The Knight's Prisoner (Medieval Discipline 1)

The thought of riding a horse on her sore bottom was devastating, but thankfully Sir Ferrum placed an old fur blanket atop before he handed her up. He climbed on behind her, holding the reins in his left hand, wrapping his right arm around her waist. She looked down and studied the arm that held her. He really was huge—his forearm alone was the size of her calf, and his hand was twice the size of hers. His fingers—her sex contracted—they were the size of the cock on some men. Before she could stop herself, she was imagining one or more of those fingers pushing inside her, and her sex contracted again. Dear God.

As the pace picked up, her fingers clutched at Ferrum's arm, trying to use it to brace her bottom from receiving the full impact of the bumps as her feet had no stirrups in which to stand. She was amazed to feel Ferrum's arm tighten around her waist, holding her above her seat for particularly hard bumps. She tried to contemplate what would make a man deliver such a harsh whipping and then protect her from the pain of it immediately afterward. She placed her hand on the one at her waist and interlaced her fingers over the tops of his by way of thanks. She sensed his reaction—a stilling in his seat—and then he gave her fingers a squeeze. Though she knew she must be imagining it, she felt love pouring into her every place his body touched hers.

* * *

The delay of searching for Danewyn had set them back a bit—Phillip had planned on visiting two villages to rouse support and new recruits, but they only made it to one. They had gained quite a bit in supplies, and three young men had joined the troops, so it was considered a success. They now counted more than one hundred soldiers, most of whom were well-disciplined and trained. The plan was to gather up as many men as possible before meeting their foster father, the Duke of Umbria, and his troops. Then, they would make a run at Camelot.

Ferrum's heart ached for Danewyn. He'd had no choice but to discipline her for running away and he’d had to make it memorable, but he couldn't blame her for trying to escape them. He was hoping once she had a little time to adjust, she might find this life was better than the one she'd left. Of course, if she felt like she had to service him, it was no different. Hell. He cursed himself for not having been able resist her enticing body that morning.

He took her to bed early that night—he knew she was exhausted from the stress of the day and the pain of her punishment. He bound her wrists together and waited for her to get onto the mat before he attached them to his own wrist. She lay on her side with her bound wrists curled in front of her, but rolled her belly toward the floor, so she did not lie on any part of her sore bottom.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

She made a small snorting sound.

“Right. Well, I guess that's the point of it, isn't it?” he muttered more to himself than to her, wondering why he felt so compelled to ease her pain when he was the one who'd given it. He lay down facing her and attached the rope from her hands to his lower wrist, leaving his upper hand free to pull the covers around her and squeeze her shoulder. She was watching him with an unfathomable look.

“Are you the daughter of a marauding Saxon, Danewyn?”

“Dani,” she said softly. “You may call me Dani… if you'd like.”

He smiled at her, his heart lifting a bit at this sudden show of trust. “Dani suits you,” he said.

A silence stretched between them as he waited to see if she would answer his question this time.

“Aye, you guessed it right,” she said at last. “My mother was a lady—daughter of a nobleman, though I never heard which. Their castle was sacked by a band of Saxons, and she was raped and beaten. Her father was killed in the battle, and his brother inherited the title. When it became apparent my mother was with child, my great uncle sent her to a nunnery, but my mother had no interest in being imprisoned by nuns. She left her escort on the way to the nunnery and rode instead to whore in London.”

“Brave. Like you,” he said, picking up her braid and toying with the end of it.

She looked surprised. “You think me brave?”

He nodded. “Extraordinarily brave, little flower. You've handled your capture with courage, and though your escape today was ill-advised, it took a great deal of pluck.” He tickled her neck with the end of her braid, and she smiled and ducked away from it.