“Give me your bottom, Daisy,” he growled. “You’ve been a bad girl. Show me how sorry you are.”
“Yes,” she cried. “I’ve been a bad girl. Take my bottom. I’m sorry!”
It took all his effort to hold back and not plunge into her with his full force. Her acceptance of his dominance fed his passion until he could no longer take it.
“Bad, bad girl,” he scolded, pumping his cock into her arse as his seed surged down his shaft. He spent inside her, then eased out and pulled her to her side, nested against him. He kissed her hair and snuggled her. “Good girl, Daisy. You did so well. I’m so proud of you.”
She held the hand he’d wrapped around her and kissed it.
Chapter Seven
With her husband’s permission, Daisy went out to check her traps the following week. She hadn’t thought he would allow her to go alone, but it seemed he trusted her not to leave and to be able to take care of herself, so long as the weather was not threatening.
Barrett had been touchingly sweet with her ever since the whipping. He had not pressed the issue of their consummation, seeming to accept what she had given him as enough for the moment. She still didn’t know what to think of it all. The way he’d taken her had been intense—both discomfort and pleasure all tied up together. She’d been caught up in giving herself to Barrett—pleasing him, and she’d never once been afraid or reminded of her first, terrible loss of innocence. Mayhap he was right; it could be different with him.
She’d been willing to try, but he hadn’t pressed the issue, and she had no intention of initiating it herself.
She found one rabbit in her traps and she carried it back. As she approached the gates, she saw three riders entering. They did not wear the Rothburg tabard and she did not recognize them. When she arrived, the three newcomers were walking from the stables. She stopped cold, her heart leaping to her throat and choking her.
Wolfhart. She would recognize that evil rat anywhere. As if she were still that ten-year-old child screaming beneath him, terror flooded every part of her being, leaving her frozen to the ground, staring.
He sauntered up. “Greetings, lady,” he said, looking amused at her gaping interest in them.
He didn’t remember her. Of course he didn’t. He’d probably raped hundreds of women and children.
She forced herself to curtsy, bowing her head as they passed. She stared at their backs, her eyes narrowed, fear morphing to pure hatred. She would make him pay for her sisters’ deaths. She would make him pay dearly.
She picked up her skirts and raced up to the solarium to think and makea plan. She considered telling Barrett. He might love her enough to avenge her sisters. But to ask someone else to murder in cold blood, to damn his soul along with hers, wouldn’t be right. No, if she wanted Wolfhart dead, she’d have to do it herself.
She searched Barrett’s things for a dagger or other suitable weapon, but found nothing. She’d have to take one from the armory, or else steal a kitchen knife. And she would need to get Wolfhart alone—she might be able to kill him, but she certainly couldn’t kill all three of the men. How would she lure him away?
The only thought that occurred to her made her sick.
But she had no other choice. Squaring her shoulders and steeling her nerves, she went back downstairs to search the armory for a dagger. She found a small one that would require quite a bit of sharpening, but it would do. She stuck it in her boot, then went to the chapel and knelt before the altar.
Dear God, forgive me for what I am going to do.
God would not forgive. She imagined her soul literally tearing away from her body as she contemplated her actions. The blackness inside her was as horrible as it had been the day her sisters died, as if the eight years in between had never happened.
She sniffed, realizing tears were streaming down her face.
“Bless you, my child. Do you wish to confess?”
She jumped, tweaking her neck as she whipped her head around to see Father Albert, the elderly priest, standing behind her.
She tried to say “No, thank you,” but instead she just began to sob.
The priest pulled up a chair beside her, handing her a handkerchief and looking kindly, but unruffled by her tears, as if he was accustomed to administering to such hysterics. He made the sign of the cross over her. “God hears your prayers, Lady Daisy.”
She tried to speak, but only hiccupping came out.
“Tell me your troubles, child,” the priest said gently.
“My two sisters were raped and killed by a man here at this castle,” she said, her words barely intelligible between sniffles and chokes. “He took my innocence. And I mean to exact revenge.”
The priest said nothing for a long time. Then, at last, he asked, “If your mind is made up, why do you cry?”
She drew in fluttering breaths, trying to regain control of her emotions. “Because my soul will be forever lost,” she said.
