Lost Love (8 page)

* * *

When she awoke in the morning, she was alone, the only sign that John had been with her, an indent in the pillow. She stretched and immediately stiffened. Something had fluttered in her stomach, she was certain of it. Laying flat on her back, she placed her hand on her abdomen and was rewarded with the faintest of movements. She gasped. This was the first time she had felt any movement, and as slight as it had been, it filled her with joy. Smiling happily, she slid out of bed and started her morning ablutions.

Mary popped her head around the door. "Lord John asked me to see if thee were awake, milady."

"Aye, come in Mary. Thou can help me dress."

Mary walked over to the large trunk that Arabella had brought with her and opened the lid. "What dress will thee choose? The blue or the green?"

"Green, me thinks."

Several minutes later, she was dressed, her hair braided and tied with a ribbon. She slipped her feet into small slippers and made her way down to the great hall. She was intrigued to hear what her father had to say, but was disappointed to find neither her husband or father present. Mary informed her they had already broken their fast and were riding out together.

"Together?" she queried.

"Aye, milady. They left no more than half an hour ago."

Was it a good thing they were riding out or not? She couldn't decide. Mayhap they had put aside their differences. She sat down at the dais and helped herself to some bread and honey, chewing the meal slowly, whilst digesting this new found knowledge. Would her father regret throwing John out all those years ago and mayhap, now accept him back into the fold? Her father was a stubborn man. It could take years for him to truly accept John. Mayhap when the babe was born, everything would fall into place. She could only hope so.

* * *

Lord Dufour held his arm out, and his peregrine falcon landed smoothly on his leather gauntlet, pecking away at the meat treat he handed him. He glanced at John. "Dost thou hunt on thy land, John?"

"Aye. The land is good. We hath both deer and boar."

"What of crops?"

"Several acres are given over to arable farming. My serfs are hardworking, and we mutually benefit from the harvest." John frowned. "Thou knowest this from whence I first asked for Arabella's hand in marriage. Wherefore dost thou wish to know all this again?"

"For my daughter's benefit. I wouldst ascertain that what thee told me then corresponds to what thee says now. I hath a marvelous memory. Thee have informed me that thee dost not love my daughter, which dost not bother me. Many marriages are thus. But what would bother me is if I find out she has been mistreated, or that I hath been mislead as to thy holdings. I gave my daughter to thee in the knowledge that she will hath a secure future—if I find out otherwise, then thee will pay dearly."

"I can assure thee, the only thing I lied about was my true identity. All else is true."

Lord Dufour's look had been fierce, but upon hearing John defend himself, he seemed to relax somewhat. He tethered his falcon to the rear of his saddle and instructed his knights that they would be returning to the castle.

On the ride back, he spoke again about Arabella. "I do not know wherefore Arabella chooses to remain with thee. I can only assume she is looking to the future of her child. Whatever the case, I will not interfere unless she asks me to. But understand this; if I hear thou hath harmed her, thee will rue the day!"

"I will not harm her, but I will love her neither." When he spoke the words, he knew he was lying. He was already in love with her. It was too late. He clenched his jaw. This fact he would keep to himself. Never would she know how she affected him. Never!

* * *

A week later, Arabella found herself back at Terryn. It had been wonderful to see her father and reassure him all was well within her marriage. He had taken her to one side, before she departed, telling her that Arnscroft would always be waiting should she find living with John unbearable. He had the King's ear and could always find a way to annul the marriage.

He had promised to come and visit her when the babe was born, something she truly looked forward to.

Winter was approaching, and the weather was growing chillier by the day. She wiggled her slippered feet in front of the fire, relishing the warmth emanating into the bed chamber. Her babe was due in the spring, and she was glad for it. Spring always marked the beginning of life with newborn animals, making their appearance and the crops beginning their yearly cycle. It seemed fitting that her babe would arrive at the same time, God willing.

John had been his usual domineering self since their return, and she was getting near the end of her tether. He barked out orders left, right and centre, expecting immediate obedience, something she wasn't used to. She had come near to a spanking on several occasions, but just acquiesced in time.

She jumped when the door suddenly banged open, and talk of the devil, John entered the chamber. He strode over to her and placed his surcoat on her lap.

"This needs sewing. There are several rips."

She pulled a face. "Milord, thou knowest I abhor needlework. Where is Maisie, our seamstress?"

"Taken ill, worse luck. I need this for the tourney tomorrow." His look spoke volumes. He was testing her, waiting for her to disobey him.

She narrowed her eyes. Wherefore should she darn holes on his surcoat? "Can thee not go into the village and find another seamstress?"

"Nay, I want thee to do it."

"I do not want to do it!" This was just another way for him to throw his weight around and try and get her to do something she abhorred. She had never been brilliant at sewing. Aye, she could do the basics, but only when there was no other option, and what she did manage to sew usually had to be unpicked and re-sewn at a later date.

He leaned over her. "Thee will do it!" he commanded.

"Nay, I will not!"

His hand reached out and gripped her wrist. "Art thou disobeying me, milady?"

"Aye, and if thou thinketh to threaten me with a spanking, then thee can…ah!"

With lightning speed he had her over one raised knee. She pushed against him to try and break free, but he held her firm. He raised her skirts and administered a stinging smack to both cheeks at once. She gasped, but before she had time to recover, another one landed in the same spot.

"Aouw!" she shrieked.

"I ask thee to do one simple thing that any wife should do with a willing heart for their husband, yet thee balk at it."

"A willing heart…aow…wherefore should I do as thee bid, when thee hath no heart at all?"

He landed three swats in quick succession, and she howled loudly.

"Thou will do as I say. I am master of this castle, and I expect full obedience from all the inhabitants, and that, my sweet Arabella, includes thee!"

His hands felt as hard as iron. Thankfully, he only delivered ten swats before hauling her back up. She grimaced and placed a hand on her bottom beneath her skirts. It felt hot. She rubbed the surface whilst glaring at him.

"Take that look off thy face! Thee will do as I bid. By the end of the day I want my surcoat repaired, do I make myself clear?"

"Aye!"

He stared hard at her to see if she was sincere. "Very well. I am off on a hunt, but I will be back in time to change for luncheon."

He left the chamber without another word, and Arabella looked down at the surcoat. She kicked it across the floor in a fit of pique. Arrogant bastard!

* * *

Later that afternoon…

Arabella sat sewing John's surcoat with a smile on her face. So far, she had sewn two small tears in the fabric. She still had another two to do. She pulled a face when she looked at the uneven, poorly sewn stitches. Well, it would serve him right, when he saw how badly repaired it was.

He may think to make her life hell, but she could make his just as bad. Only she would have to be cunning, something she was good at.

She smiled whilst staring into the flames. Yes, about now he should be really suffering.

John's back was itchy. Not a mild itch that a quick scratch could get rid of. Nay, this was a deep rooted itch, starting from his shoulders, all the way down to the small of his back. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it, but it was no use. He reached around and scratched, a blissful look of relief appearing on his face.

Fendrel, riding alongside him, asked. "Is something amiss, milord? I cannot help but notice that thee hast been scratching thy back rather a lot this morn."

"Aye, Fendrel. I hath worn this shirt oft and never been bothered by the fabric, yet today it irks me beyond reason."

"Art thou certain 'tis the fabric, mayhap thee brushed past a plant thou art allergic to, milord?" he offered.

John thought hard. He hadn't touched any plant or undergrowth since leaving the bailey. "Nay, it cannot be." He scratched once more. "This will not do. We must return to the castle, and I will change my clothing. Mayhap this incessant itch will then cease."

He turned his horse around and headed back home, every now and then reaching round to curse and scratch. He would get the laundry servants to give it a double washing and scrubbing, to ensure any hairs or bobbles of material were removed. He couldn't understand it; he'd never had this problem before.

Arabella looked up when he entered their bed chamber. She was sewing his surcoat. "Thou hath returned early, milord."

"Aye. My shirt bothers me. I hath come back to change attire."

"What is wrong with thy shirt?" she asked, putting down her sewing and walking over to him. She picked up the shirt as he drew it off his back and inspected it. "It looks fine."

"Well, I can assure thee it is not. I shall get another."

"Let me," she said obligingly. She walked over to his clothing chest and pulled out another shirt. "Try this one."

He slipped the shirt over his head and sighed. "That seems to be better. Prithee take the other one down to the laundry room, and tell them to give it a double scrubbing."

"Aye, milord."

She held it aloft and left the chamber. He wasn't certain, but he thought he had seen the beginnings of a smile on her lips. Did she find it funny that he was in discomfort? He frowned. Come to think of it, she'd been rather helpful in choosing another shirt for him. He shrugged; mayhap she was simply accepting that he was in charge. Aye, that had to be it.

He left the chamber and headed back down to the stables. Fendrel was waiting for him, casually leaning against a stall eating an apple. "Dost thou feel better now, milord?"

John's back began to tingle all over, and soon enough the itch was back, this time with a vengeance. He rushed over to a stall and rubbed his back against the thick wooden post, cursing under his breath.

Fendrel raised his eyebrows. "I take it that would be a negative, milord?" He gave the rest of his apple to his horse and approached John. "Take off thy shirt; I wouldst take a look at it."

John quickly pulled off the shirt, handed it to him, and then carried on scratching his back. Fendrel held it up to the light and then nodded wryly. "May I suggest a swim in the lake, milord? I knowest it will be cold, but it will get rid of this affliction."

"I will do anything, Fendrel. It is driving me to distraction!"

"Ride down to the lake. Whatever is on thy skin can be rinsed off. I will get a fresh shirt for thee." Bare-chested, John rode down to the lake. He dismounted quickly, and casting off the rest of his clothes, he leapt into the freezing cold water. "God's bones!" he gasped. It was colder than he'd thought, but even so, it seemed to ease his irritated skin. He dove beneath the surface and came back up, brushing the hair off his face. Rubbing his skin, he did his best to clean every part he could reach, stretching and bending until he felt normal again. Fendrel arrived, carrying a large linen towel and another shirt.

John quickly exited the cold lake and took the offered towel, wrapping it around him to keep warm. He looked at the shirt Fendrel was holding. "That is not one of my shirts. Where didst thee get it?"

"Nay, milord. It is one of mine."

John frowned. "Why didst thee not take one from my chamber?"

"Milord, there is something thee should know. Thy shirt was doused with ground rosehip, and I fear thy others may also be tainted."

"Ground rosehip? Wherefore?"

"I know not, or by whom, but as children we used to use it to play pranks upon one another. We called it itching powder, milord." Fendrel was failing miserably to hide his amusement.

John's lips thinned. He was now the brunt of someone's amusement. But whom? The obvious one was Arabella, but would she dare do such a thing? He dried his body off and slipped into the new shirt and his old hose. "Fendrel, where wouldst someone acquire these rosehips?"

"Well, there are plenty forming at the moment, but to make the powder one wouldst require dried rosehips. Mayhap the kitchens, milord? Wouldst thee like me to ask the servants?"

"Nay, I shall do it. I thank thee for the loan of thy shirt, Fendrel. Come, we will ride back."

* * *

Arabella was wrapped up in her warm cloak, walking along the parapets to get some fresh air when John approached. She regarded him silently. His stride was even, and he didn't seem to be scratching at all. She frowned and studied his face, trying to make out if her itching powder had worked properly on the second shirt, but he was devoid of expression. Her gaze dropped to his shirt when he joined her, and she noted he wore an entirely new one. She regarded him warily.

"Good morrow, milady," he said. His tone was pleasant, but his eyes contained flecks of steel.

"Milord."

"Thee wouldst not happen to know aught about rosehips, would thee?"

Arabella stiffened. Oh, lord. He'd found out what had caused the itching. Mayhap he didn't know she was the culprit though. She reacted as though she would if she were innocent. "Of course. Rosehips are very good for thee, so I hath been led to believe. They make a fine syrup. Wherefore dost thou ask?"

His eyes had taken on a darker hue, and it was all she could do to remain calm. She wanted to scarper, but if she was to portray herself as innocent, the last thing she would do was to run off.

His hand suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist. She tried to twist away. "What dost thou do, milord?"

"What dost I do, she asks? More to the question what hast thou done, milady?"

"Me? Naught!" By the rood, he knew. She struggled and tried to break free, but his hold was firm.

"Thou took dried rosehips from the kitchens, and a pestle and mortar, so I know exactly what thee didst!"

"I didst nothing. Thou dost falsely accuse me."

He pulled her with him along the parapets, toward the stairwell. "Deny it all thou want, milady, but thee and I both know thou art guilty. Thou hast made me change shirt thrice today and bathe in freezing cold water. For that, I am going to blister thy behind."

"Nay! Thou cannot!"

He stopped and stared hard at her. "Prithee tell wherefore I cannot?"

"T-The babe!" She would try anything to escape his hard hands. Her pregnancy seemed a good enough excuse, but she was to be disappointed. He shot her an evil smile.

"Nay, milady. I hath already asked the physician, and he hath given me plenty of advice, assuring me there is no problem whatsoever in giving thee thy just desserts! I just hath to position thee correctly!"

"Thou told the physician thee would punish me?" She gasped. How dare he talk about her so!

"Aye, I didst tell him." He studied her face. "Thou art embarrassed! Good! It will add to thy discomfort. Come then, wife, thy spanking awaits."

* * *

Arabella had no choice but to follow him. His huge hand gripped hers tightly, allowing no escape. She stumbled along beside him all the way to the bedchamber before he released her. She put some distance betwixt them and tried her best to calm him down.

"Milord, I only meant to hath a little fun. Can thee not take a prank?"

"A prank? I went out this afternoon with Fendrel to instruct my serfs on their crop cultivation and hath had to return twice due to itching powder, which thee, my wayward wife, doused my shirts with. So nay, I am not amused, and I can only assume my serfs will feel the same."

"Well 'tis not my fault. I didst not know thee had to go and see them."

"Nay, thou didst not, but let me ask thee this–wouldst it hath deterred thee, if thou had known?" She scowled and he nodded in response. "Nay, it wouldst not. So it is thy fault. Thou art a mischievous wench, milady and deserve a sound thrashing."

She nibbled her bottom lip. She hadn't thought about the consequences of her actions, her only desire had been to see her husband made uncomfortable. She had thought he might be a little cross and had wondered if he would spank her. Part of her had almost wanted it. She frowned at this realization and backed away a little more. Seeing her intention, his hand snaked out and captured her wrist.

"Come hither, my sweet wife." He turned her around and manoeuvred her towards the end of the bed. "Hold the frame and bend over."

"I do not wish to!"

"Bend!" he ordered. There was steel in his voice, and she knew better than to disobey his command. Holding onto the wooden frame, she braced herself for what was to come. She felt a draught of air when he raised her skirts and exposed her bottom, making it ready for his punishment. He positioned himself by her side and slipped one arm around her waist, hugging her against his body. She closed her eyes and waited for the impact.

Smack!

"Aow!" she cried, trying to evade the next smack by collapsing her knees, but his firm hold meant it did little to stop the next swat descending straight onto both buttocks.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

"Aow! That hurts!" she wailed.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

"Of course it does, Arabella. This is punishment, not play. Mayhap next time thee dost think to play a trick upon me, thee will refrain!"

Smack! Smack! Smack!

She could feel the heat building up in her bottom with each stroke, but John was relentless. His huge hand continued its onslaught on her tender backside, until she felt the same as if she had sat on a nest of bees.

Her knuckles showed white, so tight was her grip on the bed, her face contorted with the pain. Mayhap she should have thought twice afore using the itching powder, although, to know she had given him discomfort made her sore bottom seem worthwhile.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

"Oh!" she gasped. "Prithee, milord. I cannot take anymore! Aie!"

Smack! Smack! Smack!

Whatever she said made no difference. John continued to whale on her bottom, slapping each cheek alternately, until she thought she could take no more. Finally, he stopped and released his grip on her. She bounced up and placed her hands on her backside. It was as hot as the burning sun.

John wiggled his finger in her face, his look stern. "I want thy solemn promise thee will not do anything like this again."

She crossed her fingers behind her back. "Aye, I promise."

He studied her. "For thy sake, I hope thee does not. I wouldst like to give thee a taste of thy own medicine. If thou were not with child, I would smother thy bottom in this itching powder concoction, and watch thee squirm, before dunking thee in the ice cold lake. Think thyself lucky!"

She closed her eyes and looked at the floor. Aye, she was indeed lucky! The very thought of how uncomfortable she would be made her cringe inwardly.

"I am going to ride out with Fendrel to visit my serfs. I suggest thee use this time to reflect upon they actions."

She glanced at him sullenly.

"Take that look off thy face, Arabella; else I will spank it from thee."

She turned her back on him and climbed onto the bed, lying on her side to stare at him. He had said he would make her life hell, and so he had. Then why did she find herself responding to his dominance in a way she didn't understand. She waited for him to leave before turning onto on her back and staring at the ceiling. Her bottom throbbed, and she shifted back onto her side. She should hate John, but she didn't. She wondered if part of her wanted to goad him into giving her a spanking. Something about the way he chastised her made her stomach churn with excitement. It was most odd. She lay there pondering over her new found knowledge before drifting off into a light slumber.

* * *

Five months later, at Terryn castle, Robert of Terryn made his entrance into the world, lustily crying for the whole castle to hear. Arabella lay exhausted, but elated, propped up by several pillows on her bed. The midwife, Elodie, had already cleaned her and the baby which left Esme to make her look presentable for her husband.

"Oh, milady. I am so pleased for thee both. A son and heir is every man's dream." She fashioned Arabella's hair into one long braid, chattering excitedly about the new baby.

"It is indeed," said Arabella, looking down at Robert, swaddled in her arms. "He is the image of his father." He was staring up at her, a cute frown on his face, while his eyes tried to adjust to the light.