Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (35 page)

I shrug. She just laughs harder. “I’m from
Edinburgh, lass. Edinburgh in the time of Queen Victoria. Lord
Verdigris, ‘e snapped me up years ago when I was a-washin’ me
laundry in the Princes Street Public Fountain!” Bridget smiles and
blushes a bit. “I was but a wee lass back then. In me youth,
milady, I’uz a pretty lass, I was. I spent many a fair year in the
Hall of Harlots as a workin’ girl meself.”

Now I’m puzzled. “But if you’re too old to work in
the Hall any more, doesn’t that mean Lord Verdigris captured you
when he was just a little boy? I’ve seen him, he can’t be more than
twenty-five!”

Bridget sighs. “Oh, His Lordship don’t age, milady.
He’s immortal, don’t ye know. How d’ye think he can travel up an’
down th’ centuries without lookin’ it in the face?”

Lord Verdigris,
immortal?
Now my head is
spinning.

“But back to Master Pembroke, lass,” Bridget goes
on. “ I don’t know fer sure, but if I had to bet some shillings to
it I’d guess he’s from me grandmother’s time, the time o’ the
Regency in England. He’s got that kind o’ look about ‘im, at least.
The lads o’ the Regency were the most romantic ever to live on the
fair British isle, I daresay. Tho’ why Lord Verdigris captured ‘im
an’ brought ‘im here to the Hall of Harlots as prisoner, I’ve no
idea.”

I ponder this in silence while Bridget dresses my
hair into an elaborate, braided over-the-ear looping style. Then
she gets me into my afternoon gown and surcoat, preparing me for my
first meeting with Master Pembroke. By the time Bridget is finished
with me, I’m stunning in a low-cut lace-up gown in emerald-green
silk and a pale cream-colored satin sideless surcoat trimmed in
ermine. I could have walked off the set of
Braveheart
and no
one would be the wiser.

Pembroke shows up at noon, right on cue. He’s
equally stunning in his tight broadcloth breeches and flowing silk
poet’s shirt—he’s wearing the romantic clothes of his own romantic
time. And I say “romantic” in every sense of the word, too. Between
the tight pants that leave nothing to the imagination in the crotch
department and his flowing, tousled Second Empire locks (just like
Colin Firth wore in the
Pride and Prejudice
miniseries I
watched on PBS last year)—my heart is beating faster than a
hummingbird’s wings.

Pembroke strides past the threshold and gives both
Bridget and me a gentlemanly bow with a flourish. “A pleasant
afternoon to you both,” he says, a gorgeous upper-class British
accent lilting his deep, husky voice. “I am Pembroke. A pleasure to
make your acquaintance, Lady Louisa.”

I give him a ladylike curtsey. “Oh, the pleasure is
all mine, believe me.”

Pembroke reddens and clears his throat. He suddenly
seems very interested in the floor. “I have brought the various
and—
ahem
—sundry items required by Lady Louisa, as she
requested this morning,” he says, his voice going a little squeaky.
“The scullery staff is waiting in the corridor with the materials.
May they enter, madam?” He peers at me with pale blue eyes, meeting
my gaze for just a split second before breaking away to stare at
the floor again. My own eyes pan his lean, lithe body from head to
toe and back. I’m stunned when I notice that he’s trembling.

Trembling in fear, I wonder—or desire?

There’s no time to ponder the question, though. I
have business to attend to first. “Yes, Pembroke, please do bring
everything in,” I say, my voice dropping almost an octave as I take
on the first vestiges of my new role as medieval dominatrix. “And
be quick about it. We have lots to do. My sensual workshop of the
flesh won’t build itself!”

I’m surprised by just how authoritarian I sound. But
I suppose I need to get used to giving orders.

Pembroke bows again and then motions to someone in
the hallway. “Come,” he says, prim and reserved and all business
again—except for the fact that he’s trembling even more now.

And I’m not sure, but I think the already very
considerable bulge at his crotch seems like it just got a little
bit bigger.

A shuffling assemblage of scullery servants and
field hands drag in, carrying several long oak logs, long leather
straps, and some rusty lengths of shipman’s chain. A man in
carpenter’s dress appears, carrying a long wooden box full of
tools.

“These servants are at your disposal and await your
instructions, Lady Louisa,” Pembroke says, his voice deep and
steady despite the visible quaking of his limbs. “I am most excited
to see how the building of your—
workshop
will progress,
madam.”

If the look of his crotch is any indication, I’d say
Pembroke’s more than just
excited
about it. Hats off to
whoever invented those skintight Regency breeches. The view from
here is lovely.

“As am I, my lord Pembroke,” I reply, casting
another glance down south. “As am I.”

Bridget snickers.

I immediately take charge of the servant crew,
shouting orders left and right. I use my CampFire Girl skills to
the hilt when I direct the master carpenter to assemble my Cross of
Satisfaction and suspend it from the ceiling just over my
four-poster bed. Hell, I practically
build
the thing for
him.

When all is complete, the Cross of Satisfaction is
suspended from heavy chains at a steep angle over the foot of my
bed, leather restraint straps attached and a set of rough-hewn
wooden steps leading up to it. One of the scullery wenches braids
the leftover leather into a cat-o-nine-tails with thin metal nails
embedded into the ends of all nine strands, and at my order, the
carpenter planes and sands some leftover lumber into a fine, smooth
handheld paddle.

Now I have all the tools I need to become a mistress
of sensual medieval torture. The only thing I need to do now is
learn how to use them.

“You are a most unusual woman, Lady Louisa,”
Pembroke says when the project is finished and all the servants
ushered from the room save Bridget. “I say, wherever did you learn
so much about these strange contraptions?”

Instead of answering, I just give Pembroke a sly
smile. Some things are better left unsaid.

Besides, I doubt an elegant Regency English
gentleman would understand how a bunch of CampFire Girls from New
Jersey are directly responsible for a sex-and-bondage chamber built
almost a thousand years in the past.

Pembroke meets my smile with one of his own. “You
choose to remain mysterious, then,” he replies coolly. “Very well.
So will I. But I daresay that I shall be following your career in
the Hall of Harlots with a great deal of interest, Lady Louisa of
the Crossroads. A great deal of interest indeed.”

With that, Pembroke gives me another bow and
flourish, and even makes a show of flaunting his swollen crotch at
me when he strolls out of the room.

Bridget chuckles. “That Master Pembroke, ‘e’s an odd
one, fer sure.”

“Sometimes the odd ones are the best ones,” I say,
and go to survey my new Crossroads Chamber. I run my hands along
the smooth, sanded surface of my suspended wooden cross and try to
imagine what Pembroke’s smooth, landed-gentry skin might feel like
underneath my fingertips. “And I do think we’ll be seeing some more
of Pembroke very soon.”

“I daresay yer right,” Bridget says. “That lad’s got
eyes for you, ‘e does. Eyes on the back o’ ‘is head, even. And in
‘is knickers, too.” Her expression turns serious. “But pray be
careful, lass. Not just because His Lordship’ll be watchin’ yer
every move, either. I got a strange feelin’ ‘bout that Pembroke
lad. Can’t quite put me finger on it, but it bears watchin’ out
fer.”

I sigh and sink into a chair. “I’ll keep that in
mind, Bridget. By the way, when should I expect Lord Verdigris to
show up?”

“’Round nine, if he goes by ‘is usual habit,”
Bridget replies. “An’ if ye know what’s good fer ye, ye should take
a nice long nap. Lord Verdigris’ll have ye goin’ all night long, he
will. Ye need to save yer strength.”

Tsk tsk,
I think to myself. If I have my way
with Lord Verdigris,
he’ll
be the one exhausted and begging
for mercy at the end of a long night—not me.

Chapter
6

Lord Verdigris arrives at my bedchamber promptly at
nine, just as Bridget predicted. And Bridget makes herself scarce
before he even has a chance to cross the threshold.

“I’ll be just down the hall if ye need me, milady,”
she promises, then dashes off, clucking like a hen all the way.

Lord Verdigris seems taller and broader than I
remember. But if what Bridget says is true—that the man is immortal
and does not age—I suppose he probably also has the power to make
himself appear bigger and stronger, as the situation dictates. I
don’t let on that I know—or even suspect—any of this, however. To
do so might throw a wrench into my carefully laid plans.

“Ah, Lady Louisa of the Crossroads,” Lord Verdigris
booms, surveying my newly built heavy equipment with a curious eye.
“I see ye have made yourself at home here in my realm.”

I give him a ladylike nod and curtsey. “Yes, Your
Lordship. And may I express my thanks for procuring the supplies I
needed for building my chamber of pleasures for you so
quickly.”

Lord Verdigris takes my hand, sweeps it up to his
lips, and kisses it. “Where matters of pleasure are concerned,
milady, I act most swiftly, always.” He sweeps me into his arms,
and I can feel his hot and throbbing codpiece even through eighteen
layers of skirts, underskirts, and petticoats. “And ‘tis time for
us to partake of Pleasure’s fruit again, milady. My codpiece has
desired your lady-softness all day long.”

I throw my head back and laugh. Time for me to start
playing my new role as a powerful, table-turning medieval
seductress. I’m glad I paid attention in Chaucer class back in
college—I’ll be playing a combo of The Wife of Bath and Jezebel.
“Ah, your Lordship, you remain as lustful as ever,” I coo. “But
pray, answer me this. Is ever anything sweet that is too easily
obtained? Or do you seek more of a challenge, for a sweeter
reward?”

Lord Verdigris is taken aback by this remark. No
doubt he’s not used to a challenge in the bedroom—I don’t doubt
that most of his Harlots just roll over and spread their legs at
first sight of their slave master. He ponders my cheekiness and
loosens his grip on me just long enough so I can wriggle away from
him. I dash to the far side of the room, making sure to put the
huge suspended wooden cross between us.

“Why, ye are a sly one, milady!” He chases me around
and around the room, but I always stay a step ahead. “Why do ye
make me give chase so?”

I come to a stop in front of the cross, and snatch
the cat-o-nine-tails from its hiding-place under my bed. “My Lord,
if it pleases you, I wish to show you a new kind of pleasure this
night. Something that will bring you lustful sensations not enjoyed
ever before.”

Now it’s Lord Verdigris’ time to laugh. “Milady, I
have traveled through countless eons of time. Think ye that I hath
not already tasted every pleasure known in Christendom? If think ye
do, then ye are mistaken.”

“Oh, I don’t know, milord,” I protest. “I think
perhaps I can show you some pleasures from my own time that you
have not yet tasted.”

Pleasures
I
haven’t yet tasted either,
actually. I’m flying by the seat of my pants here. Or more
accurately, by the hem of my skirt. I’m starring in my very own
S&M porno movie, and I’m writing the script all by myself.

In desperate search for inspiration, my mind tracks
back to Medieval Literature class in college when I first read
The Wife of Bath’s Tale
in Chaucer. When that bawdy lady was
in a bind, she told a bawdy tale. And I suppose I can do the
same.

“Good my lord, perhaps you should take a rest on my
yonder Cross of Satisfaction,” I say. “I’ll bind and tie you there
safe and sound whilst I tell you a tale that’s guaranteed to put
your codpiece into a pleasurable state. And if perhaps my tale
displeases you, I’ll release you to take my lady-softness any way
that you wish. Will you agree?”

Lord Verdigris’ eyes twinkle. “Ye are a spirited
one, milady Louisa. And a lady with spirit amuses me and my
codpiece very much.” Before I can say boo, the strong, virile and
mighty Lord Verdigris has prostrated himself on the vertical leg of
my cross.

If I’d known it would be this easy, I would have had
Pembroke and his crew build me a rack, and maybe even a Judas
Cradle to go with my Cross. My History of Medieval Torture seminar
senior year back at Rutgers sure is coming in handy. Now if I can
just work in some
Story of O
along with it, I’ll be in
business.

But I’m not quite ready to be O just yet. First I
need to ply my soon-to-be sex slave with the subtle charms and
delightful storytelling of the Wife of Bath. I loosely tie leather
cords around Lord Verdigris’ wrists, strapping him gently to the
Cross, and begin to tell my tale.

“Once upon a time in a land far, far away from
Bellweather Castle lived a young girl named Apple, from the Kingdom
of North Jersey. She led a rather dull life, with almost no
excitement at all. She worked as a toll collector on the King’s
Highway and thought that life had passed her by—she had no husband,
no fortune, no prospects at all.

“But one day, a magic fairy happened along the
King’s Highway. And when the little fairy arrived at the Royal
Tollbooth, she confessed that she didn’t have the money to pay the
toll.

“Since traveling upon the King’s Highway without
paying the King’s Toll was punishable by death, Apple was about to
do her duty as a royal employee and summon the guards. But the good
fairy stopped her, offering a barter instead of the usual payment
in coin.