Royal Discipline (8 page)

Her eyes dropped to his middle. She did not understand how that huge, upstanding thing could possibly have fit back into his breeches.

“It decreases in size, once the urge for service has been satisfied,” he said, arching a brow at her flabbergasted expression. “Would you like to see?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I believe you.” She shifted on her toes, rubbing the lingering rope impressions on her wrists. “So…I satisfied you?”

He gave her a very direct gaze. “You satisfied me quite well. And it made you feel humbled, I hope. You’re not harping and shrieking anymore.”

“My mouth is tired.” She meant to say it in a biting, withering fashion, but instead it came out rather mildly. Goodness. Was there something to his method after all? Was it the “medicine” at work? Or was it only that she did not wish to be subjected to such humbling treatment again?

“It’s a beautifully temperate day,” he said as the silence strung out between them. “We ought to go for a walk, particularly now that you’ve learned the consequences of an uncivil tongue.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied. She could be civil enough if she tried. But inside she thought,
I am leaving here tomorrow. And I shall never, ever spare you a civil word again.

She waited the next day until she heard the duke leave his room to go downstairs for dinner. Dinnertime was certainly the best opportunity for her to enact her escape, since most of the staff would be occupied in the kitchen and dining areas. At least, that was what she hoped.

As for hiding places, she’d looked for one on her walk with the duke yesterday. She thought she had a chance of eluding detection completely, if she could only run like mad for the woods. There was a great thick forest to the east of the house, which ought to be her direction anyway. It was as if her plan was predestined for success.

Even better, it had begun to storm. Of course, it would have been preferable not to escape in chill winter rain, but it was sure to hamper her pursuers. As for her, she would have her cloak, and the shelter of the trees.

Violet paced, concentrating on her plans, and jumping at the thunder and occasional flashes of lightning. She could not lose her courage. It must be tonight. Jeannie would be arriving at any moment with Violet’s dinner tray, so she opened the back of her gown—to facilitate a quicker change—and checked to be sure the servant’s frock and cloak were still secreted under the bed with her meager stash of food. Then she bathed her face and hair with water and lay back, waiting for the sound of the door.

As soon as Jeannie entered, Violet let out a deathly sounding moan. The maid scurried to her side.

“Oh, miss. Whatever is the matter?”

“I...feel...ill...” Violet gasped. “My...heart...” She clutched her chest, and then batted in an agonized fashion at the whimpering maid. “Please...help...”

“I’ll get help, miss. I’ll go for help right away. Oh, miss!”

The young woman spun away in a panic, not even bothering to close the door. Violet sprang up, dropped her gown and kicked it under the bed, and pulled the servant’s uniform over her shoulders. One tug of the apron strings and she was ready to go. Her parcel of food was wrapped inside the cloak. She held it like a pile of linens and hurried from the room the way she’d seen the chambermaids do after they made up her bed.

She heard voices from the stairwell, so she went the other way. She only tried a door or two before she found the servants’ stairs. She scurried down and out through the kitchen just as a footman entered from the dining room. “Hurry, Mrs. Cook. Boil some toweling. The princess is ill!”

Someone would be up in the room by now. Even if they did not find her dress under the bed, they would realize she was gone. She prayed they would search the manor first, thinking her ill and wandering, perhaps collapsed in some deserted hall. She could not control any of that now. She could only run, pelted by rain and buffeted by freezing wind, across the manor lawn and into the black woods.

Freedom burned in her lungs, along with her labored breath. She wanted to cry out in victory, but she dared not stop. Even when she reached the woods, she kept running in what she hoped was an easterly direction. She would not know for sure until the sun came up. By then, she hoped to be far enough away that she could find a road, perhaps even hire a carriage. She would simply explain that she was a princess, a future queen. Someone would help.

The rain was not so bad under cover of the trees, but she was wet and cold. She unfolded the cloak to put it on, only to drop her bundle of bread, nuts, and fruit on the muddy ground. She picked it up with a curse, then dropped it a second time as a clap of thunder shook the forest.

“Do not panic,” she told herself. “Do not panic. It doesn’t matter.”

She snatched up her soiled store of food and began to run again, alarmed by the sound of distant shouts. She had thought it would be easier to make progress, but the ground was slippery, and the forest’s bushes and roots had an irritating way of materializing in her path. Before long she was soaked to the skin, and the storm seemed to be intensifying rather than subsiding. Thunder vibrated the very ground, and lightning lit even the densest part of the woods.

“I must keep on,” she cried amidst the noise of the rain. “I must keep going. It’s only a bit of water.”

She didn’t know anymore if she was heading east, but she knew there were men in the woods pursuing her, for she could hear their shouts over the storm. At regular intervals she heard the deep bark of a dog, and then, more chillingly, the howl of a wolf. Or wolves?

Well, all forests had wolves, didn’t they? But they were shy of people, and would not rove about in a storm. She must keep moving.
She must keep moving.
Even though she desperately wished to curl up and hide until the storm was over, she didn’t have that option.

“Violetta! Princess!” The men’s voices were growing closer. She sobbed as she fought her way through the brush. Why must the duke have the most treacherous forest in all of Hastings? Branches scratched her, and roots caught her feet. Once, she turned her ankle, but she hobbled on until the pain didn’t even register.

“Princess!”

That was Thornton’s voice. The dog sounded so close, his bark deep and sonorous over the whipping of the leaves. She looked behind her, then spun to her left at the sound of a low, threatening growl.

Violet regarded the snarling beast in dread.
All forests had wolves.
She ought to have thought more about that before she stumbled into one in the dark of winter.

“Do not hurt me,” she whispered.

The wolf was thin, starved. Ragged looking. There could not be much to eat in a forest in wintertime.

“Perhaps I look like food to you,” she breathed, holding its avaricious gaze. “But I’m a princess. And I—I have food to share.”

She began to unwrap her soggy bundle, but then the wolf advanced and she threw the entire thing at him. He began to nose through the linen with a bloodthirsty growl.

“Violet!”

She knew by the way the duke said her name that he was here, that he saw her. She shot a glance at him, and wished she hadn’t. Her dire situation was etched in the haggard lines of his face. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare do anything but take tiny, mincing steps backward as the starving wolf finished her meager stash of food.

“Don’t move,” he said sharply. “Don’t run.”

In her peripheral vision, she saw a dog of bearlike size at the duke’s side, a bloodhound with his fur standing on end and his fangs exposed. The hound moved to stand between her and the wolf, growling a warning at the creature. “Do not move,” the duke said again. “Violet.”

She obeyed, because she was too frozen to move. She feared for her life, and certainly the life of the hound. The wolf’s malevolent gaze shifted between her and the hound, and he seemed to decide a princess would make a more appetizing meal. The wolf lunged forward, snarling, just as a flash of lightning illuminated the woods. In that same second, an arrow whistled past her shoulder and pierced the ragged beast in the heart. It fell to the forest floor. The hound barked wildly, rushing toward the fallen wolf.

She turned and saw a woodsman lower his bow as the duke crossed to her. More men materialized out of the trees.

She reached for her captor, struck through with fear. Rain fell on her face as lightning again illuminated the darkness. She could not stop shaking. “There are wolves,” she said. “Wolves in your forest.”

“There are wolves,” he agreed, clutching her close. “We have to go back.”

* * * * *

When they returned to the manor, he was the one who bathed the mud from her body, dried her tangled hair, and dressed her in a fresh shift. He laid her to sleep in his bed, although he did not join her. He was with her in her dreams, though, tormenting her in his discipline parlor for running away. When she woke the next morning in his forbidding, velvet-canopied poster bed, she wished it was her crypt.

“Yes,” he said, when she sat up and regarded him warily. His blue eyes bored into hers. “You’re going to be punished. Because I am merciful, I’ll allow you to break your fast first.”

It was not precisely merciful, because he made her eat in his room, surrounded by his things, while he glowered at her the entire time. She was supposed to be on her way back to her kingdom this morning, but she was not. She could barely eat, but she feared if she didn’t eat, she would anger him further, and from the glacial expression on his face, that was something she didn’t want to do.

All too soon, she was standing before him in the discipline parlor, clad, perhaps with intentional purpose, in her shameful, ragged crimson gown. Jeannie was there too, which disturbed Violet greatly. The trembling chambermaid would not look at her or anything else in the room, but kept her face trained on the floor, and her hands clasped nervously before her. He had positioned both of them in front of the central padded bench, as he strode back and forth with a stout cane in his hand.

“I am at a loss,” he intoned, addressing Violet. “I never imagined you could be so rash, so foolish.”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Violet murmured. Like Jeannie, she thought it best to keep her gaze to the floor. “I am so very sorry.”

“Your apology means little when you nearly paid with your life.”

His rough voice echoed off the high stone walls. Jeannie gasped and gave a small sob.

“Everything ended well,” Violet said, more for Jeannie than any hope of the duke’s forgiveness.

“Your Grace,” Jeannie breathed in a shaky whisper. “I can’t bear it. I won’t ever forgive myself.”

“But you didn’t do anything,” said Violet, disturbed by her quavering voice and her trembling. “I don’t even know why you’re here. It was my fault. I did it. I ran away.”

“You could not have done so if Jeannie was not careless.” The duke tapped the cane against his palm. “She left the servants’ clothes where you could find them. When she realized a gown and cape were missing a few days ago, she neglected to alert the housekeeper or me. She was also responsible for forgetting to lock your door.”

“Because I pretended to be gravely ill.”

“It is kind of you to defend her, but Jeannie was given specific orders to keep your door secured at all times.” He raked a look over the distraught maid. “Her carelessness nearly resulted in your escape—not to mention your violent death in the forest. I cannot imagine explaining that to your father. I cannot imagine the loss to Hastings, and to everyone who cares for you.”

Jeannie, who had been sniveling quietly, now sobbed aloud. “Please, master. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t blame you if you turned me in to the magistrate on attempted murder charges. I deserve to pay for this with my life.”

Violet shot the duke a nasty look. He could punish her if he liked, but he ought not to inflict such anguish on the poor maid.
This is your fault, princess,
her conscience whispered.
You’re the reason she’s standing here falling to pieces.

“I’ll not demand anything so extreme as your life,” he said to the cringing woman. “You’ve murdered no one, and your mistress is now safe. But you shall be punished alongside her, in hopes that you won’t repeat such foolish mistakes again.”

The sobbing maid abased herself at Thornton’s feet. “Your Grace’s mercy is boundless. Please punish me as harshly as I deserve.”

“Punish me instead of her,” Violet said. She couldn’t bear this anymore. “Punish me twice as much if you like, but she should not be punished for my attempt to run away.”

His gaze met hers. Beneath the coolness, the stern lines of his brows, she saw a flicker of surprise. “It doesn’t work that way,” he said. “But you’re kind to suggest it. Jeannie, bend over the bench.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Jeannie stood from her position at his feet and draped herself over the leather-padded bench as if there was nothing on earth she wanted to do more.

“Violet,” he said, beckoning. “Come and turn up her skirt, then you may stand there and observe her suffering, as she is enduring it on your account.”

Violet swallowed hard and went to join Jeannie. The maid lay very still and stiff as Violet gathered up the skirt of her plain wool gown and arranged it over her back. Then Violet took up a place at the edge of the bench, eyeing the duke’s cane. He was right. She’d done this to poor, hapless Jeannie, even if he was the one delivering the punishment.

“You’ll receive ten cane strokes for your carelessness, Jeannie,” he said. “Count for me.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered.

He drew back the cane and brought it down with a crisp
thwack
upon Jeannie’s thin, pale hindquarters. The woman jerked and gritted her teeth, but did not emit a sound except for a very quiet “One.”

The second stroked whistled and struck, even harder than the first. Again Jeannie jerked and tensed, but only whispered, “Two.” Violet marveled at it, that the maid could lie so still and accept such a severe punishment. Each stroke made a pink welt rise in stark relief across her trembling bottom. By the seventh stroke, Jeannie’s composure was starting to break. Great tears rolled down her cheeks.

Violet looked at the duke. Didn’t he realize how badly he was hurting her? His face was set in hard lines, his posture as strong and forbidding as ever.
And you are next
, she thought. Somehow, she knew her punishment would be much worse.