Humbled (2 page)

Her companion looked about, assessing the landscape. They had been following a wagon path, but it skirted the villages and farms, cutting through forest and undeveloped rocky plains. She realized now it must be a Romany route. They were on a hillside but forest appeared ahead.

“We will find a place to camp in the forest,” he said.

She licked her dry lips but found she had no energy to answer. Knowing the end was in sight somehow made it worse. She wanted to collapse there, on the spot, certain she could not walk another step, yet her feet continued their mindless trudging. When they entered the woods and still did not stop, she began to whimper.

“We are almost there,” he said. “Do you hear the water? I am sure you are as thirsty as I.”

She nodded wordlessly and stumbled on until they came upon a little stream.

“This way,” he said, taking her hand to lead her down the embankment. The gesture was too familiar, yet carried such strength and confidence it reassured her. Indeed, it felt more right than any touch she had received from a stranger. They knelt at the stream’s edge, cupping their hands to scoop water into their mouths, the cool liquid soothing her cracked lips and swollen tongue.

Her mind seemed to return after a few moments of steady refreshment, and she peered at the peasant squatting beside her. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle. His square jaw was clean-shaven, showing his youth, but again she had the impression his eyes looked far older.

“Why are you helping me?”

The azure eyes met hers. “You saved my life once. I am obligated to return the favor.”

* * *

She stared for two full seconds. “Jean-Claude Armand?”

He gave a surprised chuckle. “You remember my name?”

She shivered, still gaping. “I do,” she said faintly.

He took her elbow and urged her back up the embankment. “Come, mademoiselle. You are weary. We will sleep a bit, and then I will forage some food.”

She looked over at him, as if still in wonder. “You came to Château de Gramont to save me?”

“Yes,” he said simply. He had second-guessed his decision several times already that night, as traveling with a pampered aristo who had never known a day of hardship would not be pleasant, but there was no denying his debt to her. He would get her to safety as quickly as possible and be free of his obligation.

“Where are you taking me?”

He frowned. He had been considering options since the moment they left Gramont. “To England. We must assume the châteaux in Bourges have been attacked, the same as Gramont. If your parents made it out alive, there is a good chance they also went to Paris, and yet… I do not believe it is safe for you there. I am aiming for England. Do you have any relatives or friends with whom you might stay?”

She looked stricken, and he realized she had not considered her parents might be dead.

“I am sorry,” he offered, although the platitudes of a stranger could be of little use to her.

She shook her head. “I cannot think of any.”

“Well, you are safer there, even without resources. You bear the name of an ancient house,
and your beauty cannot be denied. Some English gentleman will snatch you up as his bride. You will be taken care of.”

He thought his words would be reassuring, but instead she stared at him in pure horror. “
This
is your plan? To cast me off in England where I will stand under a lamppost until some man takes me home and feeds me like a stray dog?”

He winced. It did not sound so clever when she put it that way. But where did his obligation to her end? Was it not enough to escort her all the way to England? What responsibility did he have beyond that? After all, she had saved his life, no more. She had not come to visit afterward to see if he had enough food to eat or a warm place to sleep. In England she would not be hunted for a status she could not help. She would be safe enough.

No, what she did in England was not his dilemma.

He found a protected area, in the lee of a giant felled tree. He kicked the leaves around to make a bed of them, then indicated she should lie down.

She looked doubtful. “You wish to bed
there
?”

He bit back his annoyance and stepped forward to settle himself on his side, ignoring her.

She crouched down and peered at the little nest. “Are there spiders?”

He gave a snort. “Most likely. But if anyone comes upon us while we sleep, there is a very good chance they will pass on by without spying us. That is why I selected this location.”

Her expression was of pure disgust, but she settled gingerly onto the leaves, disconcerting him by lying close and facing him. She was even prettier than she had been as a child, though a bruise darkened her cheek where the villager had struck her and she had dark circles under her eyes. She had pale skin, which contrasted with her dark hair and full, berry-colored lips.

He had to admit, though she had complained, she had not shed a single tear, nor had she given way to theatrics. Either she was deluded about her current situation or she was quite brave. He guessed brave, as it fit with their first encounter all those years ago. She certainly was unique. Despite his bias against her, part of him looked forward to finding out just what lay beneath the pretty exterior of Mademoiselle de Gramont.

“If you wake and I am not here, stay where you are—I will return.”

She nodded.

“Don’t leave this tree. Not for anything. If anyone comes by, just burrow deeper. They will never see you in there. Understand?”

“I understand.”

He watched as she blinked at him twice before her breath deepened into slumber and her eyes drifted closed.

* * *

When he woke it was midday. He left his charge sleeping to search for edible roots or vegetables and to set a snare in hopes of catching a rabbit. It took several hours, but in the end, he was successful in both endeavors. When he returned, however, Corinne had disappeared.

He studied the ground for tracks but found nothing. He opened his mouth to call for her but stopped himself. Already one party had traveled the path they were on since he had been off hunting. He could not risk drawing attention to them. He set the food down and prepared kindling for a fire. When she still had not returned, he began to skirt the area.

Walking toward the stream and the path, he froze when he heard the sound of a group approaching. Only a moment later, the noise of splashing water carried, and he saw the flash of skin. The voices grew louder as he realized Corinne was emerging naked from the stream. What in God’s name had she been thinking? This was no time to bathe!

In a flash, he slid down the embankment, covering her mouth with his hand to muffle her scream as he yanked her back into the lee of the bank, the back of her dripping body crushed against his front.

The voices had quieted at her cry, as if the men were listening. She stood rigid now, her body trembling against his, the water on her skin dampening his clothes. She tried to turn her head, eyes bulging and frantic, like a filly about to rear. He swiveled her head so she could see it was him and darted his eyes to the bank to indicate the danger. She attempted a nod, and he loosened the hold on her mouth but did not release her.

The men were no more than 15 feet away now. She began to struggle to free herself and he turned her face toward his once more, giving her a severe look. She lifted her chin to point toward the ground about 5 feet away, where her clothing lay in a heap, visible to anyone who looked over.

Hell.

He gave a sharp shake of his head and yanked her even closer to his body. She seemed to accept his decision, melting against his form as if she wished to disappear. He softened his grip, listening to the voices as they grew louder, though he grew increasingly distracted by the sight of water droplets trailing over the swell of two perky breasts just beneath his eyes. Their breathing synchronized, the beat of his heart hammering into her back, meeting the thunder of hers.

Do not move. Do not touch her other than to keep her safe.

His fingertips did not listen. They began to make miniscule circles on her upper arm, the largest gesture he dared considering their position. He was acutely aware of the fact that she could not protest, nor resist. He could press his advantage if he wished. He did not intend to, though his cock strained in his trousers against her low back. Her skin was impossibly soft, and she smelled fresh after her dip in the stream. The temptation to lick her neck came out of nowhere, but the voices grew louder and he held his breath, stilling to listen.

He and Corinne stared at her clothing on the bank. He was certain she prayed as hard as he they would come no nearer. Just twenty paces away, a group of five men climbed down the embankment to drink from the stream. He saw them clearly, which meant if they looked, they would see him. The thought of how they would react to the sight of Corinne in her naked glory turned him ice cold.

Please do not let them look this way. Please, God.

It seemed an eternity while the men talked, drank, and washed themselves in the water, but at long last, they tromped back up the way they had come. Corinne sagged in his arms.

* * *

As soon as he released her, she darted forward to scoop up her garments. Perhaps it seemed foolish, but she was less concerned about her modesty than she was about the jewels she had taken the time to sew into her dress. If the men had seen the dress and taken it… she shuddered. She pulled on her silk chemise—the part of her clothing, along with her slippers, that still gave her away as aristocracy.

Jean-Claude climbed the embankment without a word, presumably to give her privacy, though he had just seen every inch of her. She swallowed, remembering the touch of his fingers on her skin. No man had touched her so intimately before. She ought to be furious, but in truth, she had enjoyed it—his protection, his strong arms, and even his inappropriate touch.

She pulled on the rough but now richly-endowed serving gown and laced it with clumsy fingers. Crouching down, she rubbed dirt over her slippers, covering the expensive fabric with wet earth, grinding it into the weave to dull their appearance. When she climbed to the top of the bank, she stopped short.

Jean-Claude leaned against a log, three long switches in his hand and a determined look on his face. “What did I tell you about obedience?” he asked softly.

She side-stepped downriver. “Oh no,” she said.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Do you wish me to leave you?”

Anger warred with panic. She stood rooted in place, no words coming to her lips. Too many near misses had worn her down, and she was too flustered now to think how to escape this dilemma. No. She did not wish him to leave her, nor did she wish to be whipped. Especially not by a peasant who seemed to enjoy lording it over her.

But it seemed she had no choice.

She tossed her head and marched back to him, standing before him with her jaw clenched. Not quite able meet his eye, her angry glare fell instead upon his throat, exposed by the open collar of his shirt. He lifted the hem of her dress, and she snatched it back, not wanting him to notice the jewels she had sewn into it whilst he was away.

“Put it in your mouth—so your cries are muffled.”

She gaped, daunted by his nonchalance about her cries. She cursed him inwardly, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a single sound. Still, she obeyed his orders, because she did not want him to touch the dress again and discover her secret.

He grasped her arm and tugged her over the fallen log, the bark rough under her hands and chest. He grasped her skirt again, and she prayed he would not feel the lumps, but he merely tossed it up over her back. She felt the warmth of his hand at the back of her thigh, fingering the silk of her chemise.

“Pretty,” he muttered.

The idea that he had never handled such a fine article of clothing somehow added to her humiliation—in the course of less than twenty-four hours, she had been so lowered that a common peasant now claimed to be her master, and even worse—she allowed it. Was she truly bending over a log and offering her backside for his punishment?

She gasped as he dragged her chemise up, exposing her bottom to the fresh air. Gooseflesh lifted across her cheeks in anticipation of her chastisement, and she shivered at the chill of the breeze on her sex. The first lick of the switch struck like a line of fire, scorching her flesh, stinging the surface with the pain of a thousand ant bites.

She bit down hard on the cloth filling her mouth, the dry muslin rough against her tongue. The second stroke was just as horrid, and the third came too soon, before she had even caught her breath. She started to moan but sucked it back, making a strange gurgling sound instead. Four, then five strokes whipped across both cheeks, and her legs began to tremble as if they might not hold her. She clung to the bark of the tree, leaning into her chest, ducking her head. She did not want him to have the satisfaction of seeing her cringing face. On the sixth stroke, the switch broke, yet he did not even pause, simply changing it for a fresh one and beginning anew.

She wanted it to stop. After each stroke she was certain she could not take another, and yet they continued to rain down on her quivering buttocks, leaving what she imagined were dreadful welts. She loosed an arm from where it was tucked beneath her chest and reached her fingers back to cover her poor, raw flesh, but he caught her wrist before it even arrived, twisting her arm behind her back with an ease that troubled her. Who else had he thrashed? Why did he seem so comfortable tormenting her this way?

She pressed her cheek into the bark, the bite of the wood providing a welcome distraction against the insistent fire on her backside. She lost count after twelve and surrendered to the pain, all resistance leaving her body so it hung heavily over the log, her feet dangling uselessly. The second switch broke, and he used the third, breaking it after three cruel stripes. She prayed he would not cut another.