The Princess and the Huntsman (3 page)

It took a few minutes to get to the mounting block, but soon she was astride her gelding and riding. Brandywyn was followed at a short distance by two grooms, but that was something she could remedy, and had many times before. She spurred Pontiffany to a strong gallop and raced away from the pair, straight into the forest, and down a narrow pathway. Circling several times, she was sure they had no idea where she would go, so she made for her special, hidden spot on the far side of the sand dunes to the west of the forest. So far, they had never found her there, so she felt safe.

At the beach, Brandywyn rode Pontiffany in the shallow surf for a while, enjoying the spray on her face. She let the wind blow her hair down and behind her like a long, golden flag, and smiled into the sun. The smell of the sea, so fresh and salty, tickled her nose and relaxed her shoulders. Anger melted away as though it had never been.

Dismounting, Brandywyn walked Pontiffany a short way, stopping to pick up a starfish along the way. She looked at the little creature and smiled. It was a gentle animal and gentled her spirit in turn. Carefully, she put it in the surf, where, presumably, it would make it back into the sea safely. Shore birds peeped and pecked for sand crabs and Brandywyn stilled so as not to scare them away. She whistled a bird call and got answers in return. Seagulls cried in approval, searching for their next meal and hoping Brandywyn would provide it. Alas, she had nothing to feed to them, but that did not stop her from watching them wheel and circle, enjoying their presence.

After a time, she went to the sheltered area between the dunes and sat in the sand. Brandywyn watched the waves come and go, come and go, like an endless, peaceful rhythm, soothing her soul.

* * *

Unknown to Brandywyn, a stranger sheltered behind her favorite sand dune, watching her stealthily. He had followed her through the forest, never losing his way. His horse was tethered a goodly distance away, and he made not a sound. All he did was watch her, admiring her loose golden hair and the way the sun sparkled in her green eyes, eyes now reflecting the green-blue sea. She was beautiful.

He watched as she removed her shoes and stockings and lifted her riding skirts carefully. She laughed as she frolicked in the wavelets that spun upon the shore, making footprints in the sand. Her feet were dainty, her ankles trim, like the rest of her. Slender, but rounded in all the right places.

The man wondered what she would do if he made himself known, but knew it would not be the right thing to do. It would frighten the maid and do harm to his cause. Instead he watched. He watched and dreamed about a time when he might share her joy with her. Although she had quite the reputation for being a termagant, he knew that he could soften her. He understood her reluctance to take a suitor. Perhaps she would be more inclined to take a lover. In some ways, this appealed to him; in others, it was abhorrent. ‘Twas best if Brandywyn remained chaste until she was betrothed… although with the right man…

After a while of watching her, smiling at her smiles and breathing the fresh breath of the sea with her, he carefully made his way back to his horse and left her alone. Time and tenderness would heal her broken heart.

Chapter Two

A day later, Brandywyn once again evaded her guards and rode toward the same spot on the beach. She still had not come up with a way to thwart her father’s plans, but she thought she was coming close. Once at the beach, she knew she would have a revelation.

But Brandywyn did not make it to the beach that day.

As she was traversing the forest, amid the strong and pleasant scents of pine and cedar, she heard noises in the underbrush and from the branches of the trees nearby. These were not the sounds of birds twittering in the trees. In fact, the birds were eerily silent. Perhaps a bear was foraging, in which case, ‘twould be wise to make haste away from where she trotted along. It could also be something completely innocuous, like a raccoon hunting for grubs. But not in the trees. Worry etched a line between her golden brows and she urged Pontiffany to a faster pace.

Suddenly men jumped from the trees and leapt up from the shrubs—armed men with masks tied over their eyes. Some were huge and hulking, threatening and growling.

Brandywyn leaned deeply over her horse’s head and kicked him to try to get away, but it was for naught. The biggest, burliest of the men grabbed Pontiffany’s bridle just before the horse could rear. The animal snorted and whinnied, but did not fight. Brandywyn was trapped.

She chose to be bold and not cower. A princess did not fall apart when faced with unexpected danger. It took great courage, but she yelled, “Cry off, knave, or face the wrath of King Dent!”

The man had the gall to laugh. It was a deep, rich, throaty laugh, but chilling in its confidence. “Hail, Princess Brandywyn! Your father has no say in the matter. You are ours now, and a right splendid ransom we shall have for you.”

Boldly, she tried again. “I shall have you hung from a tree and gutted, you scurrilous scoundrel!”

“Certes, you might, but not this day.” He nodded to one of his men, who came to take Pontiffany, and the big man pulled her, kicking and screaming, from the saddle.

“My guards will hear me scream! They will come to my aid! Leave be! Unhand me!”

“You are a loud little thing, aren’t you? Hush now or I shall have to gag you.”

Brandywyn knew that making noise would not summon her guards—they were too far away and she had lost them quite a while back. But perhaps a cottager would hear her screams and come to rescue her, or at least hurry off to the palace to get help. So, she continued screaming, kicking, attempting to bite. The burly man was having none of it. He easily subdued her, but she got one wicked kick in before he had her secured. He oomphed with the pain in his shin and his mouth tightened, but he did not let go.

“Enough, Princess, or feel the flat of my hand!”

Brandywyn screamed all the louder and hit him as hard as she could. If he beat her for it, well, so be it. She would take whatever he dealt and laugh in his face.

But he did the most unexpected thing. He dragged her, still kicking and spitting, to a nearby fallen log and threw her over his lap. Securing her hands behind her back—with great effort, for she did not make it easy on him—he held her down firmly. Her skirts were raised, her drawers were lowered, and her bottom was bared. The fellows around all laughed at her as she squirmed and screamed. The leader threw his leg over her two and there was a pause filled with her yelling and calling him names.

“Coward,” she screamed. “You would test my mettle? I dare you! I dare you to strike the princess of Ring!”

“Right,” he said simply. “Never let it be said that… er…
Smith
cannot control one weak woman.”

“Weak! Unhand me! I demand—”

But Brandywyn’s protest was abruptly cut off by the sound and feeling of his hand coming down firmly on her rump. She squealed and squirmed harder. “Let me go!”

Once again, Smith’s hand came down on her behind, and then again and again. Brandywyn was beginning to feel a small burning sensation and the humiliation of her position made her even angrier. None of her cries or protests made a bit of difference to Smith; he kept spanking her over and over again.

Brandywyn had never felt anything like it. Her bottom was scorched, her pride manhandled. And still he struck her. She called him every rude name she had ever heard and hurled every epithet she could think of at him. But the spanking went on.

“Stop struggling and calm down,” he said firmly, his hand falling sharply on her beleaguered fanny. “Mind!”

“No! I hate you! Oh!”

“I shall keep spanking you until you calm, Princess. I care not if you are bruised and battered by the end of the punishment.”

Brandywyn realized that he was telling her the truth. He truly did not care if she was harmed. A cold frisson traveled up her spine. This danger was more than she was prepared to face. She would not back down, but perhaps she should take control by pretending to cooperate with him. Then, somehow, she would find a way to get free.

Although she could not help her yips and squeals—his spanking hurt!—she did stop calling him names and tried not to squirm so much. “Stop!” she cried, ashamed that tears were beginning to form in her eyes. “Mercy! I beg you to stop!”

He smacked her a few more times. “Will you stop fighting?”

Oh, how she wanted to tell him no, for, indeed, she would never stop fighting. But she needed to be deceptive. “Aye! I shall heed your orders. Please, please stop!”

Smith gave her one more resounding slap, right where her bottom and thighs made a cross, and the tears began to spill. Would he never cease? Was this hell she had fallen into? Once again, the gods had deserted her and she was on her own. Realizing that she had no one to turn to made her situation all the worse, and though she tried to stop her tears, there was no help for it.

Brandywyn was crying freely when the spanking stopped. Her behind was on fire, aching and burning fiercely. She was sure she was black and blue. Perhaps she was abraded by his big, callused hand.

“Well enou’,” he said, pushing her off his lap. Brandywyn landed in a heap and tangle of skirts, her legs splayed. The ground under her behind was cool, but grit and twigs irritated her stinging seat.

Smith caught a bundle of rags, tossed by one of his henchmen, and he dropped it on Brandywyn’s lap. “Dress. I shall take your fine gown. It will fetch a pretty price.”

She could never dress in these ragtag, dirty garments. “No!”

Smith took a step toward her, and despite herself, she cringed. She prayed he would not hit her in the face. It did not seem to be his intent, however.

“Do you want another spanking, Princess?”

Reminding herself that she had to be cooperative, she shook her head.

“Very well. Dress.” His deep voice brooked no argument.

Brandywyn rose from the ground and looked around for a private place to shed her gown. She even took two steps toward a small clearing she spied past a few trees, but Smith grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “Dress here.”

“But your men!”

“They are not trembling virgins, Princess. Your form holds nothing interesting to them.”

That stung. Brandywyn had assumed that all these men were lecherous rapists and that the sight of her unclothed would make them so crazy that she would be set upon immediately. Apparently, she was not that pretty after all. Smith watched her, his dark eyes unfathomable behind his black mask.

She looked at his men. The six stood silent, watching her along with their leader. “I… I cannot,” she stuttered. And truly, she could not. The laces of her bodice were behind her, properly tied there by one of her waiting women. A princess was never expected to disrobe by herself.

Smith growled.

“The laces,” she told him. “I cannot reach them.”

“Pah,” he mumbled. “Turn.”

She did and her taciturn captor unlaced her points. Cooling air swept over her back, right through her sheer chemise. Brandywyn blushed furiously as she dropped her costly garments in the dirt. Making to put the rags over her chemise and drawers, Smith stayed her hand, and gestured. “Those, too.”

“But I shall be naked!”

His smile was feral. “Verily.”

Hesitating, Brandywyn bit her lower lip. It was almost too much to bear.

“Do it, or I shall do it for you,” Smith said.

Brandywyn had already suffered his hands on her person; she would not accept more of the same. Instead, she rallied her courage and took off the rest of her garments. She had never been unclothed in the woods before, and in some ways it was new, different, illicit, but those ways were far outmatched by the deep embarrassment she felt as the men watched her avidly.

Quickly, she pulled the scratchy rags onto her body. They were torn, dirty, coarse, smelly, everything she hated, but they covered her.

“Well enou’,” Smith pronounced as he grabbed her around the middle. Once again, Brandywyn kicked and struggled, but Smith caught a rope tossed by one of his men and quickly tied her hands and feet. She almost got a kick toward his groin, but he grunted and avoided her strike easily by turning his thigh inward.

“Shall you be gagged also, Princess? Or will you cease your screeching?”

A gag would make her feel strangled. She stopped struggling. “I shall be quiet.”

“Good.” With that single word, Smith grabbed her and tossed her over his horse, face down. Brandywyn’s air left her lungs with a whoosh, and her discomfort was only just begun. Smith mounted the horse, sitting tall and imposing in the saddle, and ordered his men to be off. He led the way through the trees, but Brandywyn couldn’t raise her head to tell where they were going, nor squirm around to spy their path. To do so would mean a perilous fall from the horse. Instead, she tried not to cry, and prayed that her father would soon come looking for her.

The day wore on, but they never left the forest. They passed over deer trails and through the deep woods, the men making small-talk or remaining silent for long stretches. Brandywyn was terribly uncomfortable, headachy, weary, and hungry. She had eaten nothing since the noon meal, and since that had been shared with that dreadful Prince Gammon, the food had been like rotten grain in her mouth. She ate little and left quickly.

When it was nearly full dark, Smith told his men to stop and make camp in a small clearing. Although the big man dismounted, he left Brandywyn dangling. She thought maybe she could squirm down, and now that the horse had stopped, she might not get trampled in the process. But the horse was a tall one and it seemed like a long way down, from her upside-down perspective. Still, she wriggled a bit, testing the feeling of slipping off the horse slowly. Unfortunately, she wriggled a bit too much and slid right down the side of the horse rapidly. Her tied feet couldn’t support her and she landed smack on her bum with a soft cry as her bottom smarted from her earlier spanking and falling on the hard dirt.