Mail Order Brat

  Mail Order Brat

  Book One of the Sweetville Brides Series

  By

  Loki Renard

  Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Loki Renard

  Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Loki Renard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Renard, Loki

  Mail Order Brat

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Period Images and 123rf/IoFoto

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Prologue

  Remnants of an enjoyable dinner sat uncollected at the table while the rhythmic sounds of skin meeting skin could be heard coming from the next room over, muffled but in no way muted by the wall between. Tall, broad, and serious, Pastor Soames sat in a comfortable armchair, his eyes and ears politely engaged by the television while one of the wayward women in his congregation was spanked.

  The door was cracked slightly. Through the open space one could see the long slim thighs and bouncing red cheeks of a wife receiving a good sound spanking. From time to time her legs would splay, revealing a glimpse of her womanhood. Modesty was not a significant concern for the lady in question. What was of great concern was the fire being spanked into her rear by her very stern husband.

  The reason for the disciplinary interlude was still sitting on the dining room table in the form of a collapsed pool of icing and rubber, the remains of a cake that was not a cake. For reasons best known to herself, Sarah Brown had decided to serve up a fake to her husband and pastor. It had popped when Jeremy had sliced into it, spreading sprinkles and chocolate goo all over the table and those dining at it.

  It was a harmless prank, and a fairly amusing one. It wasn’t the prank she was being spanked for. It was what had happened after the pop, when her husband lectured her for tricks involving sharp knives and loud sounds. She’d laughed in his face and told him not to be such a… well, something that was best not repeated.

  Suffice to say, she deserved every last swat she was receiving with yelping good grace. It was quite a while before the sounds of spanking stopped and all that could be heard was a commentary on the latest replacement kicker coming from the television.

  Soon the man of the house came back into the living room. “So sorry,” Jeremy said, rolling his sleeve back down his forearm. “I really don’t know what’s gotten into Sarah these days.”

  “Are you two quarreling?” Steven asked the question with genuine concern.

  “No.” Jeremy shook his head. “She’s just naughty. Last week I came home three times and she’d not prepared so much as toast for dinner. We agreed when we were married. She’d take care of things at home, I’d make sure the bills were paid. Traditional, I know, but she agreed to it.”

  “Perhaps she’s tired.”

  “She’s not tired. She laughed at me when I asked why there wasn’t any dinner. Said she was too busy. Well, I took your advice. I put her smart little bottom over my lap and spanked her until it was good and bright.”

  “And that had the desired effect?”

  “The next five nights, dinner was on the table when I got home. But last night I got back and she was watching television. She said dinner was in the oven. I opened the oven and guess what I found?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “A sack of bread and a can of tuna.”

  Steven smiled slightly. “Sounds like she needs more regular discipline.”

  Jeremy’s thick brows drew into one hard, determined line. “She’s going to have her bottom spanked every night this week. And if that doesn’t sort her out, I told her I’d send her to you.”

  “Really,” Steven chuckled.

  “That seemed to have some effect. I reckon she doesn’t much want another taste of the pastor’s paddle.”

  “Jeremy, please quit talking about that.” A pretty brunette with a figure of a 1950s pinup entered the room carrying two Scotch on the rocks for the men. Sarah was a spirited young lady. Most of the women in Sweetville were. She seemed to have recovered remarkably well from her trip over her husband’s knee; there wasn’t so much as a hair out of place as she crouched to place the men’s drinks neatly on coasters.

  “The pastor asked how we were doing. I told him,” Jeremy said.

  Sarah blushed. “The pastor doesn’t want to hear about our private affairs.”

  “No, you don’t want the pastor hearing about how much of a bad girl you’ve been—or how many spankings you’ve been catching lately.”

  “You did vow to obey Jeremy when you married him,” Steven reminded her gently. “It was important to both of you to keep that vow, if I recall correctly.”

  He had counseled Jeremy and Sarah prior to their marriage. They were both young, both from good families, and both wanting to live traditional roles. Sarah had lived at home until her wedding day, but seemed to be having some trouble adjusting to her husband’s authority. Steven had already surmised that the real purpose of this dinner was for the young couple to be reassured that they were on the right path.

  Steven had never set out to become a disciplinary consultant, but part of his spiritual practice had led him to the realization that most of the parishioners in Sweetville, New England, wanted to follow traditional gender roles. A backlash against the permissiveness of the ’80s and ’90s, he supposed. Unfortunately, most of them had not the slightest idea how to be equals and still assume the naturally asymmetrical roles of provider and keeper.

  Sarah pouted as she sat gingerly in an armchair and folded her heels neatly to one side. “I never had to cook every night at home. It’s hard work.”

  “Keeping a house can be hard work,” Steven agreed. “But I don’t think that’s why you haven’t been keeping up with meals.”

  “Why haven’t I been keeping up with meals then?” There was challenge in her gaze.

  “You’ve been married six months. The honeymoon phase is starting to fade, real life is starting to settle in, and perhaps you’re worried that Jeremy isn’t going to be able to keep you in hand when you’re really bad. So you’re testing him with little things.”

  Sarah lowered her eyes. “Maybe,” she admitted.

  “Every couple goes through these stages,” Steven counseled the pair. “It’s in a woman’s nature to test her husband’s limits to make sure he’s still in control. Do you think Jeremy is in control, Sarah?”

  She nodded mutely, an adorable red hue creeping up from the neckline of her dress.

  “You’re doing a fine job,” Steven reassured Jeremy. “Don’t take her need for discipline as an insult, or a sign it’s not working. She’ll settle down again soon enough once she realizes the rules are the same after the honeymoon as they were during.”

  “Good,” Jeremy said, sipping his Scotch. His eyes were locked firmly on his wife with a certain resolve that spoke volumes.

  “I’m, er… going to do the dishes,” Sarah said, rising from the chair. Sitting probably wasn’t comfortable.

  “And I should be taking my leave,” Steven said, standing as she did. “Thank you both very much for your hospitality.”

  “Thank you very much for your advice,” Jeremy said, shaking his hand. “We both appreciate it, don’t we, Sarah.”

  “We do,” Sarah said, a little smile leaping to her lips. Her eyes were sparkling w
ith fresh mischief already. Somebody was going to be getting another spanking that night, Steven was sure of it.

  He bade the couple a good night and returned to the church house where he lived alone. It had been many years since the laughter of a woman had filled that place. Steven had been married once, what seemed like a lifetime ago, even though he was only in his mid-thirties.

  Usually he was quite content to go through life as a single widow. The parish kept him thoroughly occupied and the people of Sweetville took wonderful care of their pastor. But when it was very quiet and the cheer of the couples he helped seemed in stark contrast to the quiet solitude of the church house, he did feel the pangs of a lonely heart.

  “What will I do with myself, Amelie?” He opened a locket and directed the question to the woman with the dark hair and laughing eyes in the picture contained within. She didn’t answer. She hadn’t been able to answer him in twelve long years. It didn’t matter. He knew what she would say. Find a wife, silly!

  “I know,” he murmured down at her. “But wives don’t just fall out of the sky, do they? It’s not as easy as all that.”

  She smiled on as always. He closed the locket and went to bed alone.

  Chapter One

  “That will be thirty-three fifty, pastor.”

  Having paid the cashier, Steven Soames picked up his sack of groceries and walked out through the parking lot. Sun beamed down on well-scrubbed asphalt and reflected off neatly parked, perfectly groomed late model cars. Here and there, well-dressed middle-aged men and women meandered toward the mall, preparing for an afternoon’s retail therapy at one of New England’s foremost boutique shopping centers.

  The air was perfumed with maple and rose, the last blooms of summer boldly displayed in well-tended beds surrounding the parking lot. In the distance green hills were beginning to burnish gold. Soon the riotous reds would sweep down into Sweetville Valley and consume the foliage of the leafy behemoths that populated the town more densely than people.

  A wisp of cold nipped at Steven’s neck and nose, rebelling against the heavenly glow from on high. The breeze played through his neatly styled dark hair, just beginning to show signs of graying at the temples. Steven Soames had a kind, strong, handsome face. A face that had rejuvenated interest in the parish of St. John and brought the once-dwindling Episcopalian congregation back from the brink of extinction.

  “Pastor Soames!” A woman with flowing blond locks and a suspicious lack of tell-tale wrinkles about her eyes and mouth waved at him, then rushed up. “Pastor, have you given any thought to this Sunday’s sermon yet?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Mills,” Steven said. “Actually, yes. I had.”

  “You should give a sermon on truth,” she said, ignoring his answer. “Seems to me, not everyone remembers how important truth is these days. Certainly not my ex-husband, or that strumpet…”

  “That’s an interesting idea, Mrs. Mills,” Steven said. “I’ll pray on it.”

  Mrs. Mills pursed her lips together and nodded. She would probably have pursued the matter further, but she spotted something amiss in the distance. “Those pink flyers don’t belong there,” she huffed before sailing off to put the papers in proper chromatic order.

  Steven made for his car, parked at the back of the lot underneath the shade of an elm. He’d been running errands for what felt like hours and was looking forward to a quieter afternoon. As he took his keys out, he noticed something in the back. Something that definitely hadn’t been there when he’d parked.

  A young woman was curled up on the back seat, sleeping soundly. She had a sweet expression on her face, light freckles dappling her nose and reddish brown hair that waved around her shoulders. She was wearing a sinfully short denim skirt that barely covered the rounds of her cheeks. A light cardigan covered her shoulders.

  Forgetting the key, Steven opened the door. Someone else had obviously already unlocked it. He was guessing his little visitor was responsible for that. She better have a good reason for that, or she’d soon discover she was heading the right way to a very well-spanked bottom.

  “Hey,” he said, leaning over the back seat and shaking her arm. “Wake up.”

  She opened her eyes. He looked into her hazel-green gaze, slightly confused, slightly impudent.

  “Da?”

  “This is my car,” he explained. “How did you end up in here?”

  “This… car…” she said, her voice thick with a Russian accent. “Was open.”

  It hadn’t been open, and Steven was sure nobody else had unlocked it. There weren’t many people in Sweetville capable of breaking into a vehicle. It wasn’t that sort of neighborhood. All the lawns were sowed with the same bright green grass that had been trucked in from the same sod company an hour out. The picket fences were whitewashed with uniform care and the houses were in compliance with the local HOA, which restricted roof colors to forest green or forest green, and letterboxes to khaki beige. It was an area where every kid had a 4.0 grade average, worked for extra credit, and kept a Labrador puppy named Max or Sam or Rover. Names were not dictated, but they may as well have been. Steven had several golden hairs still sticking to his slacks from his last encounter with a good-natured furry beast.

  The woman in his car did not belong in the neighborhood. The look in her wicked, cat-like eyes was unlike what other women gave him. It was appreciative, but appraising. Reserved, but vulnerable. She was a mass of foreign contradictions curled up against his leather options.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Samara.”

  “That’s not around here, is it?”

  “Russia.” Her lips quirked at his ignorance. Her stomach growled audibly, undermining her triumph. She was skinnier than she should have been, and by the stains on her tennis shoes and long socks, she had been living rough.

  “How old are you?”

  “Old enough.”

  “Why did you get into my car?”

  “I was tired,” she shrugged. “It looked like a good place to sleep.” She sat up and stretched, yawning into the back of one hand. “I go now, thank you.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  A ravenous look came into her eyes. She nodded quickly.

  Steven reached into his grocery bag, drew out the chicken salad sandwich he’d planned to snack on himself, and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, ripping through the foil. She stuffed the corner of the sandwich into her mouth, watching him with those wide eyes as she chewed.

  “There’s a homeless shelter in Brighton,” Steven said. “I’ll take you there.”

  “No,” she said through a mouthful. “I go now.”

  Steven hit the locks, earning himself a venomous look.

  “Don’t panic. I’m not going to hurt you. But you’re too young to be running around all on your own. You need a bath and a meal and a warm bed. You’ll get all three at the shelter.”

  The young woman banged her fist against the inside of the passenger window. “I don’t want shelter! I take care of myself!”

  “No, you break into cars to sleep. That’s no way to take care of yourself.”

  “I can’t go to a shelter! I don’t have… I don’t have papers.”

  Most homeless people didn’t have papers. It wasn’t going to matter that she wasn’t a legal immigrant, not to the people who would help her. It mattered to her though. She was scared. She was alone. She was lost.

  Steven had long ago taken a vow to feed the hungry, clothe the naked and comfort the dying. She was about one and a half of those things. Definitely hungry. Maybe not quite naked, but a more modest skirt and a blouse wouldn’t have gone amiss. There would no doubt be something more suitable in the donation box at the church.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Annika.”

  “My name is Steven Soames. I’m a priest.”

  Annika eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t look like a priest. What did you do with your dress?”

  “Episcopalia
n priests don’t wear robes except during ceremonies,” he explained. “Listen, I have a house at the church. It’s not much, but you can have a bath and eat something and we’ll go from there.”

  She looked at him with curiosity and mistrust. Then she nodded. “Take me to church.”

  It was probably just the language barrier that made her sound so demanding.

  He started the car. “Put your seat belt on.”

  “Is okay. I don’t need one.”

  “It’s the law of the land here, young lady. Please put your seat belt on.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Do you know what a seat belt is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then put it on.”

  Her freckled nose screwed itself up in irritation, but she did as she was told and pulled the belt across her body. He waited until she was buckled up before leaving the parking lot.

  “Do you still have your passport?” He asked the question as they drove down tree-lined lanes toward the church.

  She shook her head. “My husband took it.”

  “You’re married?”

  “No.”

  Steven frowned. “But you said your husband…”

  “I came here to marry. I didn’t marry.”

  The pieces fell into place. Of course. She was a mail order bride, one of Russia’s many desperate, attractive young women who flooded into the country every year in the hopes of gaining a handsome, rich American husband.

  “How long have you been in America?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Weeks? Months?”

  “Five or six weeks,” she said. “You ask too many questions.”

  “I need to get to know you to help you.” He flicked his indicator to the left and turned down the yew-lined drive that led to the little white church of St. John.

  “Is nice,” she observed flatly.

  “Was your fiancé from around here?”