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Authors: April Hill

Tags: #Canadian Mountie, #spanking, #contemporary romance, #domestic discipline

Scarlet Fever (6 page)

BOOK: Scarlet Fever
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Anne rubbed her rear end and glared at him. “So, now I have to ask permission to go to the fucking
bathroom
?”

“Should you should find a
bathroom
, Miss Wilson, I hope you’ll be kind enough to share that information with me, as I would very much appreciate the opportunity to shave and have a proper shower. Since the only hygienic facilities available to either of us are shared by grizzly bears and other potentially dangerous mammals, however, I’ll expect you to notify me each and
every
time you go in search of such an amenity. I promise to remain at a respectful distance, with my back turned, and to only discharge a firearm when absolutely necessary. And before you start swearing at me, again, I’m giving you fair warning. The next obscenity out of your mouth will be regarded as a punishable offense.”

“And the rest of these so-called
rules
?”

“That’s it, actually. All of the rest are more on the order of minor complaints. Smoking, calling me vile and unkind names, that sort of thing. Still punishable, mind you, but perhaps not as vigorously.”

“So, you expect me to just accept being
spanked
?”

“Until further notice, yes. This is as new to me as it is to you, and my first experience with it has left my hand numb. So, if you wish to deprive me of whatever perverse pleasure I might derive from spanking you, again, try adhering strictly to the rules.” He rubbed his right hand for a moment. “Now, since it appears that we may be here a while, we’ll need to get organized, and make a proper camp. Would you like to pull up your pants so we can get to work?”

“Like I have a fucking choice?” she muttered, under her breath.

The third spanking wasn’t appreciably harder, but it hurt appreciably more, since she hadn’t yet pulled her pants back up, and since he took the time to remove his belt and bend her over the damaged landing gear cowling. As he re-buckled the belt, Cameron shook his head, and sighed. “You may just be the slowest learner I’ve ever met, Miss Wilson,” he said. “I’m afraid you going to be spending a good deal of our time together with your backside on fire.”

* * * * *

The rest of the afternoon was spent in taking careful inventory of the items he’d found in the back of the plane.

A half-box of shells for the rifle. One lightweight tarpaulin, a small camp stove with a lidless pot, and a bottle of something called “denatured alcohol.” Neither medicinal nor recreational, Cameron explained, but fuel for the tiny stove. An ancient first-aid kit, including a snakebite kit, even though there were no snakes anywhere in the Yukon. Some iodine, gauze, disinfectant, aspirin, ammonia ampoules—all packed forty years earlier. A small coffee pot, but no coffee. A handful of tea bags, with stains of unknown origin. One rusted metal cup and two tin plates, equally rusted.

At the bottom of the first aid kit, she found several safety pins. “Nice to know I can fix a hem if I need to, or maybe a bra strap.”

“Or make a fishhook?” he suggested.

“You really think there are fish in that pond we’re stuck in? Or lake? Whatever it is?”

“I have no idea. After I’ve made a safety-pin fish hook, I’ll let you know.”

Cod liver oil. “This should come in handy,” she grumbled. “In case I develop an iron deficiency.”

He grinned. “Raw fish will fix that as well.”

Three small wooden crates, two of them empty, and one filled with an assortment of canned goods—with long-past expiration dates, apparently meant for delivery to another post, and forgotten. Fruit, tinned bacon, tobacco, three bottles of ginger beer. A bottle of Scotch of an excellent year—empty.

Cameron tilted the bottle, and sighed. “May it never be said of Her Majesty’s policemen that they don’t appreciate fine spirits.”

Two additional sleeping bags—tattered and musty with age, but serviceable. Plus two moth-eaten woolen blankets, and an inflatable pillow.

A single forlorn snowshoe, with no laces or straps, and beginning to rot.

One inflatable canoe, patched in several places, and one very short paddle.

Cameron smacked the paddle against his palm. “Finally, something of genuine use.” He winced, and looked down at his hand. “Except for the splinters.”

* ** *

The next few days in the newly organized “camp” went relatively well, and without a serious argument. Anne remained wary of crossing Cameron again, apparently convinced that he meant what he’d said—and about the penalty for breaking the “rules.” Her first spanking had hurt more than she’d expected, and the more pleasurable sensations she’d noticed while it was happening had faded now to little more than a fleeting memory. The disagreeable pulsing sensation in her rear end, on the other had, had stayed with her for a full twenty-four hours. Not seriously enough to register as pain, but still uncomfortable when she sat down on a hard surface. And if she hadn’t been fully persuaded by the
first
seventy-four second spanking, she had the second and third episodes as not-so-gentle reminders.

The first night’s snowstorm had dumped around eight inches of dry powder, and according to the small exterior thermometer on the plane, the overnight temperatures were hovering at around fifteen to twenty degrees below freezing. Aside from the cold, though, the weather remained good. Cameron had cleared the top of the plane after the first snow, to make the large red identification numbers visible from the air, and improvised two flags from several of Anne’s more colorful blouses.

They spent much of their time inside the plane’s cramped cabin, trying to stay warm and occasionally even talking. She was still sulking about what had happened, and resentful of what she regarded as his dictatorial attitude, but when he didn’t bring up the “rules” again, she was content to avoid the entire subject, and keep things on a civil basis. Unfortunately, when she thought he wasn't paying attention to
her,
she found herself paying all-too-much (albeit surreptitious) attention to him. Attention that was starting to move into speculative directions that she knew were very dangerous.

The bulge in his trousers, for example. Just how big was it? Or his hands, for a second example. They were good-sized, and strong-looking, with long capable fingers. Had those hands really lit a fire in her bare bottom? What could those fingers do to other parts of her anatomy, given a chance? And his mouth. It was hardly her fault that most women would consider it very kissable. It was also not her fault that when she engaged in these idle ruminations, that her breasts peaked and tingled or an uncomfortable, even embarrassing amount of moisture would suddenly appear between her legs. Over and over again, Anne advised herself sternly to cut it out, and think about something… anything… other than the bulge, the hands, the mouth. Unfortunately, she failed, and by the third day, she was, to put it mildly, a nervous wreck.

On that third day, though, she woke from a short nap to find him gone. A note stuck on the cracked control panel explained that he was scouting the area for wood, and
told
—not asked— her to remain inside until he returned. She was annoyed to see that he had added an exclamation point at the end of the message.

The problem was, Anne had awakened in dire need of a bathroom—or what she had begun referring to as
“a reasonable facsimile thereof.”
So, when a quick glance out the window revealed neither the overly-protective Sergeant nor a furry, prowling predator, she crawled out of the plane and trudged off through the snow in search of a spot that offered privacy. With luck, she’d be back before he emerged from the woods.

She found what she needed, and was almost back to the plane, looking forward to the relative warmth of the cabin, when she stepped down a slope and onto a patch of what she thought was packed snow. When she took a second step, she noticed a slight sagging sensation under her foot, and a moment later, a loud crack rent the silence.

The freezing slush in the iced-over gully was less than twelve inches deep, but she’d managed to land on her back, and with the shattered surface ice making it hard to stand up, she wallowed around for almost a full minute before she could get on her feet and back up the slope. Sopping wet and shivering, she stumbled the final few yards to the plane—and collided head-on with Geoffrey Cameron.

“What happened?” he asked, helping her to her feet.

“What the fuck does it
look
like?” she wailed. “I fell through the ice back there. Shit! I think I’m getting frostbite!” She shoved past him, and tried to climb up onto the wing, but promptly slipped back down, the ice already hardening on her drenched parka.

Cameron swept her into his arms, opened the cabin door, and shoved her inside, then crawled in after her. He slammed the door, and started working on the leather toggles on the front of her parka. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered. “Down to the skin.”

“Sure,” she growled, trembling visibly. “Just as soon as you show me where to find the ladies’ dressing room.”

Cameron turned around in the seat and grabbed his tunic from the back, along with a woolen blanket. “Shut up and put this on, for now. I’ll turn my back while you change, but make it fast.”

As Anne stripped off layer after layer of wet clothing, he collected each piece, rolled them together and tossed the dripping bundle out the window onto the wing.

“I’ll wring them out, later,” he said. “and drape them over the wing struts. In the morning, we’ll get a fire going, and try to dry everything out.”

When he turned around again, she was half-standing in the rear of the plane, wearing his tunic, which came all the way down her thighs.

“Very becoming,” he remarked. “But I still can’t understand why, with all the baggage you came with, you keep ending up in
my
limited clothing.” He handed her a musty blanket and a pair of his long underwear. “Now add these to your outfit, then put on my parka, two pairs of socks, and get inside your sleeping bag. That ought to keep your body temperature high enough until you dry out.” He rummaged around in the canvas backpack and found a sweatshirt with the logo of a Canadian hockey team. “Dry your hair. You’re dripping on the bed.” He handed her the last clean pair of woolen socks. “And, in case you’re wondering, I haven’t forgotten that you broke the rules, again—the most important one, at that.”

Anne rubbed her arms and groaned. “Even a brute and a bully like you wouldn’t spank a blue, half-frozen woman with frostbitten toes, would you?”

He smiled. “No, for now I’ve decided to grant you a deferment—on medical grounds. We’ll discuss the matter again when you’re dry, and not in uniform. Now, crawl into your sleeping bag and zip it up to your neck. You’re about to spend one of the longest, coldest nights of your life.”

* * * * *

He hadn’t exaggerated. Even when he’d bundled her into the two moldy sleeping bags and virtually every other warm item he’d found in the back of the plane, she had violent spells where she couldn’t stop trembling, and found sleeping for more than a few minutes at a time impossible. Sometime during the night, though, she woke, shivering miserably, and couldn’t stop moaning. Seconds later, she felt Cameron’s arms around her, pulling her close to him. And then, she became vaguely aware that something very warm and very heavy was being pulled over her, and tucked in around her arms and legs. Too tired even to be curious, she snuggled against him and drifted peacefully back to sleep, in his arms, and warm at last. Her last thought before drifting off was that the mouth she'd obsessed about for days was only inches from her ear, the hands were holding her gently, and the bulge - yes, "it," was firmly pressed against her thigh… and firm was the right word. And she was too tired to do anything about it.

The next morning, when Anne opened her eyes and glanced out the small window, the sun was shining brightly, and she was actually
too
warm. It wasn’t until she sat up that she realized that the additional warmth was because she was cocooned from head to foot in a total of three additional sleeping bags. The two thin, well-worn extras, and Geoffrey Cameron’s own, arctic-weight bag. She could only imagine how cold he had been during the night without it.

“Damn him!” she muttered, struggling out of the mummy-like layers of wool and down. If there was one thing Anne Wilson had always hated, it was being obligated to someone she was trying really, really hard to dislike, bulge notwithstanding.

When she finally emerged from the cabin, she found him sitting on a rock at the edge of the small “lake” where the plane had crashed. Most of the lake surface was frozen, but here and there, there were small openings, where the ice was just beginning to close. He was holding a short stick, attached to a string—fishing.

Her first impulse was to thank him for sacrificing his own comfort for hers, but something wouldn’t let her say it, or even acknowledge his kindness.

“That’s really dumb, you know,” she said. “You don’t really expect to catch anything, do you?”

“Good morning to you, too,” he replied affably. “Fishing is all about patience, Miss Wilson. And silence. Which means that
I
will fish, and
you
will remain silent.”

“You’re an idiot,” she growled. “And you’re wasting your time.”

“Possibly. Then again, what else have either of us to do? I
could
stop fishing, of course, and take a few minutes to administer that thrashing you earned for yourself yesterday. Which would you prefer— that I continue fishing, or….? ”

Anne strode back to the plane, mumbling to herself, and wondering why it had been so hard to simply say, “
Thank you.”

“You
could
stop wasting your time and try the damned radio, again,” she called back to him, from a safer distance.

“I did,” he said. “The battery is completely dead now, I’m afraid.” He lifted the long stick he was using as a fishing rod, and waved it at her. “And if you disturb the fish again, I believe I can find another of these lying about, somewhere. They’re a bit thin for firewood, but they should do quite nicely as a switch. We haven’t done switches, yet, have we?”

BOOK: Scarlet Fever
12.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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