To Tame A Countess (Properly Spanked Book 2) (6 page)

“W-what kind of steps?”

“We’re in England, in the woods,” he said, getting to his feet. “A good switching seems appropriate.” He held out a hand to help her up. She stared at it. He wanted to give her
a good switching
?

“I don’t believe I want that.” She tried to sound firm.

“Then we’ll go see Baxter. Come now.” He wiggled his fingers. “Before the entire house is awake.”

She shook her head. He sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Are you shaking your head about going to see Baxter, or about the switching?”

“Both.”

“Well, my dear, you must pick one or the other. We can’t dither about here all day.”

How had she gotten herself into this dreadful situation? Even if she could escape him, and find her way back alone, he would still tell Lord Baxter what she’d done.

As she considered, Lord Warren lifted her bodily and set her on her feet, and went about packing up his bag. She could barely look at him, but at the same time, something compelled her to look. Perhaps it was his outdoor clothing, the worn leather and open collar that communicated casual athleticism. As he leaned to pick up his coat, she could see that his breeches hugged powerful buttocks and thighs.

Oh, what was she to do? She couldn’t bear to be punished by this strong, bracing man, but she so wished to avoid the alternative…

“Let’s go then,” he said when he’d finished. “As I said, it’s a long walk.”

She dug in her heels. “No. I will… I will take the other. The switching.”

He gazed at her. She searched his eyes, but again, she had that frustrating feeling of not understanding, not comprehending anything in their complex depths.

“Are you sure? It’s going to hurt,” he said. “Enough to ensure you don’t sneak off to Chapley again.”

“I know. It can’t hurt as much as losing Lord Baxter’s affections.”

“Eventually he would forgive you.”

“Perhaps. But you’re right, he’d never trust me again.”

He considered another moment, then put down his coat and bag. “All right. Come and stand here.” He led her to face a leafy, smooth birch tree. “Draw the back of your skirts up to the tops of your stockings while I go fetch a switch.”

How businesslike he was about it. What on earth did he mean, draw up her skirts? A lady didn’t show her ankles, much less the entire backs of her legs.

She looked over her shoulder. He was already returning, stripping leaves from a thin, whippy branch. Her whole body trembled.

“Do you need help?” he asked in that kind-yet-unkind way of his. “Unfortunately, one cannot be punished without showing a little skin. Do it like this, so you needn’t worry about showing more than you should.”

He bunched up her gown and petticoats and pulled them tight to the front, so her legs were nearly bared, but her bottom was covered. “Hold them here,” he said, situating the fabric beneath her fists. “And don’t let go.”

She couldn’t believe he was doing this, that this was really happening. He went to stand behind her. Her knees literally knocked together. Air blew up her skirt, brushing parts of her body she usually preferred to forget about.

He paused. “Why are you shaking so violently?”

“Because you’re going to hurt me.”

“Oh, switchings do hurt. There’s nothing to be done about that.”

She heard a faint swish, and then a pain so piercingly hot she fell to her knees.

“You can’t collapse, my dear,” he said with a sigh of frustration. “That was only a single stroke. Stand up and rearrange your skirts as I showed you.”

“I can’t.” She turned to him with a plaintive look. “That hurt terribly.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. Kindly stand up. You are very hard to discipline, wrapped in a ball like that.”

She let him raise her. The backs of her thighs still ached where the switch had whistled across them. She bunched up her skirts on her own, because it alarmed her when he did it. He stood back and let her compose herself.

“Now you know what to expect,” he said when she was ready. “You must also know this punishment will continue until it’s finished. It can take five minutes or two hours. That is largely your choice. Do you understand?”

Yes, she understood. He meant that no matter how much it smarted, no matter how much she wanted to protect herself, she had to stand still and let the man do his worst. She buried her face in the bundle of black skirts she held before her and braced for more pain. Somehow she managed to keep her feet at the second stroke, although it burned the back of her thighs just as badly as the first. He was landing them just above her stockings and just below her backside, on skin much more sensitive than she had ever realized.

“Oh,” she cried at the third stroke. It hurt so awfully. It was
so hard
to stand still. The swish and fire came again, and again, too close in succession. She wailed and let go of her skirts.

“I can’t,” she sobbed. “It hurts too badly.”

He shifted behind her, flicking the tip of the switch against the ground. “Then what are we to do? Five strokes is not an adequate punishment.”

“I know. It’s only that…” She wiped miserably at her cheeks. “I’m not strong enough to stand and take it.”

“Well,” he said after a moment. “I could spank you over my lap. It would have to go on a little longer to add up to a proper punishment, but the pain wouldn’t be so sharp.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. His expression was dark, implacable. Pleas to forget the whole thing, to simply keep her secret, died away in her throat. Very well, she would do what she must to right the wrong of her early morning flight to Chapley—and to escape further switching. She’d been spanked as a child. Hadn’t most people? She didn’t remember it hurting that badly.

Lord Warren walked a bit further off the path, to a fallen tree trunk. He seated himself upon it and beckoned her. Josephine sighed, mortally embarrassed. She ought to know by now to stay out of forests, she thought as she dragged her feet to his side. When she was close enough, he guided her over his lap, so her stomach was braced upon his thighs.

How big and strange he seemed then, all muscle and force, and masculine-smelling warmth. Her arms and legs hung down awkwardly with nothing to do. He told her to keep them still, and out of the way. She might have braced her palms against the ground, but it was sticky with moss and leaves.

Once he had her positioned the way he liked, he began to draw up her skirts. Josephine jerked and turned on his lap. “What are you doing?”

“Spanking you.”

“But—you cannot—”

He stilled her hand as she struggled to pull her skirts back down again. “I’ll not molest you in any way. This is punishment, not dalliance. And punishment is best accomplished upon a bare bottom.”

He said it so firmly she couldn’t find words to argue with him. This was England, she supposed, where women were punished like this every day. The man had pretty much admitted to spanking his own sister. Still, her face flamed hotly as he drew her skirts up to her waist. Her petticoats fell down about her head, and cool morning breezes blew over her skin.

Get it over with
, she thought. She couldn’t wait to go home and hide in her bed, and stay there forever. Lord Warren paused, taking slow breaths in and out. What was the man waiting for? She felt his fingers trace gently over the sore spots from the switch.

“Are you going to spank me?” she finally asked.

“Yes,” he said. He placed a hand upon her naked backside, as if to measure the area he must punish, and then he drew back and brought it down upon her exposed skin.

Owww
, she thought. And
Oh no
. Because this was not like her childhood spankings at all.

Warren hadn’t any misconceptions about himself. He knew he was the most reprehensible villain in the entire world. He had seen an opportunity, and he’d taken it. He’d capitalized on Lady Maitland’s petty crime—and her love for her guardian—to punish her for his personal titillation. This was so very wrong of him.

But so marvelously right.

Now Lady Maitland was over his lap, her luscious derriere exposed, her skin smooth and round and golden as a peach. He nearly groaned aloud every time he spanked her, for she tensed and squirmed in a maddeningly erotic way.

“I don’t like to hurt you, of course,” he said, holding onto control by launching into a lecture. “But poor behavior has consequences. It will please me if you have trouble sitting down for a few days, because it will remind you to think long and hard before running away again.”

“I was not running away,” came her muffled voice from beneath her skirts.

He paused. “What were you doing then?”

“Trying to find help.”

He rolled his eyes, and resumed the spanking. “We’ve been over that already.”

She made little cries as he picked up the pace, smacking both cheeks in alternation until they were equally pink.

“I hate that no one will listen to me,” she said, kicking in time to the blows. “Lord Baxter won’t respect my wishes. No one will help me!”

“I’m going to help you.” He took her elbow hard when she tried to wiggle off his lap. “I’m going to help you understand that you’re fighting a battle you’ve already lost. You’re going to marry, Lady Maitland. Not Stafford, I promise, but someone better.”

Someone better than him. He’d lounged beside her and fed her biscuits and currants while he daydreamed about carrying her deeper into the woods, and biting and licking her, and making her cry. All he could think was that her body was lithe and voluptuous, and that he wanted to ravage her. She’d be so easy to claim out here in the woods, with no one to stop him.

But he couldn’t ravage her. He did not ruin innocents. He might be evil and selfish and perverse, but he did not avail himself of virginal bodies or tormented souls. He didn’t normally spank them either. He didn’t know why he had succumbed in this case. Because of her lips as she shared his water? The aphrodisiac of her stormy feline eyes? The quiet wildness of Baxter’s woods? Did it matter now? He increased the sting of the blows, holding her wrists when she attempted to shield herself.

“Oh, please, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry for what I’ve done. Won’t you please stop?”

“I’ll stop when I feel you’ve been punished enough,” he replied.

They were quickly nearing that peak. He knew he must be careful not to overdo things, lest he bypass punishment and move into the area of harm. She wasn’t some whore at a spanking parlor, with tough skin and a long-developed pain tolerance. She was a goddamned innocent…and he was a lustful bastard for taking advantage of her this way.

He stopped and rested his palm on her heated, heart-shaped bottom. It took herculean control not to spread his fingers apart and caress her. He wanted to stroke her quim so badly. He wanted to taste her, drown in her.
No. Not her. Not unless you want her for your wife.

“Do you think you have had enough?” he asked. “Do you regret this morning’s behavior?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, please, no more.”

He let out a breath and righted her, and settled her in his lap. She looked tearful and flushed as she tried to arrange her skirts to some order.

“Leave that,” he said gruffly.

“I can’t! I feel very ashamed.”

It disturbed him, how she plucked and fussed at the material. He grasped her face between his fingers, and stared into her jungle dark, gray-green-amber eyes. She gazed back with an expression of torment. He had done that to her, hurt her and confused her. He had taken advantage of a conflicted young woman.

“I want to kiss you.” The awful, inappropriate words escaped from between his clenched teeth. It wasn’t even that he wanted to kiss her. He
had
to kiss her, or die of unsatisfied craving. He didn’t give her the chance to answer yes or no, only lowered his head to hers and took what he wanted. Myriad sensations assailed him—her small, yielding body against his front, the damp of her tears, the softness of her hair, her light intake of breath. Lady Maitland smelled of flowers and morning breezes. He kissed her at first with the faintest pressure. It was a whisper really, a caress of the most gentle sort. When had he last kissed a woman like this, with such caution and tenderness? Never.

He nibbled her lower lip, catching the sigh that escaped. So beautiful. So sweet. He tilted his head and kissed her again in the same tentative way. He felt her fingers uncurl against his open shirt collar. He thrilled at the light warmth of her touch…and then she kissed him back with all the ardent sweetness in the world.

Oh God.
This was his punishment, this devastating kiss. He’d gone too far now, too far to save himself. He deserved it, this annihilation. He basked in it, tightening his arms around her and drawing her as close as her blasted skirts would allow.

As their kiss intensified, he set about teaching her to respond to him with greater skill, encouraging her, rewarding her with little hums when her movements mimicked his. He coaxed her mouth open and pressed his tongue between her lips, and died a little when she responded to him in kind. His hands roved over her back, tracing the elegant shape of her hips and spine, and then they wandered downward. She jumped as he gripped her bottom, but she didn’t protest or pull away.

Ah, her kisses were so innocent and raw, and so savage. He couldn’t bear to let her go, but there would be trouble if he didn’t. As her fingers crept up to his hair and curled about his nape, his cock filled to bursting. He was so rigidly hard that he ached. He could take her now if he wanted. Physically, he could do it. He had only to lay her back on the ground and flip up her skirts, and spread her legs. He could undo his breeches and drive right inside the tight, hot part of her he longed to possess. She wouldn’t resist him, he knew. Dreams of sensation filled his mind. His muscles prepared to do what he imagined, to push her back and overcome her.

“Mother of God.” He broke away and lifted her off his lap so quickly she nearly stumbled. He caught her around the waist before she fell and brought her to his side, and pressed his face against her neck. “I’m sorry,” he said when he had his voice again. “I shouldn’t have mauled you like that.”