her little body.  Her pert little breasts were the same alabaster as her face, the nipples a light peach color.  For once, she didn't blush— she simply blinked up at him, wonder and contentment spread across her face.  And didn't that make him feel as tall as a mountain.  He peeled off his own clothes efficiently, without taking his eyes off of her.

He pulled the blankets down from under her so they wouldn't bloody them and then climbed over her and suckled her breast, reveling in her arched response and satisfied moan.  She gasped, digging her nails into his shoulders when he entered her, but she didn't scream, and she relaxed as he began to gently rock into her.  Soon she was digging her nails in for a different reason and when she wrapped her firm legs around his back and threw her arms around his neck, he forgot all intentions of going slowly, and brought them both to a finish that made him shout.   

“Mmmm... thank you,” he whispered into her neck.  He had moved to lie next to her so he wouldn't crush her, but she was still clinging tightly to him.  He felt her lips kiss his chest and he sighed with pleasure.  He could not be a luckier man. 

He tucked her against his chest and stroked her dazzling hair.  What a shame she'd had to cut it.  He couldn't wait to see it long and thick, hanging down her back.  He smiled thinking he would forbid her to ever cover it or wear it braided. 

“Are you all right?”  

She nodded, her face still tucked into his chest. 

He laughed.  “Are you hiding from me?” 

She peeked out and smiled shyly. 

“Was that all right for you?” 

She nodded happily and he kissed her, slowly and sweetly, exploring her lips with his tongue and delighting when, after a moment, she followed his lead.

They lay there together for a long time, but at last he knew he could put it off no longer.  He got up, pulled his leggings on and poured them each another glass of wine.  “It's time for the less pleasant part of our night together,” he said.

Julia promptly burst into tears. 

* * *

She hadn't meant to be such a coward.  It was just that having experienced the first pleasure of her life with a man who had become more to her than she ever thought a husband could, her emotions were very close to the surface.  “Forgive me,” she said.  “I am a terrible coward.” 

Bronson pulled her to her feet and embraced her with one arm as he held two goblets of wine with the other hand.  “I know you're scared,” he said.  “But it's just pain, nothing more.  I promise you that it won't be more than you can bear.  And it's just between the two of us— no witnesses, no humiliations.”

“Thank you,” she hiccupped, trying to get her sobs under control.  “I am so—” she hiccupped again,  “—grateful to you for advocating for me.”

“Hush,” he said, kissing the top of her head.  “Drink your wine, it will help.”  He threw his back with a few quick swallows, so she did the same.  She bent to pick up her shift, but he caught her arm and shook his head.  “Lie down on the bed,” he said. 

A knot clenched in the pit of her belly.  Her heart started to beat faster.  She lay down on her belly on the bed.  She felt so exposed.  “Closer to this edge,” he said, motioning in the direction he was standing.  He was rolling two blankets together.  “Lift your hips,” he said.  “Higher.” He slid the blankets under them so that her bottom was now neatly lifted and presented for his belt.  She couldn't help but whimper like a cowed dog. 

“You'll be all right,” he said softly, advancing now with his belt in his hand.  She stifled the protest that wanted to come out at the sight of that.  He was standing at the side of the bed, in perfect position to strike her.  “Please remember,” he said grimly, “that I take no pleasure in this.”

“I know,” she said, tears already squeezing out of her eyes. 

“Scream as loud as you like,” Bronson said.  “I think this is one instance where it would be better to be heard.”

“Why?”

“I don't want the integrity of my work here questioned.” 

The first stroke struck her on the upper side of her bottom and she nearly jumped a foot with its impact.  The sting made her gasp and then she couldn't breathe for a moment, even as he continued down her backside, making what she imagined were neat, even stripes.  She managed to catch her breath by the time he'd reached the juncture of her bottom and her legs and then lost it again when he moved down the backs of her thighs.  It took fifteen strokes.  She couldn't help but count, knowing how many were coming.  He didn't pause before delivering ten more to the lower side of her bottom, alternating the emphasis between the right and left cheek, though the belt usually struck both.  And she had screamed.  She hadn't lasted more than five lashes before she'd started crying out. 

After that he paused and she sobbed and sobbed, feeling like her entire backside was on fire.  That had been twenty five lashes.  How could she take three more rounds of that?  The pain was pulsing out in waves, a burning sting.