Her Rogue Knight (8 page)

He pushed and circled, and the sensation was stranger and more confusing than she could have imagined. But when his finger penetrated the tight ring, she clenched her cheeks as tight as she could. Sir William made a sound when she did this, and with his other hand, he forced her open.

“Please, sir,” she begged quietly, unsure what exactly she was begging for, grateful for the moment that he could not see her face.

He pushed his finger deeper into her hole, and once it was fully in, he pressed his body against her back. “But they wouldn’t have used their fingers,” he said. She understood as his hardened cock pushed against her low back through his pants. “They would have made you their whore, Gemma,” he said, slowly pulling his finger out before thrusting it back inside hard.

She gasped again. “Please,” she begged again.

He held it there, gripping her hip with one hand as he pressed as deep as his middle finger would go. He pulled her backwards slightly with his finger still buried inside her.

She whimpered in shame.

“You will take your next six, and you will count each one. Once I’m finished whipping you, you will thank me. And if you ever, ever disobey me again, you’ll have something bigger than my finger inside your bottom. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered quickly, her voice quivering.

“Good,” he said, pulling his finger out slowly, the sensation of pain mixing with the tiniest hint of an unfamiliar arousal. But that was finished when he resumed his position to continue with her whipping.

Gemma braced herself, her bottom already throbbing with heat and stinging with the pain of the leather belt.

“Ask me to whip you. Ask me to punish you and tell me why you’re being punished.”

She cried tears of humiliation and of dread at the pain her imminent punishment would bring. She closed her eyes, knowing she would have to get through these next six before he would release her. “Please punish me for running away, for costing valuable time. For getting myself into trouble.”

The first stroke caught her at the top of her buttocks, and she gasped with the pain.

“Count.”

“One, sir.”

The next one was just beneath the last one, and she stomped her feet on the ground as she cried out.

“Two, sir.”

“Spread your legs wider and don’t clench,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” she said, doing as he told her, all modestly lost to the pain as he struck again.

“Three!” she screamed simultaneously with the strike.

The next one caught her at the juncture of her hips and buttocks.

“Four!”

The final two he delivered in quick succession across her thighs, barely giving her time to call out the count. Once it was over, Gemma stood there, her tears coming quietly, knowing she had brought this harsh punishment on herself, hating him for her humiliation, grateful to him that he had come for her, that he’d not left her.

“What do you have to say?” he asked, walking around to stand in front of her and replacing his sword belt across his waist.

“I’m sorry, sir. Thank you for my punishment,” she managed, unable to meet his eyes as her already red face flushed redder.

“Look at me.”

She shook her head, a small gesture.

He took her chin and lifted her face. “Look at me.”

She finally did.

“Look at me and say it.”

Shame stole her voice, but she managed with the smallest whisper to repeat her words.

He released her chin, retrieved his sword, and walked away, leaving her to stand as she was, her dress lifted high, her punished bottom and thighs on display.

* * *

Sir William had to walk away. He needed release. He was highly aroused, his cock hard. Seeing her trapped in the pillory, baring her, whipping her, pressing his fingers inside her hot little hole… He made some sort of sound and looked over at her displayed buttocks as she stood, still locked in place. She shifted from leg to leg, rubbing the tops of her feet alternately against her thighs, trying to relieve some of the pain.

Loosening his pants, he took hold of his cock. He turned away from her but with the image of her body, of her ass as he’d whipped it, of how it bounced as she tried to avoid the strokes but was unable to. Her striped bottom now on display branded onto his mind, the heat of her back hole still warm on his finger, he stroked himself, imagining the warmth of her around him, her wetness when he’d fingered her clit. He imagined taking her from behind, spreading her buttocks apart, pushing first into her wet pussy, then claiming her other hole. With that, his body shook, and his cock released as he, for some brief moments, lost himself in ecstasy.

Chapter Six

Gemma watched Sir William from beneath her lashes as he returned. She had since stopped crying and imagined he had left her trapped in the pillory, her skirt still raised, for a good half hour after her punishment was over. When he moved behind her without a word, she tensed immediately. But his hand on her hip was gentle, almost a caress even.

He touched the tender flesh, tracing what she imagined were the marks of his sword belt. “You’ll be sore for a few days, I believe,” he said before flipping her dress down to cover her. “But your skin is uncut.”

She stood stock still, unable to see him until she finally felt him raise the top plank of the pillory so she could free herself. She rubbed her wrists then began to massage her neck. She couldn’t yet meet his eyes.

“Gemma,” he said.

She kept her gaze to the ground, the lump in her throat making it impossible to swallow.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice gentle.

Her skin prickled, her belly felt strange, and she began to tremble.

His hand was soft as he lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. Hers were filled with tears when she turned them up to him.

“If I hadn’t come when I had,” he began, “they would have hurt you badly.”

She nodded, the stream of tears now having begun to flow. She knew that; he didn’t have to tell her that. Her next inhale was a loud sucking in of air, and her throat felt too full. He pulled her tight into his arms as she began to weep loudly.

“I’m sorry I had to punish you so harshly,” he said, holding her while her body rocked with her sobs.

“I know… it was…” she began, unable to finish a sentence without having to gasp for breath between words. “My fault.” She sucked in air. “I know what they might have done to me. I’m sorry.”

“Shh.” He held her tightly, rubbing her back. “It’s over now. You’re safe. You’re forgiven.”

At that she found herself tucking her body even closer to his, unable to understand her confused emotions, wondering how she could take comfort in the arms of the man who had just whipped and humiliated her so mercilessly. She should hate him, shouldn’t she? But she didn’t. Not at all.

At her own mental chastisement of herself, she pulled herself away and wiped her tears, putting on a long-learned, false front of bravado.

Sir William watched her, waiting to take his cue from her it seemed. Her body shook one last time with her next breath, and she forced herself to push her emotions deep inside her. She would deal with these strange new feelings later.

She took a step back and made herself meet his eyes, forcing herself not to think about what had just happened between them.

He studied her, his eyes curious, nothing angry or harsh in their now quiet blue depths. “You must be hungry,” he said, his gaze seeming to penetrate deeper, as if he were trying to read her mind.

But she wouldn’t allow that.

“I brought some bread with me from the tavern, and I’ve loaded what supplies they had into our saddlebags.” He walked over to the horses, and she followed. When he offered her the loaf of bread, she took it.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice tight, still unable to hold his gaze.

“You’re welcome.” There was an uncomfortable moment, then, “Gemma…” he began.

She looked at him, willing herself not to feel hurt, not to show her vulnerability. She should be able to do this by now. All her life, she’d put on a brave face. After the day her mother had died, she had never again allowed anyone to see her cry—not until she had learned Alys had been kidnapped. She hadn’t been willing to share her weakness. Now here was this man who could manage to bring it out of her. It wasn’t the physical pain she was crying over, no, that would have been easy. She would be sore for a few days, she knew that much. But that she could manage. It was the humiliation.

“Punishment is over. I don’t want you to feel ashamed,” he said, as if on cue.

He’d touched her
there
. His fingers had been on her sex. He had pushed inside her bottom. The fact that he knew it shamed her only made it worse. Her face began to crumple, but she turned away, willing herself not to hear the kindness in his words, forcing herself to collect and keep her emotions in check. It would be easier if he were cruel. If he were simply cruel. But he was not.

“How much time have we lost?” she asked, avoiding his comment.

He paused, then must have decided to let it go for now. “We’re about an hour from the trail we need to be on,” he answered. “We’ll have to ride into the night.”

She nodded. “I’m ready,” she said.

“Eat first,” he said.

She shook her head no. Her stomach hurt with hunger, but she wasn’t sure she could get the bread past her throat.

“Gemma, you need to eat. Take a few bites, and we can go.”

Knowing he wouldn’t let her off the hook, she managed two bites of bread then handed the rest back to him. He took it and placed it in her saddlebag, then held out her bracer. Her eyes teared up again at the sight of it. She slipped her arm inside it, unable to say a word. He laced it up tightly while she watched him, her skin almost vibrating every time his touched hers.

“It’s not too tight?” he asked.

She shook her head.

He looked like he wanted to say something but changed his mind. She followed him to the horses to find a sack sitting on top of her saddle.

“What is that?” she asked.

“I filled it with hay. I don’t think you’ll have a comfortable ride.”

He wasn’t looking at her when he said it, but she still blushed furiously.

“Let me help you up,” he said.

She normally would have refused help and mounted on her own, but today, that wasn’t a possibility. She’d never felt like this before. She’d never felt so vulnerable. She needed time to process what could have happened to her as well as what he’d done to her. She needed to understand her own confused emotions about it all; but now was not the time.

“Thank you,” she said once she was situated on the sack he’d tied to Morning Glory’s saddle.

He only nodded, seeming uncomfortable himself. He then mounted, and they rode off in silence.

* * *

The quiet bothered him. She had almost let herself go, almost let herself weep and sob and get it all out. The trauma of being taken by those men had added stress she may not have been aware of, and his punishment had been harsh. He suspected her father didn’t whip her, or if he had, he hadn’t in a long time. That coupled with the humiliation of her position, the shame of his threat of anal punishment… well, he wondered if he hadn’t taken it further than she could handle. He felt guilty.

He glanced at her. She was shifting on her seat, and although she was looking straight ahead, he imagined she wasn’t seeing a thing. She looked so caught up in her own thoughts.

“You were right to recognize the emblem on my sword,” he said, startling her and surprising himself.

He needed to do this. He needed to build some trust. He could make her obey, force her to submit to him, but he wanted her to give her obedience, to surrender to him freely. He did not want to take it from her.

She looked at him, expectant, some of the spark suddenly back in her eyes.

“I served a great king once,” he said, turning his gaze to the path. “The greatest king.”

He could feel her eyes on his even though he refused to look at her. “You were right about the innkeeper. He knows me. He knows my real name. As, I believe, does your father.”

When he turned to look at her, he found her staring intently.

“I am the bastard son of Lancelot and Helaine of Corbenic. I am a Knight of the Round Table. My true name is Sir Galahad.”

Long moments of silence followed.

“Sir Galahad is dead,” she said, her words filling space even though he knew she didn’t believe them.

“For a long time, I wished for death,” he said. It was silent again for a while before he continued. “The bracer you wear,” he began, touching the leather on her forearm before letting his fingers brush against the back of her hand, hovering there. When she didn’t flinch or pull away, he gained courage. “It was once Excalibur’s scabbard.”

Her mouth fell open, and she glanced at the jeweled piece.

“It contains powerful magic, Gemma. Magic that protects the wearer during battle. Keep it on you at all times, and no enemy will be able to spill your blood.”

“But… how?” she asked. He could see her trying to make sense of this new knowledge. “Morgan threw it into a lake. It was lost.”

Galahad shook his head. “It was never lost,” he said. “Only hidden.” And this was as far as he was willing to go. Guilt edged its way into his heart and mind, the same question haunting him: if he had returned it to Arthur, would his king be alive today? Would he have defeated Mordred in that final, fatal battle?

“Why are you helping me then?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“It can’t be for the promise of land. You could easily take it from my father, from us. That is what the rest have done. I wear the mark of the Fey according to some. According to you. You must hate them. Hate me.”

He shook his head. “I don’t hate you; you cannot help your birth. And I do not do this for the promise of land.”

“Sir Galahad the
Pure
?” she asked.

“There is nothing pure about me, Gemma,” he said, his voice full of regret.