Her Rogue Knight (3 page)

He remembered the first time he had seen Gemma. It had been when he had gone to her father to rent the cottage on his lands. It was a remote, hidden place, and he had needed just that. He had needed to put space between himself and the world.

Her father had been working the field when William had arrived on his horse. Having ridden for days, he had been filthy. Although he had washed himself in the same river where he’d yesterday spied Gemma, his clothing was torn and not that of a noble man, certainly not that of a great knight. But Abraham had taken one look at him, had eyed the hilt of the sword he carried with its scratched and faded emblem, and had bowed his head. Sir William suspected he had recognized the symbol because he had welcomed the rogue knight into his home without question.

That was five years ago. Gemma had been thirteen at the time. When Abraham had taken him into the house, she had first watched him from a corner. He had pretended not to have seen her, but her pale golden eyes had all but burned into his back until finally her father called her in, telling her to fetch refreshments for them. She had done as he’d said but had spared a glance, or more a glare, in his direction that he could still clearly remember. It had taken all he’d had not to laugh outright at the brave girl who thought herself world-wise.

Since that day, he had watched her whenever he’d come upon her. She was too free and needed someone to look after her in a way Abraham was no longer able to. He knew the stories of her mother. The nearby townsfolk discussed the Fey witch who had fallen in love with a mortal and, unable to live without her human lover, had chosen to give up her own immortality to be with him. He had seen enough magic to know this sort of talk took root somewhere in truth, but he had never mentioned it, just watched her instead with curiosity, and something more as she had grown older, becoming a beautiful, fierce young woman.

“Stubborn young woman,” he said out loud, hearing the song the wind carried to his ears.

Dismounting, he secured his horse to a sturdy branch and went on foot through the thicket of trees, remaining as quiet as possible until he spied her.

“You do not take direction very well,” he said, his voice breaking into her quiet song.

She startled, straightening from her position so quickly that she hit her head on an overhead branch.

“Ouch!” she said, rubbing her head as she regained her balance.

Somewhat amused, William leaned against a tree.

“How did you find me? Are you following me? Did my father send you?”

“Easily, yes, and yes,” he said, picking a piece of dirt from his fingernail and flicking it onto the earth before returning his gaze to hers. “You’re not difficult to track, although I am pleasantly surprised you chose the correct direction.”

“What do you want?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. Her stance told him this wasn’t going to go easily, not that he expected it to.

“Get your things together. I’m taking you back to your father’s house.”

“No, you’re not. I’m going to find my sister and bring her home. You standing here talking to me is only taking up time she probably does not have.”

“The only reason she would run out of time is because of her stubborn sister taking matters into her own naïve, inexperienced hands. Get your things. I’m taking you home.”

“Naïve? Inexperienced?” She huffed for a moment, and he could see the anger glowing in her eyes. He almost chuckled. She ground out, “I am neither naïve nor inexperienced. You do not know anything about me, and you are not taking me home!”

He took a step toward her. “I know that you’re well-intentioned, but you are also misguided. I know that you are brave and you will not allow yourself to dwell in uncertainty—both excellent traits. However, I also know you have a stubborn streak and are in need of a lesson in respecting your elders, but I will leave that to your father to address once you are home. Gather your things. I will not say it again.”

“You are not my father! And you are not my husband! Nor will you ever be,” she said, although her voice faltered just a little and she dropped her gaze from his for a moment. “You cannot tell me what to do!”

He raised his eyebrows. “I am not your husband yet, but as I have been tasked with finding and bringing you home in addition to your sister, you are in my charge and you will do as I say or face the consequences,” he said, taking two steps toward her. “What exactly were you thinking you were going to do alone against what, a dozen men? Two dozen, perhaps?”

* * *

Gemma watched him approach, took a quick glance in either direction, but determined to hold her ground. She wasn’t going to plead with him. She was just going to tell it to him as it was. He had no rights over her.

“I just want to find my sister. I know my father means well, but he does not understand that we do not have time to waste.”

“Does not understand? Your father is a wise man. Life may have aged him prematurely, but I wouldn’t say he does not understand. I think it is you who does not understand the danger you’ve put yourself in, not to mention the small window of time we have to save your sister.” He sat down on the stump of a tree. “Tell me what exactly you were going to do when you caught up with them.
If
you caught up with them,” he added.

She shifted on her feet. “I
will
catch up with them, and then I will take her back, bring her home.”

“How
exactly
?”

She made a face and shook her head as if he were the one not understanding.

“Let me be more specific. How were you going to track her?” he pressed.

“I was going to go west,” she said, wavering a little.

“And then?”

Well, she hadn’t really thought of the ‘and then’ part. She glanced at the ground, then returned her gaze to his. “Is that not obvious? And then I would find her, kill the men who kidnapped her, and bring her home.”

He nodded, scratching his scruffy neck as he looked up into the now blue sky. “So, just to make sure I—this
old, weak
man—understands…” he began.

She cringed at the words he threw back at her—he’d obviously seen the letter she had left for her father.

“You were going to ‘go west’, magically locate your sister, single-handedly kill her captors, and return with her to your father’s house unharmed.”

She glanced around, avoiding his somewhat amused, somewhat bored gaze. “That’s about right.”

“M-hmm. Do you see any flaws in your plan?”

“Excuse me for not having had the luxury of time to plan something far more elaborate and exciting! And, speaking of time, you are now taking up not only mine but my sister’s as well. Tell my father I’m fine and I’ll be home as soon as I can with my sister. Good day, Sir William!” she said, turning on her heel.

She hadn’t even heard him take a step when his hand was on her shoulder, halting her.

“You are one stubborn little girl,” he said.

Just as he turned her, Gemma drew the blade from her sleeve and held it up. Her hand shook and her heart raced, but he looked almost relaxed as she held the blade to him. She carried the sharpened kitchen knife in case of something exactly like this, but as she had never had to deal with anything like this before, she stood wide-eyed, absolutely at a loss for what to do next.

But she didn’t have to think long. Before she knew it, his hand had closed over her wrist, and he turned her, hugging her back to him just like he had done yesterday, except that this time, his hold was much more rough. With a little pressure and a quick shake of her wrist, her knife fell to the earth.

“You’re hurting me!” she yelled, pushing the elbow of her free arm into his ribs as she pressed her hips back in an effort to free herself. “Let me go!”

“Once I’ve taught you a lesson,” he said, hauling her off her feet and carrying her backwards until he was sitting down again on that tree stump.

“What are you doing?” she cried, struggling when he pulled her face down onto his lap.

His huge hand connected hard with her buttocks, and even through the layers of both her dress and shift, she felt its strength.

She gasped. “Ow! Let me go!”

He pulled her waist closer to him and spanked her again.

“You can’t do this! You have no right!”

“I can, and I will, and it will be a good lesson for when you are my wife,” he said.

“I will never be your wife!” she protested.

He lifted his hand and spanked her once again over her clothes. “You are a stubborn little girl, and you have more than earned this spanking. Your father may not punish you like this any longer but I certainly can and will.”

She reached her hands back to slap his away and cover her bottom, but when she did, he grabbed both wrists in one of his hands and held them at her low back.

“Thank you, that is much better,” he said, his other hand now gripping one buttock hard. “You want to rescue your sister,” he said.

She stilled as he slowly slid that hand down the backs of her legs. When he reached the hem of her dress and his fingers touched the bare skin of her ankle, her breath caught.

“You’re very brave,” he said, his tone just a hair lower, deeper. His fingers traveled upward, caressing now the back of her calf. “Courageous,” he continued, lifting her dress and her shift as one as he reached the hollow at the backs of her knees.

She made a small sound, a whimper, while he circled that tender, ticklish spot. But the tickle was something other, something almost erotic. And she knew he knew it as he hovered there, just lightly touching her skin. Her body stilled momentarily, her wide eyes staring straight ahead, the muscles of her back, arms, and legs tensed.

“But your way of going about this rescue is, quite frankly, absurd.”

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice small, wavering as cool morning air brushed the backs of her now bare thighs.

“Preparing you,” he said, and as if he knew she would fight against him, he easily shifted her weight and draped his right leg over the backs of her naked thighs, trapping her perfectly to him.

“Preparing me for what?” she asked, knowing and dreading the answer.

“Your punishment,” he said easily.

“You can’t! I…” she began, but stopped.

“You what?” he asked, his voice almost teasing now as he bared one buttock.

Her belly quivered, panic taking her over, forcing her to buck as she tried in vain to fight him.

“Be still, Gemma,” he said. “You will take your punishment.”

“I will not! Let me go!”

“After I’ve warmed your bare little bottom to my satisfaction.”

“No!” She mewled and tried to wriggle free.

“What’s the matter?” he began, taking her dress up past her waist, trapping the material beneath her hands that he still held there, fully baring her bottom now.

She whined in protest, but he ignored her. His big hand began to caress her buttocks, then stilled. She clenched her bottom tight. “I’m just a weak old man, after all. What have you to fear from me?” he said, raising his hand and bringing it down hard and fast twice on her exposed, vulnerable bottom.

“Ow!” she cried out, trying to pull her legs in and somehow free herself, but the way he held her—her hands pinned at her low back, her slight body pressed to his giant one, his heavy leg draped over her smaller ones—she was trapped, at his mercy.

Without another word, he lifted his hand and struck again, alternating from one cheek to the next, spanking hard and fast. She lost track of how many after the first thirty excruciating spanks. He didn’t give her a moment to catch her breath as she clenched and released her bottom, groaning, fighting to free herself, then calling out with the pain of what she was sure was his iron hand until he brought that hand to rest on her now hot, throbbing buttocks and began caressing, circling slowly.

The sound of her uneven breath filled the now quiet forest. Only after a few moments of this was she able to actually form words rather than incomprehensible sounds. “It hurts,” she said, sounding foolish, feeling like a child.

“I suppose it does,” he said, wrapping his hand now around one thigh, gripping her hard and pulling her legs apart.

This was different than the spanking, and any remaining courage gave way to desperate pleading. “Please, don’t!” she begged quietly, very aware of the pink lips of her sex peeking out from between her thighs. Was her spanking to be just the beginning of her punishment? What more did he intend to do?

He ignored her, his thumb touching her bottom as he still held her leg in a vice-like grip. With that one digit, he pulled her cheeks apart. She dropped her head, feeling the heat of shame rise to her cheeks.

He held her like that for what seemed like an eternity, and she squeezed her eyes closed, imagining his inspection of that most private part of her.

“Please,” she begged quietly.

After an eternity he spoke. “I only intend on spanking you, nothing more,” he said, his voice calm, quiet, if just a little thicker.

She opened her eyes when he covered her bottom once again with his hand.

“Keep your legs like this,” he said. When he lifted his hand from her leg, she did as he said, even as she squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating the next round of punishment. He struck hard and didn’t spare her thighs, alternating between each at first, then striking the same spot twice, then three times before moving to the next.

She remained as still as she could now, and even though she tried not to give him the satisfaction of making any sound at all, she found herself crying out with each stroke, her bottom on fire. Her eyes overflowed with tears as sweat collected along her forehead, her whole body heating from the inside out. “Please stop! I’m sorry I said those things about you! You’re not a weak old man. I’m sorry. I was just angry.”

“What else are you sorry for?” he asked, the blows raining down without any indication of stopping in the near future.

“I’m just sorry. You’re hurting me! Please stop!” she tried to kick her trapped legs, but he carried on as if her struggles were nothing at all. “I’m sorry I went against my father. I’m sorry I took the money. And I’m sorry I’m…”