The Highwayman's Lady (27 page)

Apparently not. A quick inspection shows the dining room to be empty, and Beatrice’s sitting room also. I start in the direction of the kitchens, always a hive of activity, then halt. This is ridiculous. I am not an invalid. I can manage to retrieve one book from a shelf even if it does entail standing on a footstool to do so. I hasten back into the library and pull a low buffet from under the desk.

I arrange the stool in front of the bookcase and stand back to peruse the dates etched on the spines. I spot the volume I require and place one foot on the buffet.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Gray’s voice echoes around the room, startling me. Caught off balance I start to teeter. He is across the room in an instant to grab me around the waist and aid me back to the floor. I thank him as he herds me back to my chair, insisting that I sit down at once.

“I thought I had made myself clear, yet I turn my back for a moment and the next thing I know you are clambering up on the furniture. You gave me your word, madam, that you would take care of yourself and our child, but your promise seems to be worthless.”

“Please, Gray, do not fuss. I was perfectly safe and lifting just one book would not overtax me. There was no one about, so—”

“Safe? You call balancing on a stool safe? I believe we have widely differing opinions on that, Imogen.” He stands before me, hands on his hips, glowering.

“I rang for the servants, but there was no one to hand, so I thought…” I pause. His expression is, if anything, even stormier.

“I know. Masterson was occupied in the yard with me. He would have come but I left him to conclude his inventory of the winter feed stocks whilst I came indoors in response to your summons, to find—this.” He waves his arm in the direction of the abandoned stool and bookcase. “You and I are to have a reckoning, Imogen. I
will
have your obedience in this matter.”

“Oh, but…” I give up. His countenance offers not the least hint that he might relent. “But, the baby…”

“I am gratified that you seem not to have totally forgotten our unborn child. Be assured, madam, that I have not. I would be obliged if you would return to your chamber now and I shall join you there shortly.”

“But, you cannot. It is the middle of the day. Someone might see you.”

My protests attract a sardonic twist of his lips. “I doubt that. Do not forget, I know how to move about this house undetected.” He glances at the bookcase again and this time I realise he refers to the hidden passage behind it. He uses the secret staircase occasionally on his nocturnal visits, having insisted upon repositioning my bed slightly to facilitate easier access into my room. He glares at me, his beautiful mahogany-hued eyes darkening in his anger. “Go now, Imogen. I expect to find you naked and bent over the end of your bed ready for me.”

I gulp, but make no further attempt to plead my cause. He steps to one side as I stand, allowing me to rush past him as I hasten to the door. It never occurs to me to disobey.

Once in my room, I dismiss the offer of my maid to prepare a bath for me or to style my hair and help me get ready for dinner. I accept her suggestion that she might assist me to loosen my gown since the task will take much longer unaided, then lock the door behind her as she leaves me. I peel off my clothing as quickly as I am able, then go to stand at the foot of my bed. A scratching behind the panelling at the head of the bed heralds Gray’s arrival and moments later, the section of wall swings aside to reveal his tall, lean form. He steps into my chamber, his features still set in that determined, stern expression that bodes ill for me.

“Sir, I apologise. You were right, of course and I—”

“Bend over, Imogen. You may rest your shoulders on the mattress.” Implacable, he regards me under his lowered brows.

I move into position. Despite his commitment not to spank me for the duration of my pregnancy I find myself waiting for the swish of his belt as he removes it ready to thrash me. There is only silence. Bemused, I turn my head to look at him. His belt remains around his waist. He does, however, have a small bowl balanced in his palm. I dare not ask what it contains, but he satisfies my dread curiosity anyway. He takes a long, narrow object from the bowl and holds it up for me to see.

A piece of ginger root. It appears to have been peeled, but as I watch, he takes his knife from his belt and proceeds to carve a rim around one end. He takes his time, occasionally glancing in my direction. I start to straighten, but he puts a stop to that with one curt word.

“Stay!”

I settle again, my heart thumping as I watch his preparations. I cannot fathom what he might be about, but I know I will not like it.

At last, seemingly satisfied, he drops the root back into the bowl and advances upon me.

“Straighten your legs to lift your bottom up and set your feet about shoulder width apart.”

I adopt the position he describes, aware that despite my trepidation, my quim is already moistening. He will see, he must be able to tell in the bright daylight still streaming through the window. Sure enough, he draws the flat of his hand through my drenched folds from front to back, then drives one finger deep into my arse. He is not especially gentle, though this is now a much practised manoeuvre between us and he does not hurt me. I lurch forward and my squeal is more one of surprise than pain and perhaps a generous helping of humiliation.

“Get back in position as I instructed and keep still,” he growls as he drags his finger out, then shoves it back in again.

“Sir, please…”

“Quiet. Unless I ask you a direct question, you will remain silent whilst you are being punished or I shall gag you.”

I clamp my lips together and fight back tears. His driving thrusts into my backside are not exactly pleasant, but it is his terse voice that destroys me. I have angered and disappointed him and the consequences will be severe. Perhaps he intends to fuck my arse and I know he can make that hurt if he so chooses. I whimper as he adds a second finger. He has used little in the way of lubrication and his curt treatment of me is both harsh and painful.

“Reach back with your hands and pull the cheeks of your bottom apart for me. I want to see your rear hole.”

“Sir?”

“Is something not clear to you, Imogen?”

“No, sir. I am sorry,” I whisper and I do as he asks.

He waits several moments, his fingers still deep inside my bottom whilst he circles my exposed anus with his other hand. “So pretty. I do love your arse, Imogen and I much prefer to treat it as plaything than as a means to punish you. Still, needs must prevail and I have something very effective in mind for you today as this is a lesson I do not intend you to forget easily. Do you know why I have brought ginger with me, Imogen?”

“No, sir,” I concede.

“It is to go in here,” he announces, thrusting his fingers into me again as though to emphasise his intention. “You will find it most uncomfortable, but I gather the pain may be mitigated if you can manage not to clench.”

“Sir?” I am baffled, not sure I heard him correctly. Can he intend to insert the ginger into my bottom? For what purpose, for heaven’s sake?

Gray chuckles. “Ah, Imogen, do you doubt me? You will understand soon enough. Hold still whilst it goes in.”

He pulls his digits out of me and picks up the piece of ginger. “Hold your cheeks apart and push back against the root. It is wet so should go in without too much force being required. I prefer not to have to be too rough with you, but it
is
going in.”

He pushes and the tip of the root enters me. The girth is much less than his two fingers so the sensation is not too intense. He presses again and more of the length penetrates. Still it does not hurt and I start to relax, just a little.

“That is good. One last inch or so…” He shoves again and the rest of the root slides into me. The muscles at my entrance close around the carved rim, holding the ginger in place.

“You may let go now but remain where you are.”

I fold my arms under my chest and wonder what might happen next. I do not have long to wait.

“Ooh! Oh, sir, that feels strange.” A sharp tingling has started to creep along the length of the invading root. I do not think I like it much. Indeed, I know I do not. I start to wriggle on the bed.

A sharp slap to my buttock reminds me of his instruction to remain still. I endeavour to do so, but with every passing moment the burning itch becomes sharper, more unbearable. I am clenching around the root and instinctively I reach back with my hand, seeking the protruding end.

“Stop that or I shall tie your wrists together. Place your hands underneath you and keep them there.” His tone is harsh, demanding obedience.

“Sir, what is happening? It hurts…”

He leans over me, his hands planted on the mattress on either side of my shoulders. “I know it hurts. It is meant to. Remember, you may be able to reduce the pain if you can manage not to clench your bottom. Can you manage that, do you think, Imogen?”

I am certainly prepared to try. I make a conscious effort to relax the muscles in my posterior and the burning within does alleviate a little. Still, it is supremely uncomfortable and I am gasping under the strain.

“Please, sir, please remove it. I am sorry, I swear I am. I will not do anything to cause you concern again.”

“How glad I am to hear that, Imogen. My tactics might be working then. Time will tell. I shall remove the root but not until it ceases to be effective. The irritation will become worse before it improves, but the entire ordeal should not last more than an hour or so. Are you managing not to clench?”

“An hour! I cannot endure this for an hour.”

“I believe you can. You shall have to because I have no intention of cutting short this punishment. You will learn to obey me, my sweet, especially in the important matter of your safety. So, tell me, are you clenching your bottom?”

I shake my head, grinding my teeth together as I seek to adjust to the awful burning sensation now filling my rear end. It hurts; the pain indescribable. It is not nearly so intense as the bite of a hard spanking, but unrelenting despite my efforts to remain relaxed. And this is deep within me, permeating my inner self. If I move, it worsens. If I remain still, it torments me without mercy. I start to whimper, then sob as the reality of my situation sinks in.

Gray means it. He is pitiless, determined to have his way. No words of mine will sway him so I must remain still and bear my punishment as best I may.

“I promised you that I would deal most severely with you should I ever have cause to take issue with you again in this matter of your safety and welfare. Do you recall that, Imogen?” Gray’s tone is soft, but I am not fooled. He has even more discipline in mind for me.

“Yes, sir,” I manage, between gulping sobs.

“Remember, Imogen, clenching will make everything worse. Since I wish to create a lasting impression I shall contrive to ensure you derive the maximum benefit from this experience.”

I defy anyone not to clench when skilled and determined fingers are at work within their pussy, especially if those digits belong to someone with a touch as deft as Gray’s. I shiver in perverse delight as he strokes my already dripping quim. “Remain in this position and do
not
even think about stealing a climax from this. Not that I believe you would manage to do so. It is uncomfortable, is it not?”

“Yes, sir,” I whimper, attempting to remain relaxed and soft as he ramps up the pressure by pumping his fingers in and out of my masochistically receptive channel.

“Good. Now, lift your bottom for me, Imogen.”

I do so. My reward is a cruel caress over the tip of my clitoris, then another as I writhe in agonised response.

“You shall endure this for a few minutes, to ensure my point is well made. Then you may relax and enjoy your ginger until the oils dissipate. Are you ready, sweetheart?”

The endearment is all the more tender, given the circumstances. I nod my agreement and loosen my muscles in a doomed attempt to relax.

The next few minutes are the longest I can ever recall. Gray employs every trick he possesses to drive me to the brink of despair. My body betrays me entirely, spasming almost continuously as he strokes, caresses, teases, and torments my quivering slit. He slides his digits in and out of my pussy, he rolls my clit between his fingers, he even takes hold of the protruding length of root to swirl that inside my arse. I writhe and squirm, begging him to let me be.

My pleas fall on deaf ears, though Gray checks often to ensure I am managing. His care of me is perfect, his concern for my safety undiminished. I appreciate this, but it is of little comfort as he flicks my swollen clit with his thumb and my inner muscles contract again to squeeze yet more drops of pungent juice from the root.

At last it is over. Gray allows me to roll onto my side, then lays down beside me on the bed.

“Good girl. That is done now. I have you.”

I reach for him, twisting my fingers in the front of his shirt as the waves of inner fire scorch my tender rear hole.

“Relax now, if you are able. Breathe in, sweetheart, then out. Slowly, let the pain wash through and away. Feel it, learn from it, then let it go.”

His tone is soft and low, that beguiling timbre that somehow speaks to my very soul, despite the punishment I have just endured at his hands—the punishment I am still enduring. Mercifully though, the discomfort is lessening. It is still hateful, but I can bear it.

Long minutes pass and the inner scorching calms. The fire becomes a glow, before eventually cooling to a mere tingle once more. Throughout, I lay shivering in Gray’s arms, revelling in the feeling of safety he manages to impart.

* * *

“I wish that had not been necessary.” Gray murmurs his comment into my hair.

Me too.
I think better of voicing my agreement and settle for snuggling closer to Gray’s side. The used root of ginger lies discarded on the rug, soon to be tossed onto the fire when Gray gets up to leave. I do not want him to go and I do opt to share that sentiment with him.