The Hunted Bride Read online

  The Hunted Bride

  By

  Jaye Peaches

  Copyright © 2020 by Stormy Night Publications and Jaye Peaches

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

  www.StormyNightPublications.com

  Peaches, Jaye

  The Hunted Bride

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Shutterstock/Mark Borbely and iStock/Filin28

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

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  Chapter One

  A land by the sea

  The Middle Ages

  Matilda fully interpreted the meaning behind the Abbess’s flared nostrils and frown lines. It was an expression of abject disgust. The old nun, her wimple entombing her head like a white coffin, slapped Matilda’s face hard. The only other person present slipped away into the shadowy recesses, his black garb aiding his escape.

  The Abbess’s lips trembled with rage and fear. “You will never tell a soul what happened here.”

  Why would Matilda? What possible reason would she have for telling anyone what she had done in the vestry?

  Matilda hung her head and knelt with her palms pressed together. “Gracious Lord, I beg for forgiveness for my poor judgement. Reverend Mother, I have committed no carnal sin. I placed my faith in one who I should not have trusted—”

  “You lie,” the Abbess shrieked. “He would not have been tempted if you had kept your skirts by your ankles. I shall have you thrashed. We have a bench set aside for just such a punishment. The birch will drive out the evil in your heart.” Father Mark had made similar claims, but not while using a birch.

  “My father—”

  “Will banish you.”

  Matilda looked up and fluttered her long eyelashes. “He’s very rich. Wouldn’t you prefer to keep my annuity, Reverend Mother?”

  “You despicable creature.” However, the Abbess stepped back from striking Matilda again. Matilda had not taken any vows of chastity and was free to come and go. “This is how it will be... you will leave, tonight, and I shall write to your father, telling him of your unsuitability as a postulant. You’re nothing like your sister; she’s an excellent novice. He will atone for your sin with a dowry to be repaid annually.”

  A saintly sister and a father who liked to bribe his way through life. Matilda’s family were well-known. “And Father Mark?”

  “Will no longer hear mass at St. Winifred’s. I shall request another priest from the bishop’s diocese to conduct our services.”

  Good, thought Matilda. If he had tempted her into committing wicked acts, what of the other novices and nuns he had ruined with his silvery tongue and nefarious greed? Unfortunately, she was the one who had been caught with him, and the others, like her who were steeped in boredom and lewd thoughts, were left blameless. The appointments in the vestry were shared between them, often by the drawing of straws. The fanatical priest, who spoke of hell and damnation from the pulpit and blessed them when they knelt at the altar, was as lewd as a horny hog. He had begged Matilda to let him touch her and she had held out until she’d heard the others boast of their accomplishments with him. Naturally, in the end, she regretted many of the things he had done to her. It was only her lust that had kept her from denying him, and one day, she would have to pay a high price for that extravagant behaviour. But not now, and certainly not in the presence of the Abbess, who, bewildered by Matilda’s confidence, had hurried away.

  Alone at last, Matilda smiled. It would not end too badly for her. Nobody wanted a scandal in a convent, and with luck, she would leave in time for the first festival of the new season. Months wasted in a nunnery being taught piety and Matilda had learnt plenty of new things, none of them suitable for a house of God. She was ready to marry.

  Chapter Two

  “Delightful, is she not, my lord? And to think, she’s barely nineteen and already a fine lady.” The young knight rested his elbow on the table, placed his chin upon the cup of his palm, and sighed heavily.

  “Spoilt is what I see,” Gervais said. He tracked the lady in question as she moved upon the balls of her feet, fluttering two curtains of her eyelashes at anyone who dwelt upon her smile. Her face was a cherry blossom, the heat of the fires apparent on her cheeks, while the colour of her eyes, like lush green meadows, reached across the space between them.

  “She comes with a generous dowry,” Geoffrey said cheerfully.

  “If that is what you need.” Gervais suspected Sir Geoffrey Pole required a considerable dowry to keep his family’s debts from ruining the dynasty. There’d been generations of Pole knights, many whom had served the king in the crusades, then battled the French in Normandy, before crushing rebellion closer to home. A well-liked and respected family. But their debts were threatening, and if they failed to pay them off, their lands would be forfeit.

  Gervais was awash with gold and property. The benefits of selling his services to the highest bidder rather than swearing allegiance to one king. Mercenaries were paid, not bribed with titles and wealthy girls to marry.

  However, Sir Geoffrey was correct; Lady Matilda Barre was extremely pretty and vivacious.

  “Tell me more about her,” he asked the younger man.

  “Oh, she’s the second daughter of Gilbert Barre, Baron of Tilbury. A good family, loyal, and blessed with two worthy properties, some land in Normandy from the old days, and a couple of ships. Two elder sons, already married, and the older daughter, well, she’s pious and decided to stay in the convent where she spent her formative years. Tilda, I mean, Matilda, left under a cloud, unfortunately.” Geoffrey frowned.

  “How so?” Gervais wiped the wine from his lips. The extravagant meal, served in the earl’s Great Hall, was coming to an end, the boards would soon be removed ready for the dances, and Matilda would no doubt choose to dance with some young buck. The hall was packed with gentry; it was the season for courtship: spring. The festival, chosen to honour some saint or other, was the perfect opportunity for nobles from across the county to visit the earl’s great fortress, to cel
ebrate and woo their intended.

  Geoffrey cleared his throat and glanced around. The hubbub nearly drowned out his low voice. “Caught, skirts up, with a priest. Now he claims she tempted him with evil spirits. The priest flagellated himself all night, praying to the almighty for salvation from his sins. Matilda was duly asked to leave. I think the Abbess was close to thrashing her with a birch, but Matilda’s father, who has a weak spot for his daughter, brought her home instead. He told my father in confidence. The abbey which houses the convent has done poorly at hushing the gossip.”

  “A thrashing sounds a suitable penance.” Gervais had heard the story from somebody else. The convent had its reputation to maintain; noble families often sent their daughters to a nunnery to teach them piety. Obviously, they had failed with Matilda. So, the possibility she was not a virgin might hinder her marriage options. There again, given the hawkers following her around the hall, maybe not.

  “Does it bother you that she’s lacking in good grace?” he asked Geoffrey.

  The boy blushed. “I refuse to believe those who spread malicious lies. I spoke to her brother, and he insists she is unspoilt.”

  A brother would though. “So you are prepared to court her, woo her?” Gervais called over a servant to refill his goblet.

  Geoffrey’s eyes sparkled. “I would scatter petals on the ground upon which she walks if it will bring her to my side as my wife.”

  Gervais stopped short of rolling his eyes. Romance inflicted the young at heart. Since he was past those youthful years, and worldly, he said nothing to dampen the poor knight’s spirit. Gervais preferred a demure woman, convent bred or not; it mattered more that she learnt quickly, behaved, and accepted her husband as her master. Love, whatever that was, he had managed without in the ten years since he’d acquired adulthood.

  Matilda, rising to her feet and paying little attention to the movement of people around her, bumped into a servant carrying a jug to the upper table where the lords sat. The wine spilled down the front of her dress. The page tried to wipe the spillage with his napkin, but she slapped his hand away.

  “You clumsy oaf. How dare you. This is my finest gown. Ruined. I shall have you whipped.” Her shrill voice carried over the musicians in the minstrels’ gallery. A few people ceased talking and stared at her.

  The spillage was light, it barely formed a stain. However, she sought what she desired, an audience. “Father, this curd charged into me and look, my gown.” She wobbled her lower lip productively.

  The baron extradited himself from his conversation with the earl and came over. “Hush, my dear. It is nothing—”

  “Nothing? I stitched this embroidery myself.” She fussed with the sleeves.

  “Which is untouched.”

  The page finally had the opportunity to speak. “I am most sorry, my lord. She turned—”

  “It’s not my fault,” she snapped.

  On the other side of the hall, Geoffrey sighed. “Isn’t she magnificent when she’s cross. Look at those glowing cheeks. They’ve two sweet dimples in them.”

  Gervais said nothing. Matilda was not winning her father over, although he failed to admonish her for wrongly blaming the page. She stomped across the hall toward the door leading to the guest chambers. Gervais rose and followed her out.

  The spiral stairwell was quiet, and she turned to face him. “Are you stalking me, sir?”

  Gervais leaned against the stone wall and crossed his ankles. His finely stitched tunic parted at the knees to reveal his hose and calf-skin boots. “Perhaps.”

  She blushed. “I need to change my gown.”

  “You made quite a fuss, didn’t you, about it? Was that necessary?”

  “The servant—”

  “Was doing his job. Yours is to respect those about you, including those that serve you.”

  “How dare you.” She gripped her skirts, ready to climb higher.

  “I do, as it happens. I’ve something of a reputation for risk taking, although usually on the battlefield. Sir Geoffrey thinks you’re a catch, he’s prepared to chase after you, but not it seems when you misbehave. I, on the other hand, am not so easily overawed by haughty manners.”

  She paused. “What do you mean?”

  “I would, if you were mine to command, take you upstairs, toss you over my bended knee, and spank your bare behind until you wailed and cried. Then, while I dined, you would kneel on a stool before me, your naked arse on display, until I was satisfied you were remorseful.” He pictured the scene, then quickly dismissed it. He must not tempt himself with unlikely events.

  Her cheeks turned crimson. “You... you—”

  “Yes, I understand. I know what I am.” He grinned, enjoying the sight of her flushed cheeks betraying her. “Given your nature, I suspect you might spend some time both over my knees and on that stool before you understood the reason for the punishment. As it is, your father will do naught to tame you. Which is a pity. I think you can be taught to be a good wife, given the right motivation. Sir Geoffrey, handsome, youthful, and keen, would quickly find you a handful, and bore you, I fear. Think upon that when he comes to woo you.”

  Her hands were shaking, her eyes vivid with rage. “And you, sir, would you court me?”

  “I?” He laughed. “Not as Geoffrey might. He will fulfil his needs, but never yours. Sadly, he has not the wit to realise that will be your fate, if you choose him.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Life has shown me much. I’ve travelled far and wide, throughout Europe, the Levant, even to the coast of Africa. I have witnessed many ways to win a woman’s heart, many kinds of marriages. Many methods to please.” He decided he’d given her sufficient bait. For now.

  He backed away, humming to himself. Why was he teasing her? Did he really intend to take a wife? He’d lovers, a few who’d lingered longer than others, but generally, he preferred to keep his own company. It was a challenge, always, to find someone of the fairer sex who would understand what he desired. What he needed.

  Chapter Three

  Tilda huffed, and with pouted lips, allowed her maid to lift the soiled gown over her head. She smoothed down the linen shift that she wore beneath it.

  “No, not that one. That one.” She pointed at her preferred replacement gown.

  Sara, a doe-eyed creature, who had long ago learnt it was best to speak little and agree with her mistress without protest, gathered up the fustian gown and dropped it over Tilda’s outstretched arms and head. The girl laced the back methodically.

  Tilda needed the girl’s eyes and ears for another purpose. “Do you know Lord Gervais Baliol?”

  The girl’s fingers stilled. “Yes, my lady.”

  “He insulted me downstairs. As handsome as he is, although roughly finished, I find it hard to believe any noble woman would express an interest in him. He is uncouth.” She straightened her back, allowing Sara to draw the laces tighter. “I assume he doesn’t lack for admirers.”

  “We servants, you mean, my lady? Why, he treats us with respect and courtesy, but as far as I know, he has never laid a hand upon any of us. What other way can we admire him?” Sara stepped back and picked up the heart-shaped headdress Tilda had been wearing downstairs.

  Tilda caught the girl’s smile out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, you know what I mean. Since he’s without a wife, I assume he does not care for the fairer sex.”

  “Possibly,” the girl mused. “He keeps his distance. I hear he has travelled to many exotic places and therefore...” Sara sucked her crimson cheeks in.

  “Yes?”

  “He will not find a Norman maiden to his liking.”

  Whatever did the girl mean by that? A woman was a woman, and surely a Norman one was the best to be found, better than a Flemish one, or Greek, or wherever he’d journeyed. “I don’t care. He won’t come near me, not as long as my father has his eye on Geoffrey.”

  “Sir Geoffrey has a new wolfhound, I he
ar.” Sara fixed the headdress, pinning it in place, and ensuring the veil hung neatly down her back.

  “See, this is what makes him appealing. A good huntsman always has the best hounds.” Tilda adjusted her girdle and pinched her cheeks until they warmed to her touch. “Now I’m ready to return downstairs. Let us see who notices me first: Sir Geoffrey or that rogue, Lord Baliol.”

  It came as a surprise to her that upon entering the great hall, she failed to locate either man. However, three other potential suitors charged to her side, offering her a dance, or wine, or a plucked rose. She smiled and glanced over to the dais where her father sat with the highest-ranking nobles; she hoped to impress him with her gaggle of suitors. Except he was missing, too. Her shoulders sagged. Her father preferred sleep to the company of young men and women and was unlikely to stir until morning.

  The older drunken men fell asleep and the dogs joined them. Eventually, the ladies retreated to their chambers and only the earl was left with his favourites. They would talk into the night about affairs of state and other such important matters. Tilda, tired of gossip and knock-kneed boys, decided to retire. But first, she needed a breath of fresh air. The hall stank of smoke, stale beer, and dirty rushes.

  Outside, in the small courtyard, the only one favoured by a few trees and a boxed herb garden for the kitchens, she discovered she wasn’t alone. A young boy, perhaps no more than six or seven was huddled in the corner weeping. She crossed over to him. It was the earl’s youngest son, Edgar.

  She almost turned on her heel with the intention of fetching the boy’s nursemaid, but the pitiful crying gripped her. She knelt by the boy’s side. “Edgar, what’s wrong?”

  He sniffled. “I had a bad dream. Father says that if I cry, I’m a weakling.” He wiped his snotty nose on his shirt. The boy was shivering; how long had he been hiding out here?

  “We all have nightmares, Edgar. I suspect your father is trying to help you learn to ignore them. What was in your dream that scared you?”

  “A dragon.”

  “Then, you must pretend you are Saint George. I’ll take you back to your bed. I suggest you imagine you are George with the finest armour on and about to slay the dragon. Then you can rescue the damsel; this will make your father very happy.” She took the boy’s hand and raised him to his feet.