Hard Lessons (5 page)

He smiles, leans back in his chair. “That’s fine, Freya, and it’s what I thought you were looking for. But I needed to check, needed to be sure. I want you to leave here properly prepared for whatever future you choose for yourself.” His grin widens, his eyes twinkling in mischief, teasing. “I have a reputation as a BDSM trainer to maintain, after all.”

He becomes serious once more. “The terms Sir and Master are sometimes used interchangeably, you might have heard that at the club.” He waits, his head tilted in inquiry, and I nod. “To call your Dom ‘Master’, or ‘Mistress’, usually indicates a long-term, exclusive relationship, possibly even marriage. The usual respectful form of address for a submissive to use when referring to her Dom, any Dom, is Sir, especially when the relationship is temporary or occasional. That’s always acceptable and correct. Okay?”

He’s making it pretty clear what the terms, and limits, of our relationship are, and I have no alternative but to accept them, for now at least. I nod, then for good measure sign, “Thank you for explaining it to me. Sir.”

“You’re welcome, all part of the service. So now, we’ve established that you’re my guest. A trainee, not my prisoner, and you’re free to come and go as you like. So you need a key. Having said that, I’ll expect you to be here, available, when I want to scene with you, and that will be a lot of the time. Most of the time, probably. A month isn’t that long and we have a lot of work to get through. And you’re so damn sexy I can’t seem to keep my hands off you in any case. But you’ll have some downtime too, occasionally, and you might want to go somewhere. You might even want to nip home, pick up your mail, more clothes, that sort of thing.

“Which reminds me, I brought your gear in from your car while you were in the shower. It’s on the table in the dining room. I expect that’ll soon look like a bomb site but I intend to cope by keeping the door shut and not going in there. And we’ll eat in here.”

I’m speechless, or my equivalent of it. I just stare at him for a few moments before I leap up and run for the door, my towel flapping around my bare legs. I trot down the corridor and into the dining room, to be greeted by the sight of my sewing machine in pride of place on the polished mahogany table, surrounded by my boxes and bags of quilting paraphernalia. I turn, walk slowly back to the kitchen, to find him still there, just pouring milk into his third cup of tea.

He glances up as I come back in. “All present and correct?”

I nod, then, “But I thought you were angry that I brought it.” My hands sign the words, and I try to do it slowly but still have to form the question three times before he understands me.

“I was displeased with you, not angry. And I was displeased because you disobeyed me, not because you brought your sewing machine here. I don’t mind what belongings you have here with you, or how you spend your free time. I don’t even mind you making a mess, as long as I don’t have to look at it all the time. Which reminds me, a woman from the village, Mrs Dickens, comes in twice a week to clean the place, do my ironing, that sort of thing. Wednesday and Friday mornings usually. Try to make sure you’re dressed when she’s here. Or out of sight. I can do without the gossip. I’ll tell her to leave the dining room alone.”

“Does she clean the dungeon too?”

His look of scorn is answer enough. “Why do you think I keep it locked? I value my privacy, Miss Stone. More tea?”

Well, we all have our secrets. Me even more than him, I’m inclined to think.

I nod, and sit back down in my carver chair opposite him.

“Back there in the dungeon, when you thought I was leaving and you wanted to stop me, you thumped the floor with the paddle. Was that your way of saying ‘Oi’?”

His question takes me by surprise, though by now I should be ready for anything, I suppose.

I look at him sheepishly, nodding slowly. I suppose it is, although I’ve never really thought of it like that. It’s just what I do to attract attention so that I can sign. I prefer to think of it as a way of saying, ‘Please, turn around, please look at me’, which seems more polite. I can also manage a fairly piercing whistle too, good over distances but not at all appropriate for indoor use. I sign all that to him, finishing with an apology if it seemed rude. I was in a blind panic at the time and not thinking straight.

He grins at me, genuinely amused. “Girl, you amaze me. You may not speak, but you’re one of the best communicators I’ve ever met. Inventive, expressive and honest. Your eyes, your body language, your gestures. You manage to let me know everything you’re thinking, you telegraph it loud and clear. Even that first night, at the club, I had no difficulty understanding you. And I totally love your ‘Oi!’ Do a whistle for me.”

I shrug, and just do it. Loud, shrill, the most ear-splitting whistle I can drum up at short notice. Well, he did ask. He flaps his hand to quieten me. “Christ, girl, you’ll shatter the bloody windows. Come here.”

I stand, walk tentatively around the table to stand before him. He grabs me, pulls me onto his lap, and suddenly he’s laughing like a bloody drain. I try to adopt a snooty expression, but he somehow finds the ticklish spot between my ribs with his fingers. I’m wriggling frantically, my silent giggles lost as he tumbles me from his knee onto the floor, following me down to wrestle me into helpless, gasping submission.

Chapter Three

Following our interlude on the floor I make myself at home in Nick’s kitchen. I don’t see any need to bother getting dressed again. I just throw on my short kimono wrap which I brought with me, and pad around in that.

I get the impression Nick’s not especially fond of messing about with recipes and food, he’s more a ‘whack it in the microwave’ type. This makes his efforts to provide for my special dietary needs even more laudable in my view. While he watches my efforts from the safety of the kitchen table I rustle up a simple meal of grilled chicken and salad, followed by a sugar-free rice pudding. This is one of my own recipes and I’m inordinately pleased when Nick asks for seconds. Then, while Nick clears away and stacks things in the dishwasher, I set up my sewing machine and spend a pleasant hour on my fox hunting quilt.

At about eight o’clock Nick wanders into the dining room and asks me if I fancy a ride out somewhere. I look up at him in surprise. I really didn’t expect much in the way of jolly outings, and this sounds promising. Sort of normal even. I nod and head for the bedroom to get dressed. I just grab whatever’s near, and I’m busy tugging my loose calf-length skirt around my hips when Nick appears in the doorway.

“Jeans would be better. We’re going on the bike. Did you bring any?”

I turn to him, my heart leaping. The bike? I’ve never ridden on the back of a motorbike before. It sounds…dangerous. And exhilarating. And strangely intimate as it involves much more direct contact than sitting in the passenger seat of my car would. Motorbikes are exciting, and I quickly, ruthlessly stifle any wayward thoughts of the cautious Max Furrowes and his admonitions regarding foolhardy pursuits. I wonder where motorbikes fall on his risk monitor? Who cares, I’m going on one. That is, as long as Nick can loan me a crash helmet.

He nods approvingly as I grab a pair of blue denim jeans from the drawer I’m using while I’m here. “I’ll be waiting in the kitchen. I’ve a spare crash helmet you can use and a pair of biker boots. And a leather jacket probably. It gets chilly on the back of a bike, especially up on the tops.” He has an unerring talent for following my unspoken train of thought.

A few minutes later we’re out on the forecourt and I’m perched on the pillion seat of Nick’s huge black monster bike. I feel weirdly top heavy in my borrowed crash helmet, the strap tugged tight under my chin and carefully inspected by Nick before he declared me fit to be let loose. The boots are a couple of sizes too big, but I’m not bothered. The jacket is superb, a lovely white zip-up waist length affair made of soft, supple leather with blue and red flashes across the back and chest. It can’t be an old one of Nick’s, there’s no way this would ever have fitted him. I might ask him about its previous owner later.

Nick slides onto the bike in front of me, his customary black leather jacket fitting snugly around his finely contoured chest and shoulders, and his butt looking absolutely divine in faded blue denim jeans. I try not to drool—it would make such a mess inside my helmet. He pulls his own helmet on and fastens it, the movements practiced and slick. He starts up the bike then turns to me, as much as his helmet allows, flashes me a quick smile and mouths that I need to hold on tight.

Never one to pass up an opportunity to hold on tight to Nick Hardisty I don’t need telling twice. I clasp my arms around his waist, pressing my chest up hard against his leather clad back. With a low purr the bike pulls away, and within moments we’re hurtling along the narrow lane leading from Nick’s house down into Cartmel. Well, it feels like hurtling, though I suspect that’s just the wind chill factor. In fact, I feel incredibly safe.

I quickly relax and I’m instinctively shifting my weight with Nick’s as we negotiate bends and corners. We never agreed where we were going, but Nick did mention something about ‘up on the tops’ so I’m assuming we’re headed out into the wilds somewhere. Sure enough, we’re soon on the road to Windermere, or more specifically the town of Bowness. Nick slows down as we enter the town itself, negotiating the busy streets effortlessly. The place is still crowded even at this time in the evening. He takes a sharp right as we leave the town center. So, we’re heading over the Kirkstone Pass then, a wild route that snakes its way up over the high peaks, eventually dropping down the other side in the village of Glenridding on the southern shore of Ullswater. This road is narrow, single track in lots of places, very bleak and near enough impassable for weeks on end during the winter. Should be okay at this time of year, though, apart from the suicidal sheep that seem to wander haphazardly everywhere. They put me in mind of Wordworth’s lonely clouds, floating on high o’er dale and hill. No daffodils up here, though.

Soon we’re soaring up the steep incline, the Cumbrian hills falling steeply away on either side of us. This is most definitely the scenic route to Ullswater and the views are breathtaking, a gorgeous blend of greens and yellows as the summer wildflowers blanket the lower slopes, gradually giving way to the oranges and browns of the upper heights, though I only catch an occasional glimpse as I’m clinging on for dear life. I do have a superb view of Nick’s leather-clad back, though, so I’ve no real grounds for complaint. Nick’s an experienced motorcyclist and even though I have no doubt he knows what he’s doing, there’s no point taking risks. I’m not about to start pointing out the sights. Max would be so relieved.

Eventually we crest the summit of the pass, and Nick bears left into a car park opposite a sprawling pub. The Kirkstone Inn, an ancient watering hole for travelers and drovers, and now a favorite haunt for the hiking, rambling and mountaineering fraternities. And for Doms indulging in a nice ride out with their subs. In the late evening dusk the hillsides are now empty of walkers, and the campers have all pitched their canvas and rubbed their little twigs together, or whatever they do these days to get their fires lit. There’s a campsite on the field at the rear of the inn, and many of their clients have apparently opted to forego the delights of an evening around the campfire to enjoy the hospitality of the low ceilinged, seventeenth-century pub. We dismount in the car park and gaze over the empty hillsides, now smudged with inky twilight blackness as the last of the light falls away behind the highest peaks.

“Fancy a drink?” It’s fully dark now, and Nick loops an arm around my shoulders as he gestures with his chin toward the pub entrance.

I nod, and we make our way inside, Nick having to stoop to avoid crashing his head on the low beam across the threshold. The pub is crowded—in fairness there’s not much choice of hostelry way up here for locals and visitors alike. Nick spots a corner with two empty stools and shoulders his way through, tugging me along behind him.

Soon we’re installed on the low stools nursing a half pint each of real ale glorying in the somewhat unpromising name Westmoreland Witch Pee. Despite the unfortunate title it is surprisingly good. We both wipe away our frothy moustaches in unison, and Nick smiles at me. It’s a warm smile, an approving, friendly, enjoying your company sort of smile, and it lights up his gorgeous masculine face. My heart does a funny little flip—I can’t recall anyone ever smiling at me like that, apart from Margaret of course. And occasionally Summer. But never a man, and most definitely not a prime specimen like Nick Hardisty.

Then, without warning, he goes for the jugular.

“So, little Freya, tell me about your lottery win. Will you never need to work again, then? Are we talking telephone numbers or just a cool million or so?”

The last time I had checked my bank statement the numbers had eight digits, ten if you count the pence, so I’d say they were in the telephone number bracket, but I just shrug and take another sip of my beer. Despite the casual way he drops the question in I know this is important, and my answer could change everything. If I tell him the truth, he’ll think I’m weird. Hell, even I think I’m a bit weird, squirreling all that money away just because I’m quite at a loss as to what else to do with it. Most people would have at least some idea, beyond the obvious apartment and car that represent the full extent of my profligacy. I risk a glance up at him, and he’s still smiling, his expression light, friendly. Not calculating, not out to trap me. Why, then, does every nerve ending recoil in horror at the prospect of telling him my true circumstances?

Because it’ll change his attitude toward me. It always does. As soon as people find out I’m wealthy—ridiculously, stupidly wealthy for no good reason—they change. And I don’t want Nick to change. I’d rather he continue to like me, to approve of me, to choose to spend time with me. The money would get in the way of all that. So I fob him off. I sign that I won enough to buy my flat and my car, and invested the rest to give me a bit of an income until I decide what I intend to do long term. He eyes me narrowly, considering my answer, and my obvious evasiveness, and for one awful moment I think he’s about to call me on it. As my Dom he could demand answers. He could start to really press me, insist on specifics, on actual numbers. But he doesn’t, he just lets it go.