BindingPassion (12 page)

A hard whack across both bottom cheeks had her struggling to
remain in place. She wanted to kick or jump up and rub away the burning fire.
She dug her fingernails into the wood of the chair back to keep herself still.
She’d given Philip so little in return. She’d taken his protection for granted,
ignored his efforts to fortify the manor, subtly undermined his authority with
the serfs, and accepted his efforts to please her without giving him the plea
for his penetration she knew he wanted.

A blow low down on her derriere stung so badly it drew a
small squeal that squeezed past her efforts to remain quiet. She panted and
tried to sink into the pain. She had to let it in and let herself out. She
didn’t have to carry every burden herself anymore. She more than owed it to Philip
to share them with him. She belonged to him in a way deeper than ever she’d
belonged to anyone else before. And he belonged to her.

It was getting harder to think as the fire in her bottom
grew to blazing heat with each crack of the belt. She wanted it to stop. She
wanted Philip to take her and hold her, to forgive her and accept that she
viewed him differently now.

The next stroke pushed all other thoughts from her mind as
she writhed and moaned in overwhelming pain.

“Please, no more,” she begged. “Please, my lord. I’ve
learned the lesson.”

“Have you?” he asked, pausing a moment. “Have you, Mary?”

“Aye, my lord,” she said, her voice breaking on a sob.

“Then you’ll take three more and ‘twill be done. It must end
when I say it will end rather than when you would wish it to be finished. I am
the lord here, and your lord as well.”

She wanted to protest, to scream at him that she could bear
no more. Pain was a crackling fire sizzling through her veins. But it was also
a heat settling into her womb, and it was bringing an odd sort of longing with
it.

The next smack of the belt across her bottom made her entire
body convulse with the agony. She shrieked. Fortunately the following two
strokes came so rapidly they were over before she could draw breath to scream
again.

A soft splat was the belt hitting the floor when he dropped
it. After a long moan, while her body rocked back and forth trying to cope with
the pain, Mary let herself relax against the chair, loosing the tears to flow.
Her derriere was a throbbing, burning center of pain that must be swollen to
twice its normal size. She longed to rub it, to try to ease the fire, but she
wouldn’t do so until her lord permitted it.

She turned to look at him, only to find he was standing
beside her. He eased her down off the chair, catching her when she swayed and
picking her up in his arms. As he carried her to the bed, she wrapped her arms
around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder and sobbing aloud.

He sat on the side of the bed, cradling her against him. For
a few minutes he let her cry it out. Then he asked, tentatively, “Mary? Are you
bad hurt?”

“Less so…in body than in spirit,” she answered, the words
interrupted by sobbing hiccups.

“You’re injured in spirit?” he asked. “How so?”

“I real…realized how much I owe you and how little I’ve
returned. I was too selfish, and…perhaps scared…to trust you enough. To trust
this manor that has been my home from birth to your care. I was wrong in that,
and you’ve deserved better of me.”

“Ah, my dear, my love,” he said, in a gentle, soothing tone.
“You’ve given me more than you know. More than I would have guessed possible.
This has been a hard thing for you to accept, but I hope we can put it behind
us and work more closely together now.”

She sniffled, sobbed, and wiped her eyes with the back of
her hand. “You don’t hate me then?”

“Hate you? My dear, do you not know? I love you. Love you
with all my being. It’s I who fear you hate me now. For punishing you so
severely yet again.”

“Because I did deserve it yet again,” she said. “Nay, my
lord. I cannot hate you for it.”

“Mary,” he said on a long, sighing breath. Then he tipped
her face up and kissed her, long and deep. The heat of his mouth on hers set
nerves tingling all up and down her body. Those met with the sting radiating
from her bottom, and the combination set off an explosion of need and desire
that made her want to wrap herself around him, draw him into her very being,
hold him and never let him go.

He felt her response and shifted her so that she lay on the
bed. Her bottom protested briefly as the sore surface touched the rough fabric
of the cover, but it soon became another part of the tidal flood of sensation.
Philip helped her remove gown, shift, and stockings. Then he stretched out
beside her. He put a hand on her breast and sparks danced around the area, then
raced all over.

A long, ragged moan poured from her throat as his fingers
tweaked her nipples. She was burning up in a fire of need and longing, fueled
by the sting in her bottom, the tingles from his touch, and a surge of pure,
heart-drenching love for the man. She opened her eyes to look at him, put her
hands on either side of his face, feeling the rough hair of his beard, studying
the glow in his blue eyes. When she raised her head to kiss him, he put a big
hand beneath it, running his fingers into her hair, to hold her close. Their
mouths clung to each other for some time.

He let her down gently and leaned over to put his mouth on
her nipple. She squealed and squirmed as he licked and sucked at it. The suction
drew her heart and soul from her body, into his keeping. She arched her back
and kicked out as the pleasure and pressure grew and grew. When he ran his
tongue along her belly and into the soft curls at its base, she sobbed aloud.
At the first contact of his tongue on her quim, she screamed and writhed,
closing her eyes to soak in the wash of pleasurable feelings.

He stroked and sipped at her. She could see only the bright,
colored lights flickering behind her tightly closed eyes, could hear only the
soft sounds of his movements. But she felt…sensation rushing over and through
her, gathering up all and throwing it into the fire of need blazing higher and
higher.

She thrashed her head from side to side and clutched the bed
covers in her fists. The need was so great. And now she knew what the need was.

“Philip,” she moaned. “Philip! Please, I need you. I need
you to fill me. Come into me,” she begged. “Please! Come.”

He froze for a moment. “You’re quite certain?”

“Aye!” She almost screamed the word. “I need you. I’ll never
be complete without you.”

He quickly shucked off his clothes. His cock stood at
attention, ready for action.

“Please,” she begged again.

He moved to position himself over her. She felt the tip of
his rod rubbing at her opening. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Aye, aye.”

With a firm thrust, he penetrated her body. She moaned as he
stretched her, but it wasn’t the rough brutal taking of Sir Benwyck. He was
careful to slide in only as far as she comfortably accommodate. Philip waited
until she adjusted herself to his size, then began a smooth in and out motion.

Her body’s throbbing began to move in time with his thrusts.
With each penetration the tension tightened and streaks of pleasure swept
through her. When the rhythm grew faster, she began to raise her hips to meet
his thrusts. Her breath puffed in and out in harsh gasps. She was close…on the
verge of falling…

And then, suddenly, she exploded in huge, sublime spasms.
Wave after wave of them had her bucking against him as he joined her in riding
the tide of ecstasy. Together they climbed and crested again and climbed again.
He roared a yell of joy and triumph as he spilled his seed into her.

Afterward, they lay together, wrapped in each other’s arms,
struggling for breath. The most amazing sense of peace, contentment, and
completion spread though her. This time when they kissed it was acknowledgement
and thanks and a promise. At least on her part, it was. Philip was lord, lord
of her body, lord of her home, lord of her life. She embraced his body,
treasuring him.

“Thank you, my lord,” she told him, when she finally had
breath enough to speak. “You’ve exorcised the last of Sir Benwyck’s foulness
from my heart and my memory.”

“I took great pleasure in the doing so,” he admitted.

They lay quietly and fell asleep for a while. They woke with
the first dinner gong. Philip jumped up and collected their clothes. When Mary
turned over to lever herself up off the bed, her derriere pressed against the
covers and the resulting twinge reminded her that she’d been thoroughly
spanked.

He must have seen her wince. “Roll over and let me look,” he
said.

She did as he directed. His big hand felt soothing as it
rubbed carefully over her sore bottom.

“Aye, you’ll likely have a few bruises,” he said, bending
down to press his lips against first one cheek then the other.

The touch began to set off a renewed surge of need.
“Philip,” she groaned.

He slapped her bottom lightly, almost playfully. “Not now,
wicked woman. We’ve dinner to attend.”

The meal took too long. Entirely too long. Mary squirmed on
the cushions, from a combination of soreness in her rump and desire tightening
her body. Philip seemed unaffected, save that he seemed more cheerful than
usual, and when he met her eyes a wicked glint ignited in his blue depths.

His men noticed both their reactions. Sir Thomas, in
particular, studied both her and Philip thoughtfully. Once she met the knight’s
cool gray eyes as she was shifting to take her weight off a sore spot. A wry
grin twisted his lips. Anger and chagrin made her stare back at him coldly.
Then she caught Philip’s eye on her and he chased thoughts of all others from
her mind.

Neither she nor Philip lingered over their cups. They
excused themselves as soon as decently possible and raced back to his solar to
begin again.

Mary learned the thrill and sense of completion to be found
in joining bodily with a man in love. This was the sort of union blessed by
God, where two people trusted their bodies and souls to each other’s care and
found an unparalleled joy in the act of sharing. Lying with him that night she
wished they need never rise from the bed at all.

* * * * *

The pace of work slowed somewhat during the cold months,
once the fall preparations were finished. Outdoor activities were limited to
what was necessary. As her mother had at that time of year, Mary spent more
time with the seamstresses and weavers who had their own small wing of the
manor. She’d never been very skilled at decorative needlework, the mainstay of
a high-born lady’s creative output, but she tried to do a few hours of it each
week. It provided an opportunity for her to relax with the women doing the
needlework and catch up on their gossip.

The favorite fodder for the gossips was the activity of the
nobles of the house. Mary learned in those sessions just how popular Philip had
become. The ladies in the sewing rooms were charmed by him, and they reported
the men respected him as well. All agreed they’d been most fortunate in the
king’s choice of lord to send to them.

Her own obvious joy in the relationship with him was noted
and commented on as well. She was frequently asked when the wedding would
occur. Mary tried to circumvent the questions and gave no straight answers. She
couldn’t, when she didn’t have any answers herself.

Philip hadn’t said anything to her about it, and she didn’t
know how to raise the issue herself. He’d said they wouldn’t talk about it
again until they were satisfied she could give him what he needed in the
physical side of their relationship. She thought that was now true, but he
hadn’t mentioned anything more about the possibility of their marriage.

The next week was a calm, joyous period. With outside work
halted by weather, they each had somewhat more leisure to indulge in
explorations of their new relationship. They made love often, taking advantage
of every small bit of free time they could find. Now that she’d learned to
relax and open for him, she had no trouble admitting him into her body, but
they soon discovered that a few swats on her bottom added an extra fire to the
act that she learned to crave. Philip was more than happy to indulge her.

One afternoon he followed her down to the wine cellar when
she went to check on their supplies. In that cool, dim room, lit only by the
torches they’d brought with them, he sat her on the side of a wine barrel,
raised her skirts, pushed down his leggings far enough to free his cock, and
took her there. He stroked her quim with his fingers while he plunged his rod
into her and pumped, moving in and out, caressing her pearl, until they came
together in a tangled mass of clothes and limbs, and nearly both fell off the
barrel in the process. They laughed like children about it afterward.

Mary felt like both child and woman, indeed. A child in the
new sensation of joyous abandon in the care of another, but a woman in her
newfound capacity to fulfill a man’s need and return the love he gave her.
She’d had so little of happiness in her life, she found it almost difficult to
accept, and worried that it couldn’t last.

It didn’t.

A few days later the smooth course of their lives was
disrupted again.

It happened at the evening meal, the day after the wine
cellar tryst, and started with an innocent remark by Philip.

“Next time I must remember not to distract you when you go down
to fetch wine for dinner,” he said.

Mary turned to look at him. “What mean you, my lord?” she
asked.

He picked up the wine cup and stared into its depth. “This
last pitcher of wine is terrible.”

“It is?” Mary took a sip from her own cup. “It tastes quite
normal to me.”

“Then your taste is spoiled,” he said. He took another drink
and made a horrible face. “‘Tis awful. Smells terrible as well.”

He swayed oddly in his chair.

Alarmed, Mary picked up his cup and sniffed at it. The odor
was definitely different from hers. She sipped at his drink cautiously and
immediately spat the mouthful out onto the floor. “No more, my lord, no more!”
she said, suddenly terrified. “How much did you drink?”

He stared at her, but his eyes weren’t focusing and his
hands trembled. “Don’t…” His eyes rolled oddly, and he began to fall from the
chair. Mary caught and held him until Sir Peter and Sir Thomas relieved her of
the burden.

Though her attention focused primarily on Philip, Mary heard
the chaos break out. She wasn’t sure if she said the word or someone else
guessed it, but within moments, cries of “poison” and “in the wine” were
breaking out all over. People screamed, cried out, got up and rushed out of the
room or raced toward the head table. Pitchers and trenchers went flying in the
confusion, scattering food and liquids on the floor.

Sir Peter, Sir Thomas, and Derwyn got Philip to his feet and
hauled him off to his solar. Mary and a pair of servants followed right behind.
She turned and saw a worried-looking Brianne running close behind her. When
they got to the room, the three men took him inside, but then Sir Thomas
stopped and turned around.

“Nay,” he said, standing in Mary’s path. He held out an arm
to stop Brianne as well. “We’ll care for his lordship. I’ll not offer you
another chance to finish the job you began.”

Mary stared at him in shock for a moment before fury
replaced it. “You fool, Sir Thomas. I wouldn’t harm Sir Philip. I love him.
This is no time for games or foolish quarrels. Philip needs us.”

Sir Thomas’s eyes were cold, hard steel. “Nay, I’ll have
none of your people near him. He needs his true friends around him to protect
him from those who would take his life.” The man gestured a couple of Philip’s
men-at-arms over to reinforce his next words. “You’ll stay out.” He and the
others began to herd her and Brianne toward the door.

“Know you how to treat for poison?” Brianne ground out as
she tried to scoot around the men to reach Philip. One of the men took her arm
and dragged her back to the door.

“We’ll care for him,” Thomas said. “We’ll keep him alive.”

“Don’t let him lie down or go to sleep,” Brianne told them,
desperate now to at least convey basic advice. “Get him to vomit as much of it
up as you can. Give him milk. I’ll have some sent from the kitchen. Nay I’ll go
and bring some. And drink from the cup myself before I hand it to you. Keep him
moving until it’s out of his system.”

Mary strained for a look at Philip before the men pushed
them back until they stood in the hall. He looked gray and only half awake as
Sir Peter shook him to keep him from passing out. Waves of terror broke over
her as it occurred to her the poison might already have worked its way too deep
into his system.

“Please,” she begged Sir Thomas. “Let me go to him.”

The man wasn’t moved by her words or the tears gathering in
her eyes and beginning to spill over. She, Brianne, and a few other gathered
servants were pushed out, and the door slammed closed.

Mary leaned back against the wall, letting the tears run
down her cheeks. Brianne stood beside her and held her. “I’ll do what I can,”
she promised. “I must go get the milk from the dairy.”

“Aye. Do.”

When Brianne left, Isabel and some of the other household
servants stayed around. Mary barely noticed them for a while as she fought the
fear and wondered what she might do to assist. With Sir Thomas barring her from
the room, there was naught, she realized. She might call together some of her
own men and have them force the way in. But Philip’s men were trained in arms
and battle-hardened. The few of her men-at-arms who’d survived the battle when
Sir William took the keep were mostly older and getting feeble. They’d be no
match for Sir Philip’s men. A fight would lead only to their slaughter. So
there was naught to do, save to pray. That she could do. She left Isabel to
tell Brianne where she’d gone, then made her way to the chapel.

It was chilly and dim in the small chapel, with only a
single, small candle burning beside the altar. Mary fell onto her knees and
prayed with all her heart and soul for Philip’s recovery. Tears continued to
run down her cheeks, dripping onto her clothes or the stone floor.

She couldn’t imagine what her life would be like without
him. He’d brought so much to her. He’d taught her how to love, and not just in
the physical, bodily form. He’d given her back laughter and joy. He’d shown her
that a man could be true and good and strong at the same time. That he could be
deserving of her trust and respect and worthy of her love.

Only later did it occur to her that if he didn’t survive,
she probably wouldn’t either. His friends believed she’d tried to kill him.
They wouldn’t credit her protests of her innocence and would probably put her
to death. She couldn’t bring herself to mind too much. Did Philip die, she’d
want to, as well.

She was aware of others joining her. Many of the household
servants and some of the serfs who worked the fields or herds began to crowd
into the chapel, kneeling or sitting in prayer. Surely God couldn’t refuse to
hear the pleas of so many. Hers wasn’t the only cheek dampened by tears.

She put all her desperation into her prayers. Philip had to
live. Surely God couldn’t be so cruel as to give her a glimpse of the heaven
his love could create for her and then so abruptly withdraw it. A merciful God
couldn’t let it happen. She begged and pleaded with Him to grant her this boon.
She prayed until she ran out of words and arguments.

Gradually her mind slipped from those to thoughts of who
might have tried to kill him and how it could have been done. The wine had been
poisoned, but his wine only. She sought the memory of all that had happened at
dinner. The wine had been in a pitcher on the table. She had poured it into his
cup herself, and refilled her own at the same time. His had tasted distinctly
different from hers, so whatever had been added had been put into his cup
alone. Others had drunk from the same pitcher as well, and no one else suffered
the same symptoms.

Who might have put the poison in his cup? Who had been close
enough? As she had poured the wine, she herself would be first and most obvious
candidate for suspicion. But she hadn’t done it. So, who might have?

The servant who’d placed the pitcher on the table—she
couldn’t remember who it was and, made a mental note to ask in the morning.
Then others had moved around. Sir Thomas had come over at one point to get the
pitcher. Derwyn had reached over for bread. Sir Peter, seated on the other side
of Philip, had leaned over once or twice to listen to something she said. Any
of them might have slipped something into the cup without being seen.

After a while Brianne joined her in the chapel, kneeling
beside her. “They’re doing all they should,” she reported in whisper so as not
to disturb others at prayer. “When I brought the milk, I asked what they were
doing and managed to get a look into the room. They’re making him walk. And
though they wouldn’t let me give it to him myself, they did get him to drink
the milk. I insisted on staying to watch. Of course, Sir Thomas had to take a
drink of it himself before they’d give it to my lord. Even after I drank some,”
she added with a bitter twist.

Mary almost hesitated to ask the next question. “What think
you…? What of his chances?”

Brianne drew a long breath that made Mary’s heart clench
painfully. “I know not. But he was still on his feet while I was there, and I
take that for a favorable sign.”

“When will we know?”

Again Brianne paused but this time it was in thought over
the situation rather than considering how to frame the words. “By morning, I
believe. I know not what was used and could not find enough unspilled to try to
determine, but it took effect quickly, and therefore it should come to crisis
quickly. Even does he survive, though, he’ll be several days recovering from
the effect. For now, we pray.”

Mary nodded. That was enough to turn her thoughts back to
pleas with the Almighty.

Some hours later she noted many people nodding and even a
few snoring, so she chased them off to their beds. Only Brianne insisted on
remaining with her as she kept her vigil in the chapel. Her knees ached, but
after a while became numb. The agony of knowing how much Philip suffered and
the possibility he wouldn’t survive it would have kept her from any rest. More
than once the tears began to flow anew.

It was by far the longest night of her life.