Betrothed (7 page)

It took her a few moments of sobbing before her mind started working again and she realized that Bronson had paused and was pacing around the room.  She turned her face from where it was buried in the blankets to lay on her cheek and look at him.  He walked over, perched on the side of the bed next to her and rubbed her back, very lightly.  “Is it better to take breaks or just to go fast and get it over with?”

“Breaks,” she squeaked.  She had honestly felt like she couldn't have taken any more when he'd stopped. 

“Alright, he said softly, still making light circles on her bare skin.  Even that felt intense.  It was as if everything had magnified— her physical body was her entire world and she could not sense anything beyond it.  “More wine?”

She shook her head.  Her sobs had stopped by now, reduced to hiccupping moans. 

Bronson stood up after a little longer and started again with the same exact pattern, moving down her tender bottom and welting half way down the backs of her thighs.  She screamed more this time.  And then she felt as if she was going to pee.  He was just starting the ten across her flaming cheeks.  She tried to hold it in, but each stinging blow made her let go of her muscle control and she grew more and more anxious that she would actually have an accident. 

“Bronson,” she wailed as he continued striking her flayed bottom.  “Bronson!”  He did not pause.  By Our Lady, she was going pee right on the bed!  She rolled over and Bronson let out a yell, jerking his striking arm back, but not before the tip of belt caught the side of her hip with a sting. 

“Julia, don't move!”

“I have to use the privy,” she sobbed and the irritation on his face instantly disappeared.  He scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the privy in the corner, setting her flaming bottom upon the wooden seat above the chamber pot.  It was the most humiliating position she'd ever found herself in— her bottom whipped raw, her new husband standing there, watching as she cried and cried and peed.  She hung her head and wished her hair were longer to cover her flaming face.

When she stood on shaky legs, he scooped her back up and gently laid her back on the bed to get situated again.  After that very short reprieve she couldn't stand for him to start again, but of course, he did.  He repeated his same pattern, and knowing exactly how many and where they would fall was both a blessing and a curse.  The coward in her did not believe she could stand twenty-five more strokes, but the pragmatist hung onto the rhythm of it, following each stripe, counting each lash as a way of maintaining some kind of control of a situation in which she had none.  Though each time the belt came down she jumped and screamed, it was true that the pain was not more than she could bear.  And just when it did become more than she could bear, he finished the set and let her recover herself again. 

“I'm sorry,” she sobbed, although she wasn't sure why she was apologizing to him.  It was just that being chastised in this manner was an effective way to make one sorry.  She was sorry that he had to do it, and sorry that her actions had forced him to put himself on the line with the king.  And she was sorry she'd defied the king.  Except that she wasn't— because she would have missed the entire experience of meeting Bronson and traveling as his page.  If she hadn't run away, she'd be fretting in her chambers right now, in pure terror of the man she was supposed to marry.  Arriving at that conclusion, she felt stronger about completing her punishment.

As the last twenty five strokes fell, she found she'd stopped resisting the pain, stopped jumping each time the leather stung her flesh.  She submitted fully to her punishment, her limbs slack, her screams turned into sobs and blessed acceptance.  

As soon as Bronson finished, he pulled the blankets out from under her hips and crawled into bed next to her, rolling her to her side and tucking her in against his chest.  He held her like that a long time, stroking her hair as she cried, running his fingers lightly up and down her arms until her tears had stopped.

“This is a hell of a way to start a new marriage, isn't it?” he murmured after a long time.  She laughed a little. 

“Bronson?” she sniffed.

“Yes, my love?”

“Promise me something?”

“What is it?”

“Promise me you will always comfort me this way if you punish me.”

Bronson was silent a moment.  Mayhap she shouldn't ask such a promise.  Then he said, “I promise.  If you promise me you will always accept my comfort.” 

Of course she would accept it.  Unless...ah.  Unless she resented him or the punishment.  If so, would she be willing to give up ill-will in favor of harmony?  Aye.  In his arms, she felt cherished, despite the fact that he had just welted every inch of her backside.  She snuggled in closer.  “I promise,” she said. 

Chapter Five

“Lady Julia!  Look, it's Lady Julia!”

Riding up to the gates of what used to be her father's castle, Julia was overwhelmed to see its occupants racing out to greet her.  She had been taken abruptly by the king's soldiers those two months before, and no one had known what had become of her.  She waved happily and they cheered.  Then she burst into tears. 

Bronson smiled at her indulgently.  He had been kind about waiting several days before they departed so that she could ride comfortably and the journey had been an easy one, as she was already used to the rhythms of traveling with his men.  “Happy, love?” 

She nodded through her tears.  She couldn't wait to greet everyone.  As soon as they were through the castle gates, she flung herself off her horse and into the arms of her childhood nursemaid.  She continued greeting all her friends and servants until one of the ladies cleared her throat and she realized that Bronson was waiting to speak.  She flew to his side and he took her hand with a wink. 

“May I present the new lord of the castle and my husband, Lord Bronson, The Duke of Pembridge,” she announced grandly.  She actually was not sure whether it was her place to make the introduction or not, but it seemed as though it ought to come from her.  She glanced nervously at Bronson and he squeezed her hand.

Her father's knights— those who had remained to guard the castle rather than attack Lord Pembridge, came forward to swear fealty.  The steward stepped forward to introduce himself and then the ladies were introduced.  The servants could be introduced later.  Julia quickly began giving orders to provide hospitality to the Duke and his men— ale was brought out and food preparations began. 

After dinner, Bronson and his knights, both old and newly acquired, met with the steward for an overview on the current state of the demesne.  Julia asked permission to stay and hear it, as she was curious how things had fared since her father's death and her departure. 

Julia had already given Bronson an overview of the various manors and who was lord of each, but the steward launched into his own outline of the demesne.  Julia hadn't been listening until she overheard, “Sir Roland is overdue his rent by two years.”

“It may be time to find a new lord, then,” said Bronson.

“But you can't do that,” she exclaimed snapping to attention.  “Sir Roland's been there forever!”

Bronson raised one eyebrow at her with a look that turned her cold.  The knights were all carefully looking away.  “You may certainly offer me your suggestions on the matter, Lady Julia,” Bronson said with exaggerated politeness. 

Julia flushed.  “Forgive me, I did not mean to overstep.” 

“I'm sure it will be strange for everyone here to get used to the changes I may make,” he said, smoothing over his public correction of her.  She felt a tightening in her gut and she realized how little she knew this man who was now her lord and husband.  

That night in their chambers, Bronson sat on the edge of the bed.  “Julia.”

“My lord?”

“You may question me and my decisions about the demesne all you like in private, but never in front of others.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Bronson,” she said, her voice sounding wispy to her ears.

“Come here,” he said.

She slowly crossed the room to him, fearing he planned to chastise her.  He put an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him, but it wasn't to punish— instead he bent his mouth to her breast, gently teasing her nipple through her thin linen shift with his teeth.  “Did you want to argue Sir Roland's case to me?”

Suddenly Sir Roland and his plight seemed very unimportant to her.  She leaned into his arms, grateful for a chance to release the awkwardness between them in a constructive way.  And they did.

But she found it was not so easy for her to remember when to speak and when not to.  Bronson was so lenient with her in many ways.  He clearly enjoyed her company, taking her with him when he went out on demesne business. 

When one of his squires asked if he was going to allow her to dress as a page again and join their troops the next time the king called him to battle, he laughed and said, “I would be delighted to have 'Jake' back in troops, he was easier on the eye than the rest of you louts.  Not a bad archer, either.”  Then he looked at her and grew serious, “Nay, my heart nearly failed when I couldn't find her after that last battle.  I'm sorry, love, you'll have to stay home next time.”

“Will I stay here?” she asked.  After all, he had three demesnes— hers, Pembridge and Montmore.  Many lords never had to see their wives more than a few times a year if they kept her at a different castle than the one where they passed their time. 

“If you like.  But you'll be wherever I am if I'm not at war.  Is that what you're asking?”

She rewarded him with her most brilliant smile as an answer and he chuckled and touched her cheek with affection. 

So it was that several weeks later at the dining table, when Bronson was discussing the need for finding a new lord for one of the manors by way of a husband for the deceased lord's widow, Julia cut in, remembering her own betrothal trauma, “Surely you'll give the widow at least some small consideration in this equation?”

When she saw the raised eyebrow, she knew immediately that she'd done it again.  Her fear of punishment made her feel defensive, though.  “You could offer her a choice of men,” she said sullenly, knowing full well she sounded like a child. 

After supper Bronson held her wrist as she started to stand up from the table, pulling her firmly back down next to him and dismissing everyone else so that the two of them were left there alone.  His face was stony.

“Are you saying you wish you'd been offered a choice?” he asked tightly, the tension in his jaw made the angles of his face stand out more starkly than usual.  With a rush of dismay, she realized that she had not only questioned him in public, but far worse, she had given personal offense.  Her eyes filled with tears.  “No.  I mean, yes.  But no,” she shook her head, realizing she was making no sense.  “What I mean to say is that...”  She abandoned any attempt to answer his question.  “Bronson, I'm sorry.”

“Answer the question.”

She sighed and chose her words carefully.  “I
did
wish I'd been offered a choice.  You know that— I was wary enough of the king's choice to run away and risk your wrath and that of the king. But surely you also know that if I were given a choice today there is no man in the world I would pick but you.”

Bronson stared at her.  “So really you could not have been trusted to make your own choice.”

Julia's anger flared.  She slapped her palm on the table.  “The king did not make the choice with my interests in mind at all!”

Bronson raised his eyebrows in warning at her outburst, but he spoke with exaggerated patience.  “Julia, the king knows me.  I have fought by his side.  He knew I would not mistreat any wife he chose for me.”

“Oh so I am just any wife, now, am I?” Julia started to get up from the table. 

Bronson pulled her back down.  “Do not walk away from me unless you've been dismissed,” he said.

She flushed.

“Yes, Bronson,” he prompted.

“Yes, Bronson,” she whispered, feeling suddenly defeated.  She stared at her hands in her lap.  He lifted her chin and looked at her silently for a moment.  “Come on, let's go upstairs.” 

He dismissed his squires and her maid from their undressing duties and flopped on the bed, fully clothed.  She pulled off his boots herself and he gave her a faint smile and patted the bed next to him.  Her palms were sweating as she pulled off her dress and climbed up next to him in her shift. 

He was lying on his side, his head propped on one hand.  He wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her in closer to him and began tracing her ear, like he had done that first night in his tent.  The memory of it made her tears start again. 

“What do you wish me to do?” he asked heavily.

“About me?” she whispered. 

He frowned.  “No, about the widow.”

“Oh.”  She stopped crying and sat up.  The widow was the least of her concerns at that point.  “I'm sure you know best,” she said at last.

He rolled his eyes and blew out his breath.  “Then what are we quarreling about, Julia?”

“Are you going to beat me now, Bronson?”

“What?”  Now he sat up. 

“For questioning you in front of your men?”

He raised that one eyebrow again, a look she was beginning to fear.  He cocked his head to the side.  “Well....  I had not planned on beating you,” he said slowly and she kicked herself for saying anything.  “But mayhap that would help to clear the air.”

Like a coward, she started to scramble away from him.  His hand closed on her arm and he shook his head.  “Don't run from me,” he said quietly.  “If you have courage enough to stand up to me at our dining table, you can have courage enough to face in me in our chambers.”

“I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry, Bronson.” 

A ghost of a smile played around his mouth.  “Come here,” he said patting his lap. 

She swallowed.  At least he didn't have a belt in his hand.  She slowly crawled over his lap and put herself into place, pressing her face into the blankets of the bed in shame.  He lifted her shift slowly, his hand trailing up her leg and across her newly exposed bottom with the feel of a caress.  She shivered at the feel of his fingers on her bare skin and the fear of anticipation.