The Princess and the Rogue (6 page)

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“Princess, is everything all right?” They had ridden silently for a time. Roland had had a chance to observe the princess. It was obvious that she was uncomfortable with her animal. Yet this was supposed to be her horse, one she knew well. How was that possible? Her inability to handle a horse and the heated exchange with the high minister were just two things. Roland had noticed others. She seemed hesitant, almost bewildered about how to manage the servants, but covered her lack of knowledge with a haughty and commanding attitude. It was as if these airs were forced, a façade she tried to maintain. At meals she seemed to have little idea how to manage things, as though she were unfamiliar with courtly protocols.

Something was not right here, but he could not fathom what it might be. So he decided to break the silence and see if she would talk.

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said. It was a hasty answer, one that hid some underlying apprehension.

“I say that because you have, at times, seemed ill at ease.”

She brushed hair away from her eyes. “It’s nothing, really.”

“I sense some friction between you and your father’s minister. Why is that? You are the king’s daughter. Nevertheless,” he said, “he acts almost like your superior.”

She seemed tongue-tied. “I—I—it’s nothing. We have always been very cordial, ever since my father elevated him to that position.”

It wasn’t very cordial last night. Something is afoot and she is part of it. Something involving King Robert. Time to push this conversation.

“Well, it wasn’t ‘nothing’ for that page this morning. I must observe that you had the lad whipped for a rather trivial offense. If I may say, that really wasn’t necessary.”

The princess flinched as though she had been struck. “It’s my kingdom, my horse, and he is my servant. I’ll punish whomever I please.”

“Forgive me saying this, princess, but it was undeserved.”

“What do you know of it?” she shot back hotly.

That began to get Roland’s ire up. “I know that if you had a taste of what you gave him, you’d think twice about it. That is what I know. You don’t have servants flogged for trivial offenses.” He looked at her sharply.

“You overstep yourself, Sir Roland. You are to respect—you are not allowed to question the royal personage,” she stammered.

“Maybe you need to know what it’s like,” said Roland. He grabbed the reins out of her hands. “Get off your horse.”

“I will not!” she shot back, and spurred her horse to create space between them.

“Stop!” shouted Roland, alarmed. The horse reared up, jerking the leather from his hands. It came down but took off, the princess hanging on for dear life. Roland sped forward in pursuit.

The startled animal accelerated to a full gallop. Roland followed, slowly gaining. The princess’s horse was a fast one, but no match for Roland’s steed. Roland caught up and pulled alongside the princess. He grabbed at the reins.

“Hang on to the neck,” he shouted. She looked terrified. He took the reins and started a long broad turn, gradually decelerating. Eventually they both slowed down and came to a halt. Roland leapt from his horse and, grabbing the princess by the waist, he hoisted her off and set her on the ground.

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Just what do you think you were doing, princess?”

She struggled to catch her breath, but managed to knock his hands off her shoulders and blurt, “I did not give you permission to lay hands on me.” Then she slapped him.

Roland put his hand to his cheek, backed up, and put his hands on his hips. It was time to be bold, something Roland had never shied away from. If he had one fault, it was his temper and his impetuous nature. She might or might not be King Robert’s daughter, but she was going to learn the folly of striking a knight of Angleterre.

* * *

Oh God, what have I done?
Scarlett saw the determined look in Sir Roland’s eyes as he came forward purposefully and she started to back up. “Just what do you think you are doing, Sir Roland?” she said.

“We are going to have a little discussion, you and I, and you are going to tell me what is going on. I want to know about your father, I want to know about this high minister, and most of all I want to know about you. Something is not right here and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

He took her by the wrist and pulled her after him. Scarlett was nonplussed. What was he doing? They had been riding along a road lined by forest and now Sir Roland was practically dragging her toward the woods and a thick felled tree. He sat down on the tree, which had fallen sideways, and whirled her around until she faced him. He pulled her close, trapping her between his knees.

“Now listen, my haughty princess. I want you to tell me right now. Why is your father being sequestered? Why has his minister taken over the affairs of state?”

Oh my God,
thought Scarlett.
What should I do? He knows something is wrong here, but if I tell him… no, I can’t. I don’t know his intention and I’m afraid of Lord Tomas.

“I demand you release me, Sir Roland. There… there is nothing out of the ordinary and my relationship with the high minister is perfectly cordial.”

“I see,” said Roland, but Scarlett could tell from the way he narrowed his eyes that he didn’t believe her. “Well, then, if all is fine, maybe what I’m about to do is just some rough justice for your treatment of an innocent stable boy.” Before Scarlett could react, he gripped her firmly and tossed her face down across his lap. The fake princess found herself staring at the forest floor, her nose mere inches from a dense mat of pine needles. She felt his arm encircling her waist, pinning her down. Blood rushed to her head and she tried lifting it to determine what he was doing.

She couldn’t see, but what she felt was alarming. He was lifting her skirts! What she had on underneath were silk drawers that hugged the curves of her bottom. Scarlett felt terribly exposed. Her legs were bare, and she could feel a soft breeze on her backside. The soft caress of the breeze did not last very long.

Crack! She felt a male palm smack her right on the crowns of her bottom. The suddenness of it took her breath away. Then, crack! Crack! Crack! Three more spanks fell in quick succession. “Ow! Ow!” She yelped in pain as Sir Roland began to apply a methodical spanking to her thinly clad bottom. It stung! She squirmed, but to no avail. The knight was too strong.

The sting of his descending palm was like a hot fire on her tender seat.

“This, princess, is a mild version of what it feels like. I’m only using my hand. That stable boy was whipped with a strap.”

“Ouch! Stop! I command you. My father will… he will…” she sputtered.

The knight paid no attention to her protests, but continued to spank her with sharp staccato blows that made her kick her feet up and wriggle around on his lap. Each spank was a new wave of heat layered onto the last. It was not only painful to be spanked like a lazy milkmaid, but it was horribly embarrassing. The stinging sensation was atrocious. She felt like she’d do anything to make it stop.

But then something happened. Tears began to well up. She’d been so terrified, and she’d had to pretend to be someone she wasn’t. She’d been so cruel to others, something that was not in her nature. There was a part of her, she realized, that wanted the knight to keep going, to punish her for being so horrible to everyone. It wasn’t just the stable boy, it had been her maids, the pages—just about everyone. To convince them she was Juliet she’d been rude, autocratic, snobbish, and overbearing. She’d been too scared to do otherwise. So maybe he should spank her until her bottom glowed, she thought. She deserved it. Emotionally wrung out, she burst into tears and started sobbing.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Wahhh!” she cried, completely breaking down and bawling.

The spanking stopped, and the knight lifted her to her feet and stood her between his knees, his hands on her shoulders. She gazed into his eyes, and what she saw was a stern, but kind face. He seemed to bear her no ill will, instead, he seemed both concerned and chagrined at her total breakdown into tears.

She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. He was taken aback at her reaction, but he put his arms around her in a comforting embrace and pulled her close.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “It’s not like me. I’m not her. I can’t be her.”

Roland pulled away so he could look her in the eye. “What do you mean, you’re ‘not her.’ Not who?”

“The princess,” she cried. “I can’t do it.”

“Explain what you mean, princess,” he said softly.

She gulped. This was it, she had to tell him. He was just this rough-hewn knight and he was all alone. But who else was there to turn to?

“I’m not who you think I am. I’m not Princess Juliet of Westvale.”

Roland looked stunned. He stared at her, thinking. “Who are you, then?” he asked.

“A commoner… just an orphan, actually, from the convent at St. Agnes near Kern, far from here. I… they asked me to do it. But I had no choice. They said it was all for the realm, that it was to protect the princess and the kingdom, they said…”

“Sh-h-h-h,” said the knight, and he put a finger to her lips. She was blubbering, babbling, she knew. It was all just pouring out in a confusing mess. He spoke calmly and soothingly to her, assuring her that he would do her no harm.

“It’s all right. It’s going to be all right,” he said. “Now, who are ‘they’ and what did they tell you to do?”

She told him the whole story.

Roland listened attentively, stopping her every now and then to ask a question. He nodded as he listened, his brow furrowed as he heard her tale. For Scarlett, it was liberating, an unburdening that lifted the great weight that she had been carrying. But whose side would he be on? She didn’t know for sure, but she sensed that this knight, this stranger, could be trusted. Still, he was only one man against what might be a whole cabal inside Greystone Castle. His next words nearly made her weep with relief.

“I will help you, Scarlett. Do not fear. We will figure this out. You must trust me.”

She was too shaken to manage her horse. Instead she rode sitting behind the knight on his horse while he led her animal alongside. As they rode, she had time to reflect and sort out some strange and confusing feelings.

Her bottom burned from the sharp spanking the knight had given her. At the same time, she was having new and oddly stimulating feelings. She was all too aware of his body, sitting as she was, her arms around his waist, pressing herself against his back. She could feel the flex of the hard muscles at his core, his scent assailed her, and she kept looking at his broad shoulders and the way his windblown hair hung down. It gave her butterflies in the pit of her stomach and a not unwelcome tingle ran up her spine when she thought about his eyes.

Had they feasted upon her charms as she lay across his knee, partially denuded? He surely took in the soft roundness of her bottom. After all, his hands were all over it. She shivered at the memory. The burn in her nether cheeks was now a warm glow. Even the nature of the intimate punishment he’d given her seemed somehow comforting now. A curious wetness began to creep between her legs and her breathing grew shallow. A thought invaded her consciousness, a startling truth—
he could do that again and I wouldn’t even mind.
She let out an involuntary gasp.

Roland turned around, a look of concern on his face. “Is something wrong, Scarlett?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said, “nothing at all.”

Chapter Eight

Juliet had no idea why she was being held here. She knew only one thing. She had to escape. These girls were slaves, abducted or tricked into coming here. They were not free to leave and rejoin their families, regardless of what had been promised. Punishment was a constant threat for infractions great and trivial. Fear was the key to ensuring obedience. The switch and the strap wielded by stout matrons who answered only to the countess were the instruments that mandated compliance and kept them all in a fearful state of subjugation.

So afraid were the girls housed in Juliet’s quarters that at night they were not guarded, as far as Juliet could tell. Their female overseers, like the fearful Moll, repaired to their own quarters after the evening meal, leaving the girls with threats of dire consequences were they to stray from their beds. This was enough, it seemed. No one wanted to make any of these hard, dour women angry.

So when everyone was asleep, Juliet rose and explored her surroundings. She had a vague idea where the stables were and knew that escape would require two things: an ability to get there without raising an alarm, and a horse. She made several forays into the halls of the keep in the wee hours of the morning, looking for the best route to the stables. After a few tries she found it. A little-used corridor had a side door that led to the rear of the kitchen. This was fortunate as well because fruits and vegetables were left out in baskets in plain view. She’d need to take some for the journey, and more importantly, she’d have to select a horse to steal. In order for the animal to become familiar with her, she’d have to bring it food so that it would warm to her.

And that was what she did. The stables were a short distance from the kitchen, past the laundry and across the courtyard. She stuck to the shadows, memorizing every nook and doorway that provided a place to melt into the darkness. She took something with her every time, an apple or a carrot. The horse she chose reminded her of Flower, her own. She had sensed the horse’s gentleness as she inspected the stalls. This one came right up to the stall gate and snuffed, sticking its nose through the bars. She spoke quietly to the horse, patted her head and gave her an apple. As her nighttime excursions became routine, the horse would be ready and waiting, grateful to receive the treat while Juliet murmured soothing words in the animal’s ear. When the time came, this horse would flee with her.