The Princess and the Rogue (9 page)

* * *

Juliet could not explain to herself her attraction to this man. Her bottom throbbed. It still felt hot. The whole thing made no sense. The man had put her over his knee and had pulled her skirts up and her drawers down. Then he spanked her, fifty or sixty times, making her squirm and squall like a baby. So why did she feel this attraction? It made her slippery between her legs. She did know what that meant. There had been many discussions among all her ladies at Greystone, all hushed and giggling, about men and how they made women feel, not to mention what they did.

But she had to admit—he had fought Morgaine’s men for her and he had saved her. Then she had behaved badly and had been rude, on top of that. Maybe she deserved what she had received. She shivered as she recalled the feel of the man’s palm on her bare bottom. It hadn’t been altogether unpleasant.

Chapter Ten

Greystone Castle

“You little witch!” Cramden hissed as he jerked on Scarlett’s arm. She had avoided him for several days, but he had finally managed to catch her alone.

“Ouch! You’re hurting me.” Scarlett protested and tried to draw away, but Cramden held onto her, his fingers pinching her elbow.

“I told you to have no contact with that knight, but you went riding with him in defiance of my orders. What did you say? What did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” lied Scarlett.

“We shall see,” said Cramden. He motioned to an associate, a courtier newly arrived at Greystone and a lackey of the high minister. “Take her downstairs. You know where. Jerrold is waiting. He’ll know how I want her. I’ll be along.”

Scarlett tried to shout, but the man clamped a hand over her mouth and hustled her down the corridor to a descending stairway. She had tried to be careful, avoiding the high minister, staying with her ladies and attendants so that witnesses were always around. She was aware that Cramden was furious with her. His reaction confirmed her suspicion that something at Greystone Castle was very wrong and he was in the thick of it. King Robert was being poisoned. From her experience Scarlett knew it was slow acting, but his only hope was the antidote the sisters of St. Agnes could provide. And for that she needed Sir Roland’s help. That was why she had been making her way to his quarters unseen, to convince him that they should leave without delay. But Cramden had been waiting for her. Now she was terrified and being dragged to a place in the castle where no one would hear her, a place where Cramden would make her tell him everything.

Down, down they went, deep into the bowels of the castle. The stairway ended in a dark hallway, the gloom broken only by the flickering of torches held in wall sconces. Doors opening to the hallway had barred windows.
The dungeon,
realized Scarlett, a chill forming in the pit of her stomach.

A tall, gaunt man dressed in black stood in a large room at the end of the hallway. Her abductor shoved her inside. Scarlett looked around. Restraints and implements of correction were scattered here and there—whips and crops and straps, manacles hanging from a sturdy rafter, a birching block, an X-cross.
This is where criminals are punished
, she thought helplessly.
I am lost
.

An assistant in a leather apron stood behind the tall man. He turned to the assistant and said, “Strip her.”

Scarlett screamed as the burly assistant tore at her clothing while the courtier held her. Her dress was shoved down, torn from her shoulders. It fell in a crumpled heap at her feet. Then the leering gaoler ripped off her chemise.

“Fasten her wrists in the manacles,” said the tall man, indicating the cuffs that hung from chains in the center of the room. The two men who had stripped her hustled her over to the spot below the manacles and roughly raised her arms. One held her while the other clamped a manacle on each wrist and tightened it down. Then they stepped back. The leathered assistant turned a crank on the wall and Scarlett felt her arms being pulled up. He cranked it until she was stretched taut, almost on tiptoe. She swayed, stumbling, nearly naked except for her silk drawers, and feeling horribly exposed and helpless.
What are they going to do?

Then a sound. Heavy boots. Someone was coming. She turned toward the door. Lord Cramden entered. He glared at Scarlett and she withered under his gaze.

“So,” he said, “our little princess is ready for her lesson in obedience, is she?”

The watching men leered at Scarlett’s helpless and nearly naked body, writhing in the flickering torchlight. “Master Jerrold,” said Lord Cramden, “I think we should begin with the short whip.”

“As you wish, sire,” said the tall man, bowing.

Scarlett’s panicked eyes followed him as he strode to the wall. She saw him select a multi-stranded whip of some eight or nine cords. He took it off of its hook and shook it. The thin leather lashes, each about a foot and a half in length, splayed out like snakes uncoiling. The whip looked like it could inflict some serious sting.

“Now, my little princess, let’s begin the lesson.” He turned to Jerrold, the tall man.

“Lower her drawers. You are to apply the whip to her hindquarters. One dozen to start, I should think.”

Scarlett closed her eyes. It was going to happen. She was to be whipped. She recoiled as she felt the man’s fingers pull the string on her drawers. Her last line of defense fell away as the flimsy garment slid down her legs. Her bare bottom felt a slight draft and she flinched as the man called Jerrold swooshed the whip through the still air in the dungeon.

Swish… crack! The whip’s strands scored her bottom and she lurched forward.

Swish… crack! Another stroke caught her fleshy mounds just below the first. She gasped in pain. It hurt something awful! A sting like bees.

She tried to move her legs, but she was hobbled by the drawers that had pooled at her ankles. Another stroke broke her resolve to suffer in silence, and she cried out as the cruel lashes struck her bare bottom a third time.

* * *

Sir Roland couldn’t sleep. He’d been thinking about everything Scarlett had told him. The girl had convinced him that deviltry was afoot and Lord Cramden was behind it. King Richard had been right to be concerned about his old ally.

So there were two problems. According to Scarlett, they were in a race against time to retrieve the antidote that King Robert needed. The second problem was the princess. What had they done with her? For all he knew she might have been murdered and hidden in a grave that no one would ever find. He realized he had stumbled into a devious and sinister plot to usurp the throne from the house of Greystone. He also suspected that there were other players, moving behind the scenes with roles and identities as yet unknown.

They should leave without delay, Roland decided. He rose and dressed. Roland knew the way to the princess’s quarters, and he resolved to bully his way in if necessary. He was determined to get the girl and leave this very night.

* * *

“Again, Master Jerrold.”

“Aye, m’lord,” said the tall man. He drew back his arm and delivered another scorching stroke. The strands splayed out as they struck flesh, making Scarlett’s bottom cheeks quiver. She yelped in pain and rose up on tiptoe. Tears covered her face. It hurt terribly. She’d be ready to tell him everything if only the whipping would stop.

Swish… crack! Her mouth flew open, and her body lurched forward in a vain attempt to pull her blazing bottom away from the lash’s bitter sting.

“Oww, please!” she wailed. “I’m sorry! I’ll be obedient, I will!”

Swish… crack! “Ahhh… Owww!” Another lash struck her wriggling bottom. She clenched and unclenched her cheeks spasmodically, reacting to the awful sting and unable to control her body’s reactions.

“Oh, you’ll do more than that,” intoned Lord Cramden. “Lay on well, Master Jerrold.”

The whipping proceeded at an even tempo, lash upon lash, the slender whip delivering its sharp message to Scarlett’s tender bare bottom.

* * *

Two guards stood at the ready, one on either side of the door to Princess Juliet’s chambers.

“We have orders, sir. The princess is not to be disturbed.” The guard who had spoken licked his lips nervously, trying to project authority but too unsure of himself to carry it off. The two of them were household guards and obviously no match for a battle-tested knight. Roland glared at him.

“Stand aside. I received a message from the princess just minutes ago. She sent for me.”

The puzzled glance that passed between the guards told Roland all he needed to know. He pushed between them and barged into the room. As he suspected, the chamber was empty. Rumpled bedclothes indicated that someone had been there and left. Scarlett was gone.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“We don’t know, sir. We were told to stand guard by Lord Cramden’s man. That’s all we can say.”

Roland cursed. Where was she? He realized she could be anywhere in this massive keep. He strode back down the corridor, thinking to rouse the princess’s ladies. As he turned a corner, a hand clutched at his sleeve. He stopped and looked down. It was a young woman in the garb of a household maid.

“I heard,” she said. “My name is Maeve. I’m just a servant, but the princess befriended me. I think I know where they might have taken her. I was afraid to tell anyone. Lord Cramden’s spies are everywhere. More arrive every day.”

“So, where? Tell me.”

“Below,” she said pointing, then gave him directions. She thrust a parcel into his hands. “She prepared for this. These are her clothes. She said she would need them when the time came.”

Roland nodded brusquely. “You are brave to tell me this, but tell no one else.”

Roland watched her hurry off into the shadows and then took off at a brisk pace, heading for the place Maeve had described.

* * *

The whip fell with implacable regularity, one stroke following another. Scarlett tried to dance from foot to foot. She clenched and unclenched her buttocks. Nothing worked. The lash relentlessly scored the cheeks of her bottom, delivering scorching agony. Each lash resulted in a shockwave of blazing pain.

“Stop.” She heard Lord Cramden speak.

Scarlett’s body slumped in its bonds. It was over, at least for the moment.

“What did you tell the knight?” said Lord Cramden.

“Nothing,” said Scarlett, choking on her tears. “I told him nothing.”

“Liar!” said Cramden. “You will tell me.” He turned to Master Jerrold. “Resume,” he said. “Perhaps another dozen will loosen her tongue. Flay her back and womanly parts as well.”

Jerrold nodded and drew back the whip. Scarlett howled at each stroke from the cruel whip. It cut her across her shoulders. Then a new agony was visited upon her flesh. The strands struck her between the legs, coming up from below. She was past being able to endure it. The sting imparted by the thin strands was maddening.
Make it stop!
It was all she could think. But even in her distress, she managed to count to herself to twelve. Then the whip master stopped.

“Again, you little tart, what did you say to the knight?”

“I—I just tried to do… to be the princess, like you told me,” she gasped.

“We will resume this conversation later, girl. Master Jerrold, put her over the block and fig her. Let her feel the burn on her skin and inside as well. An hour or two over the block and she’ll be more forthcoming, I’ll warrant.”

“Yes, sire,” said the executioner.

Scarlett felt her wrists being released as she saw Lord Cramden leave the chamber. Too weak to stand, she was dragged over to a block that had binding straps and was forced down across it and bound tightly. He had said ‘figged.’ What did that mean? What new torture awaited her? She felt horribly exposed, being face down with her bottom cocked up, over this tilted block, her upper torso strapped in and canted downwards toward the stone floor.

She heard rustling behind her, but she could not turn her head. Sensing someone very close, she tensed up. Her buttocks were hot and throbbing. The skin felt sensitive. What was about to happen? She panicked. “Please,” she croaked, fearful of the man’s intentions. A stab of terror froze her as she felt her buttocks being parted. She felt an object press against her anus and tightened reflexively.
He means to insert something there!
she thought, horrified. Something was being forced into her anus. Something big.
It is too big!

“No! No! Take it out!” she pleaded. It burned. Her insides were burning up. He had lodged a
thing
up her bum-hole. It penetrated until she thought it surely could not go any farther, but then it did.

“There, missy,” said the tall man. “Nicely figged.” He slapped her bottom hard, provoking a loud squeal. “I’ll leave you for a while to get acquainted with this nice bit of ginger root. Don’t try to get it out. You can’t. Just think about what you’ll tell Lord Cramden when he returns.” He chuckled and gave Scarlett another hearty slap across her beet-red buttocks that made her scream.

The door slammed and Scarlett was alone, squirming in agony at the awful pressure generated by the root lodged up her anus.

* * *

Roland heard voices. One of them was Cramden’s. Quickly he slipped into a side corridor and hid in the shadows, waiting as they passed by. “In a couple of hours, she’ll be more agreeable,” he heard the high minister say. They walked right past him. Roland knew he could ill afford a confrontation at this point. He couldn’t count on fighting his way out of the castle. But it was clear that they had come from down the dark hallway, and he was certain that the ‘she’ they were talking about was Scarlett. Roland silently made his way in the direction from which they had come.