The Lord's Bride Read online

“You have a sweet bottom, Mary,” he said, praising her almost as casually as he would a nice dress. “It feels wonderful stretched about me. You should see how you look so spread, your quim dripping with desire.”

  His words made it all the worse for Mary, who felt her hard bud tingling with a need for release beyond all other. Martin had often made free with her body, but he had never done so in quite this way. She was trapped around his cock, hoist by her petard. She could no longer claim victory of any kind, for he had caught her most thoroughly.

  Pleasuring himself quite shamefully, Martin spilled his seed inside her bottom, then rose from the bed and applied a solid slap to her cheeks.

  She whimpered, her bottom sore inside and out. For the first time in many years, she felt positively chastened, with not a hint of ire or rebellion remaining.

  “What say you now, Mary?”

  Mary did not answer. She could not answer, for her voice was faint and weak, and she could not seem to find any words in her head. They had all fled, leaving her at her master’s mercy.

  “Mary?” He leaned down and placed a tender hand on her neck, then kissed her cheek. “You may think me harsh, but no other lessons have proved effective.”

  When she did not speak, he drew her into his arms and caressed her softly. No further words passed between them, but a quiet understanding was shared. Mary had reached a point beyond which she dared not test him. Martin had proved himself a most able master, one who saw through her schemes and knew her thoughts—and one who could wrest pleasure from pain and leave her quivering after punishment.

  After a time, he got up from the bed and made to leave. That was more than Mary could bear. She lifted her head and spoke the first words since he had entered her bottom.

  “If you leave me here, I shall hate you.”

  “You could no more hate me than I hate you,” he said, pressing a sweet kiss to her cheek. “You have made yourself a criminal, Mary, and all criminals must face justice sooner or later.”

  “I am no criminal, Martin. I was a victim of fate and circumstance and the plotting of an evildoer.”

  “You were a victim to be sure. Now you have made others your victims. You have taken from honest men, stolen bread from the mouths of their families.”

  “I have never stolen bread from anyone’s mouth,” Mary defended herself.

  “Not directly, mayhap. What do you think happens when a merchant is robbed and returns home?”

  “He considers the wickedness of his mercantile ways.”

  “Wickedness? Is it wicked to sell food and clothing?”

  “Yes. A man can grow his own food, and a woman can sew her own clothing. These merchants, they take what should be natural labors and turn them into gold. Everything has a price to a merchant. They feel no love.”

  “Your uncle perhaps was that way, but not all merchants are. You must give up this crusade, Mary. The Lord commands it, and I command it. Let the past be.”

  “Let the past be? If someone were to take de Stafford manor from you, I doubt you would decide to let the past be.”

  “I doubt I would take petty revenge on the entire class of whatever person happened to be at the root of my loss,” he said. “If a bee were to sting me, I would not eradicate all bees in the land.” He smiled down at her. “I would never have believed such determination lay in that sweet breast.”

  “I am many things you never suspected me to be, Martin,” she said, feeling sadness rise after the anger. “I am not the woman you imagined.”

  “You are that woman and more,” he replied. “Do you not see? After all you have done, I still want you, Mary.”

  “In your dungeon as a prisoner, perhaps.”

  “No. I want you by my side when you are ready to leave this vendetta behind. When you understand that the law does apply to you, that I stand ready and able to protect you from those who would do you harm.” He went to one knee before her and took her hand in his. “Mary, you are not alone in this world anymore. You are mine to protect, and I will do it with every breath in my body.”

  Mary felt her eyes filling with tears. “There was a man who protected me that way once,” she said. “And he died on the floor at his own party. He was the victim of mercantile greed. My uncle was responsible for that murder. I know it. You know it. But he was allowed to do as he pleased, because there was no evidence of his crimes.”

  “It was a very sorry matter,” Martin agreed. “And I am very sorry I was not of more help during those dark days. I will never leave you that way again, Mary. I swear it on my life.”

  “Do not swear it on your life, dear Martin. I know how fragile a life can be.”

  “Poor Mary. So young and yet so jaded.” He stroked her hand. “I remember the days when you used to smile and laugh.”

  “Those days are gone, Martin.”

  “They will return. There is a season for sorrow, and it is ending.”

  “You say that, but you have me locked up here like an animal.”

  “Better than locking you up with the rest of your criminal ilk.” He stood and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well, sweet Mary. The world may seem bleak, but I promise you there are good times ahead.”

  Mary watched him leave with a sense of sadness and incredulity. Was he truly going to leave her alone?

  “Martin…”

  “Do not tug at my heart strings, Mary,” he said firmly. “You have escaped from watchful eyes more times than I could imagine. I do this for your own good.”

  “There are no watchful eyes in this cellar,” she said. “If you leave, I shall be all alone.”

  He stopped. “You wish to share this cell with me?”

  “It is much larger and well-appointed than my quarters at the convent,” Mary said, gesturing about the place. “Indeed, it is quite pleasant. We could be happy here, you and I. This bed would certainly sleep two, and the far corner could be used for daily walks. If we landscape the back with a little straw, we could perhaps keep a pair of puppies.”

  Martin chuckled. “Now there is the Mary I used to know. Very well, I shall join you in your prison, my sweet.”

  He crossed back over to the bed and wound his arm around Mary’s shoulders. “Only you could convince a sheriff to spend the evening in one of his own cells.”

  “Only you would have a cell built in your own home,” Mary rejoined. “A pleasure dungeon.”

  “Pleasure?” Martin rested his back against the wall of the cell and drew Mary down beside him on the bed. “Am I failing in my punitive endeavors?”

  “Your pleasure, at the very least.”

  “And yours too, sweet Mary,” he said, holding her close. “I see the evidence of your pleasure written across the sweet petals of your most intimate garden.”

  Blushing, Mary hid her head in his chest. “Is it wrong to enjoy my husband’s touch?”

  “It is not wrong at all, sweet Mary. It is among the most righteous of your many admirable qualities.”

  “Many admirable qualities? You must be thinking of another woman.”

  “Nay. I speak only of the woman in my arms. The woman I love in spite of the fact she does not love herself. The woman I will trust though she has not proven herself to be trustworthy.” He spoke to the top of her head as she curled up against him, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. “We are all capable and deserving of redemption, Mary, even you.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” she said softly, curling her fingers in his doublet. He was still fully clothed, whilst she lay entirely bare and vulnerable in his arms. She might have felt humiliated and ashamed, but she did not. She felt loved. To her very core, she felt loved.

  “Mary,” he said softly. “You can believe that. Your secrets are known to me. I have met your associates. Those who have aided and abetted you…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Dylan the Red and his band of thieves.”

  Mary’s felt a cold shaft in the pit of her stomach. “You have not…”
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  “Arrested them? Nay,” Martin said. “It would not do to arrest those who protected you, even if they were perhaps the source of your corruption. You see, Mary, I know all. I know what you have done. I know who you have done it with. I know your mind and I know your heart and I know you to be good.”

  Tears sprang to Mary’s eyes. How could he possibly see her as good after all she had done?

  “There is redemption in love, Mary,” Martin whispered against her lips, pressing soft kisses to her face. “Trust it. Trust me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thirty days of unbridled lust between husband and wife was not let go to waste. Martin stayed true to his word, and not a day went by that his bride did not satisfy him, and in turn herself. She often apologized for her sins, but it was not until the thirty-first day that Mary truly showed absolute contrition. On that day, the cell door opened and she was allowed to walk free.

  She was glad to be released from the cell, of course. That alone would have been reward enough, but Martin had more in store for her. No sooner had she seen the light of day than she was swept into a carriage by her gallant husband and driven out into the countryside.

  Mary asked many times whence they were headed, but Martin would not answer, until it became entirely apparent that they were returning to de Vere manor. Mary had not been back to the place since leaving on the day of her ill-fated first wedding. She could not bear the pain of seeing the old home desecrated and destroyed, nor did she trust herself not to run Vincent de Vere through if she were to lay eyes upon him again.

  “Martin, I beg you,” she said, “please do not make me return to that cursed place.”

  “Hush,” he said. “Do not question me.”

  His words ignited her temper, but she did not give way to it, for she knew that the consequences would undoubtedly be sharp and unpleasant.

  “I do not wish to see that which I cannot have,” she said. “It pains me.”

  “Hush,” he said. “All things in good time, Mary.”

  “That means nothing,” she said. “Do not foist your platitudes upon me, Martin.”

  Martin gave her a hard look and she fell silent as they drew up to the old house. It was showing many signs of neglect and early decay, especially in the gardens and paths which grew thick with weeds. There was none of the life and bustle that had once characterized the place. The stables stood empty, and there were no servants in evidence. The manor looked like a ghost of its former self. It made Mary feel as if perhaps she had only imagined the many happy days she had spent inside those venerable walls.

  Looking toward her husband with tears in her eyes, Mary could not help but question him again. “Why do you torture me so?”

  “Get out, Mary.”

  “I do not wish to set foot on this soil again,” she protested.

  “Out. Now.”

  Wary of disobedience, Mary acquiesced to her husband’s demand and got out of the carriage. She stood before the main doors, remembering a time they had always been open to her. Now they were shut fast, just as they had been on the day she was driven away.

  Before she could open her mouth and say something that would get her into the trouble she was so often in, Martin reached out toward her and opened his hand. In it was a key. “This is yours.”

  She took it, confusion on her face. “Mine?”

  “It is the key to de Vere manor, and it is yours. It will always be yours.” He produced a parchment, which Mary unrolled to see the title and the deed not in Martin’s name, but in her own.

  “Martin… how could this be?”

  “Do you not see the seal at the bottom?”

  She looked and then looked again. It was the king’s own seal.

  “De Vere manor is yours, by royal decree,” Martin said. “Your uncle is long gone to the north. This house and these lands will be kept in your bloodline as long as it lasts.”

  “But… how?” Mary’s eyes were welling with tears of joy.

  “It was as you said, everything has a price to a merchant,” Martin said. “I purchased de Vere manor and its lands from your uncle. As for the king, he heard our story, and it moved him.”

  “What a glorious man he must be,” Mary said. “And what a wonderful husband you are.”

  “There is the smile I have so long missed,” he said, pressing a kiss to her lips. “I would pay all the gold in the land seven times over to see that smile.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Did you?”

  “Did I what, dear Mary?”

  “Pay all the gold in the land seven times over?”

  “No,” he said. “There is something I need to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I doubt you will be troubled by this news, but your uncle was found dead two weeks ago. He appeared to have been set upon by highway bandits, deprived of his riches and his life.”

  “Oh.”

  That was all Mary said on the subject of her uncle’s death. It seemed to her that even the simple sound itself was too much to say for such a knave.

  “I have purchased the title to de Vere manor,” Martin said. “You are the rightful owner of this house. You have always known it, and now I see it too. De Vere manor is not a place of walls and floors. It is a place of love. It is the seat of a family, not safe harbor to a traitor. I knew you would never rest until it was returned to you. Now you can, my sweet. Now you can finally find the peace you have been denied all these years and mourn your father as he deserves to be mourned, with a full heart.”

  Mary could no longer see de Vere manor, for the tears swimming in her eyes overwhelmed her sense of sight. But it was not sorrow that so moved her; rather, it was joy. That which she had so long struggled for in all the wrong ways had been delivered to her by the man who walked a path so righteous she thought angels surely envied him.

  “You are too good for me, dear Martin.”

  “No, Mary. You are better than us all. You endured many cruelties, but you withstood them all. You fought where others would have faded. I will always admire you for your spirit and for your fire. Never lose it.”

  “Under your hand there is no risk of losing my fire,” Mary said, teary-eyed. “If I cannot find it in my heart, it is sure to be in my hide.”

  Laughing, the happy couple embraced with a passion that made the sun shine a little brighter and the ill-tended flowers bloom wider. If Mary had not known better, she would have said that de Vere was coming back to life, welcoming her home.

  * * *

  On a cool spring evening, a lady in a silken gown crept out onto a fire-lit balcony. Her eyes were the color of damp grass, her hair the hue of bracken. As she leaned her weary body against a pillar, the curve of her hip described an elegant sway. Her eyelashes drooped low, for exhaustion was creeping upon her. She rested her hand upon her swelling belly and smiled into the night.

  Down below, a gathering was taking place. With a place to settle and land to call their own, the gypsies had abandoned their criminal ways and instead turned their skills to playing. No longer did they rob the rich. Instead, they entertained them. Judging by the raucous laughter from below, they were just as good as players as they had been robbers.

  “Mary.” The voice that murmured her name was that of her husband. Martin de Stafford emerged from the shadows and wrapped an arm about her waist, speaking tender words against her neck. “I hardly thought it possible, but you look more beautiful than ever.”

  “Swollen as I am?”

  “You are full of our love,” he said, placing a hand upon her stomach, ripe with child. “Swollen with the future. It is a thing of great beauty. I wonder at the gift you are bearing me.”

  “And I wonder at the gift you have given me,” she replied. “You have given me not only the future, but the past. You have restored what was taken from me, though I did not deserve it, and you have loved me most fully even when I was impossible to love.”

  “You have never been impossible to love,” he said, taking
her face between his hands and pressing a multitude of kisses to her lips. “I have loved you from the first, and I will love you until the last. On my life, I swear it.”

  The End

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Loki Renard Links