The Officer's Little Rebel (2 page)

By the time Royce was dressed, his pounding headache had been burned away by the heat of his indignation. It was not the travel-weary officer who emerged from the room, but the commanding Major Royce Kingsley.

His entry into the common room of the inn had the occupants falling silent. Royce knew he cut an imposing figure in his red coat, white breeches, and black boots. He strode through the room to where the innkeeper sat having his morning tea from a chipped cup. He stared up at Royce with watery, piggish eyes.

“If you’ve come to complain about the chill in your room, blame that girl,” he said. “It’s her job to light the fires. Is she up yet? If not, I’ll put a boot in her arse.”

Had the innkeeper been looking, he’d have seen the subtle but ominous sign of his guest’s disapproval, but he missed the gloved hand that clenched at Royce’s side.

“Sir, I do not believe I got your name last night,” Royce said.

The innkeeper sniffed. “Blythe,” he said. “Walter Blythe.”

“Mr. Blythe,” Royce said. “Would you do me the courtesy of standing up?”

Blythe shifted in his chair. “Why?”

“Because,” Royce said quietly. “I prefer not to hit a man who is sitting down.”

When the innkeeper just stared stupidly at him, Royce reached down and grabbed the portly man by the shirt front, lifting him with such strength that his legs upset the table he’d been sitting at. The teacup and plate crashed to the floor, shattering. Guests stared.

“What…?”

“She was a virgin,” Royce hissed into the innkeeper’s face. He was holding the other man just inches away from him, and while his voice was soft and controlled, his were the dark eyes of a soldier who had killed before and could easily kill again. The innkeeper, seeming to suddenly realize the danger, began to whine.

“What difference does it make?” he said. “I’d think you’d be even happier, having something pure.”

Keeping his hold on the man, Royce took a step forward and slammed him against the wall. Two pictures on either side of the innkeeper fell to the floor and he lifted a chubby arm to his face and whimpered in fear.

“It wasn’t yours to give,” Royce said.

The fat man peeked up over his arm. His eyes had turned sly. “Well,” he said, licking his pink lips. “If you feel so compelled, you could lay a sum for her maintenance, for honor’s sake.”

He cried out as Royce slammed him against the wall again, harder this time. Plaster from the low ceiling rained down upon them both.

“And have you steal it from her, you feckless buzzard?” Royce sneered with disgust. “I have something else in mind.”

He dropped the man, who landed in a heap before shakily rising.

“What?” the innkeeper asked, cowering now.

Royce backed away, dusting the plaster from his coat before jerking the lapels to straighten it.

“I want her hand. In marriage.”

What started as a chuckle from the innkeeper became a high, reedy laugh. “You want to marry her? You want to
marry
Imogen?”

“I want to do the honorable thing,” Royce said, “not that a man like you would know a thing of honor. I’ll lay a sum for her. She’ll go with me and you’ll never see her again.”

“A sum?” The innkeeper stepped away, obviously eager to be out of range as he began to press what he now considered an advantage. “How much?”

“A hundred pounds.”

The innkeeper pursed his lips. “And where does an officer get so much money?”

“If he’s Officer Royce Kingsley, from his family estate,” Royce replied.

The innkeeper grew quiet. “Officer… you’re… Royce Kingsley? Of Stonehaven?”

“The same,” Royce said.

Walter Blythe turned solicitous. “Begging your pardon, sir, I didn’t know. Had I known, I’d never have…”

“Which only speaks to your character all the more, sir,” Royce said. “I’ve tendered my offer. You will accept it.”

“A hundred…” The innkeeper narrowed his eyes. “Annually?” Then he flinched as Royce stepped forward to loom over him again.

“Listen to me well,” he said. “It will be a one-time payment, and more than you deserve. You will accept it, and I will take Imogen away from you. You will forget her, and will make no mention of any connection you may wish this marriage to impart between your name and mine.” He paused. “What you shall remember, however, is that I will happily kill you, should I ever see your face again.”

That plump face was pale now as the man nodded. “Understood,” he said, backing away. “I’ll find another wench to do her job.”

“And I’ll send a man around now and again to make sure that new hire is not preyed upon as you’ve preyed upon your stepdaughter,” Royce said. “Understood?”

The innkeeper nodded and Royce turned on his heel to head back upstairs. He knew it was a most unlikely match given his station, but he’d seen enough in Africa to value humanity over comportment. Imogen had been so sweet beneath him; she would be a sweet and comely wife. He would teach her all she needed to know, and she would find him a protective and caring husband. After what had happened, he owed her the honor of marriage, and already looked forward to seeing her happiness at learning that she’d not be sullied and left behind, as she no doubt expected.

When he opened the door to the room, he found Imogen already dressed in the outfit she’d worn the night before. She was bending before the fireplace when he entered, and had not heard him come in. For a long moment, Royce looked at her kneeling there in her forest green skirt, white chemise, and bodice. The swell of her breasts was enticing, even now.

“Imogen?”

She looked up.

“I’ve spoken to your stepfather,” he said. “I was not toying with you when I said I would make this right. You will leave with me today, knowing the sacrifice of your maidenhead was not in vain. You will return with me to Stonehaven Manor. We will be married.”

She stood slowly, her hand at her midsection.

“Married?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

He walked over. “I suppose under the circumstances, I should introduce myself. I am Major Royce Kingsley, heir of Stonehaven, and the man who will be your husband.”

“An heir, are you?” She crossed her arms. “Well, sir. I’m sure you’ll make someone a fine husband, but it won’t be me. It matters not what we did, or who you are. And it doesn’t matter what you’ve been told. I’m not chattel to be given away, and I’ll not be given to you. I’ve no intention of marrying you, or any man.”

Chapter Two: Taken Away

They were all the same, men. They took what they wanted. Imogen’s father had taken her mother’s maidenhead and left, despite promising to stay. Her stepfather had treated her like a slave. She didn’t tell Royce that he wasn’t the first man who’d won her in a bet. Walter Blythe had gambled her off before, only those men had been too drunk to perform. When Royce had taken her upstairs, she’d prayed he’d fall asleep like the rest. He had not.

Imogen had known she’d lose her virginity in the inn beneath some stranger. That it had been a gentleman with a conscience was something she did not expect. But marry him? She would not.

She expected him to take advantage of her refusal, to sigh with relief and leave, content that his honor was still intact even if hers was not. But instead, he just turned and shut the door.

“This is not a matter of negotiation, young lady,” he said.

“I agree, Major Kingsley,” she said. “I decline your offer of marriage.”

He looked her up and down. “How old are you?”

She flushed at this. “Old enough for you to lay with, apparently.”

“How old are you?” He repeated the question, his tone harsher. Imogen noticed that the square jaw was set in resolve.

“I’m nineteen,” she said, “not that it matters. Why?”

“That is a marriageable age,” he said. “You can have no objection.”

“I can object to your offer if I so desire.” She raised herself to full height, realizing that her diminutive stature made her seem younger than she was, especially before such a tall imposing man. Now, as he stepped closer to her, it was all Imogen could do to hold her ground.

“My dear,” he said. “You would be able to object, if this were an offer. But it is not an offer. It is an order. I am an honorable man. I was raised never to disrespect or defile a woman. I will not start with you. I am taking you away from this place, and making you my wife.”

“And if I refuse?” She had to force the words out, her voice shaking. The room was small and Major Kingsley was blocking her path. Summoning her courage, she raised her gaze from the shiny buttons of his coat to his face. His eyes were a stormy gray, his lips full. She remembered the feeling of those lips pressed against hers, the feel of the stubbly jaw as it scraped her inner thigh before his tongue…

No
. She’d let no man rule her.

“And if I refuse?” she repeated, tilting her little chin up in defiance.

“Then I shall take you over my lap, raise your skirts, and strap your pretty bottom until you agree to do as you are told.”

“Strap my bottom?” Imogen was indignant. “Sir, it sounds as if it’s not a wife you want, but a child. I’ll be neither.”

Hitching her skirts up, she made to move past him, but she was stayed by the sudden grip of his hand on her arm.

“To the contrary,” he said, his deep voice low. “You’ll be both. I’ve been away to war too long. I am in need of a wife and am in no mood to suffer the politics necessary to get one. You are in need of someone to show you a father’s guidance and care.” He paused. “You can be both wife and child. And you will be.”

Imogen’s heart began to pound at his words. Something in them both frightened and exhilarated her. Major Kingsley had pulled her to his hard chest, and she could feel both the threat and promise of his power. Her mind flashed back to the previous night, when she’d lain beneath him, helpless to that power and to the pleasure she’d never expected.

No!

With a sudden burst of resolve, she shocked Royce—and herself—by leveling a strong kick to his shin. In his split second of surprise, Imogen was able to get around the looming soldier. But his sharp reflexes had him recovering quickly, and he was on Imogen before she reached the door.

Despite her years of forced servitude in the inn, Imogen had managed to use her wits to avoid being manhandled. She’d always feared it, but that fear turned to anger as she realized that her captor was about to make good on his threat. His strong arm was like a band about her waist as he pulled her back to the bed. Sitting down, Royce threw her over his lap.

Imogen had never been spanked. Her stepfather’s mode of punishment had been to throw his fists, or to lock her in her room with nothing to eat. That she was about to be spanked like a child after surviving to adulthood without feeling a corrective lash was almost too much to bear. Leaning forward, she did the only thing she could in her state of confinement: she sank her teeth into the calf of the man holding her. She expected a yell, and was disappointed when his response was only a muffled curse, then shocked when a split second later his broad hand made contact with her bottom.

The first swat hurt, even through her thick skirt and layer of petticoats. But she had no time to prepare herself for what was to come next. She felt the cool air of the room raise gooseflesh on her bare bottom. The brute!

She’d inched too far forward to cover herself with her hands, so she did the next best thing, curling her legs back to block the expected continuation of her punishment. But Royce countered that strategy by snatching the slipper off of one foot and tipping her back. The next thing Imogen knew her legs were trapped between his and she was immobile.

It wasn’t his hand she felt next, but the fierce sting of her own leather slipper on her bared bottom. The shock of the burn caused her to scream, and for a second she had the frantic hope that her cry would result in some sort of rescue. But as the pain of Royce’s correction built, so did her despair. No one was coming to rescue her. Her father had never bothered to get to know her. Her stepfather had never loved her. To Imogen, the very word ‘father’ conjured up nothing but disappointment and pain. And now this man was proving no different. He’d ignored her request and was spanking her bottom. Hot tears rolled down her face.

But then the spanking stopped and Imogen found herself turned over and pulled to sitting in her disciplinarian’s lap. Strong arms that had clutched her so tightly now enfolded her with just enough strength to keep her where she was, not that she was about to try to escape with her bottom burning so fiercely. She could feel herself trembling in his gentle grasp, her fear now more from the uncertainty of her situation than of the man holding her. Punishment she had known. Kindness in the wake of it was new to her. As Major Kingsley stroked her hair, she was reminded of the previous night, of how he’d turned gentle once realizing she was a virgin. The secret place between her legs throbbed at the memory. She shifted on his lap.

“You’ll leave with me.” He repeated his assertion and this time Imogen did not object as he tipped her to standing and turned to pull the worn woolen blanket from the bed. He wrapped it around her shoulders and then scooped Imogen up into his arms before exiting the room. From the hallway landing, she could see the room below. A few patrons were looking up in her direction. So was her stepfather. Imogen turned her face into Royce’s chest, unwilling to meet the gaze of the man who’d gambled away her virginity to a total stranger. She squeezed her eyes shut as Royce descended the stairs.

“I’ll expect to hear from your secretary.” Royce had stopped and Imogen could hear the greed in her stepfather’s voice. “A hundred pounds just like we agreed to.” He paused. “And that’s my blanket. I’ll be expecting you to pay for that, too.”

Royce was silent. She felt him turn and then gasped as she was handed off to another man, who held her in a grip nearly as strong. The next thing Imogen heard was the crack of a fist against flesh followed by a thud and a groan from her stepfather. Now she did open her eyes and turned to look. Walter Blythe was just struggling to sit up on the floor, his hand pressing the hem of his dirty apron to his nose. Blood bloomed from where the officer’s fist had broken it.