The Surrender Of Lady Charlotte E-Book

Lizbeth Dusseau

• Herausgeber: pinkflamingo
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2000

Beschreibung

Her required virginity examined in a bizarre ordeal, loins locked in a chastity belt, and life torn, Lady Charlotte is sent from her ancestral home to become the bride of the cunningly ruthless Ilusian Lord, Mountbane. Unlike her homeland where she was free, in Ilusia, women are slaves, and she must accept submission before her wedding can take place. Taken to the dungeons to be trained, she rebels against her keepers. Neither whippings nor cruel tortures change her mind, though they awaken her sexual fires. Finally surrendering, she undergoes an arduous training to learn the postures and attitudes of a worthy slave. Once married, her body thrills to the deviant acts required of her and her life of sexual debauchery. Treachery, inventive punishments, orgies, archaic sexual rituals, and the crude deflowering of virgins give this tale its nasty twists.

Leseprobe

The Surrender of Lady CharlottebyLizbeth Dusseau

ISBN 10: 0974113433

A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

Copyright © 2005, All rights reserved

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List of Players

Charlotte

(pronounced SHAR lot)

Sir Malcolm Castile, Charlotte’s father

Ruler of a tiny realm outside the northern borders of Ilusia

Lord Mountbane, Lord of Ilusia’s northern most Province

Sir Tristan, Nobleman of Mountbane's realm

Mistress Gwyneth, Tristan’s wife

Leonas, a young knight of Mountbane’s realm

Rosaura, Leonas’ betrothed

Tibor, Mountbane’s doctor

Harrow and Sir Ellemore, Mountbane’s noble advisors

Caius, keeper of the dungeon

Loria, Caius’ beloved slave

Lena & Jontile, the flirts

Chapter One

A devilish sort of morning in the tiny land outside Ilusia…the dank, insipid air seemed to suck the marrow from the bones, the breath from wanting nostrils, and life from a desperate spirit.

Eighteenth birthdays are not always spent in such despondent circumstances—especially in a landscape as fragrantly lush and beautiful this one. But then, most young maids of eighteen do not have their lives capriciously twisted by scoundrel knights and blackguard kin; without warning, their youth turned sour for ancient customs conceived by restless, fearful minds.

In this sad business, Sir Malcolm Castile acted on predatory instincts, looking foremost to escape assimilation and loss of title at the fist and sword of a more virile and righteous country. His precarious position on the borderlands of Ilusia had made him a victim, always wary of attack, willing to capitulate to terms no man should accept. Yet, ancient vows so deeply rooted in the guts of this piece of earth require nothing less than submission to the Lords of Ilusia.

On the eve of his daughter Charlotte’s birthday, when the noblemen and their servants from across the great mountain breached the border—as though on a casual walk through the countryside—no one raised their fist in anger, drew a sword to stop their pilgrimage, or even lifted an eyebrow in disdain. This was simply history perpetuating its stranglehold on another generation of disenfranchised souls—time doesn’t cease, nor does tradition. As the party made its way to Castile’s manor, peasant ladies rubbed their soiled clothes against the rocks; their men with muscles gleaming, hauled firewood for the night; and their children played games with annoying chatter as they ran wildly through the dust. Only a few young maids—with more reason than others to take note of this curious rite—tittered with their friends about the fate of their noble sister. Some glowed with deep-seated envy; others quaked in fear; and still others spoke with a bit of defiance on their lips, as though they might be brave enough to taunt their unwelcome invaders.

“Ah, Charlotte! You look so pretty today!” Sir Malcolm Castile declared. His face was flushed with pride and excitement—and just a trace of dread. But he harbored his fears well and none would show in front of his unknowing daughter.

“You say we have visitors?” she inquired, as she ran a brush through her splendid locks of flaxen hair. Her emerald eyes gleamed beneath her pale arched brows, brightening a pinkish complexion often prone to burn in the sun. Simply lustrous now, her skin, her cheeks, her whole body seemed to radiate warmth and generous love. Charlotte Castile was a fully formed woman with a generously endowed body, even at her young age—all the better, her doting father decided.

“Yes, my dear, our guests will show themselves shortly in my private chambers.”

“There, sir?”

“Yes, you will greet them with a curtsy and a polite demeanor.”

“Of course, Father.” She looked on him with concern. Mind you, nothing overt crossed his brow that would give away his worry. But eighteen years coddled in this house by an indulgent parent had taught her a good deal about the man’s subtle moods. She knew she was her father’s favorite of his six children—though the reason had never been explained. She could be headstrong and intemperate—a cunning and willful twin of her deceased mother. While her sisters Lara, Camille and Justina were far more nurturing of their father’s melancholy, Charlotte played upon his fascination with her likeness to his dead Miriam.

What a great gift Charlotte had been! What a prize to savor eighteen years! And what a handsome offering she would make for the demanding prince of Ilusia! Mountbane would raise his glass in tribute seeing what beauteous perfection he’d won. Would there be favors for Castile’s small domain because of this? Sir Malcolm’s holdings were never so safe as now—with his daughter about to storm Mountbane’s halls with her teaming charms, making half the great Lord’s holdings hers, and so his—Sir Malcolm Castile’s. What victory! What a small price for peace!

“But why, Father, would we greet these gentlemen in private?”

“A private matter that will soon be public.”

“And what is that?” her curiosity peaked along with her inquisitive brows. Her pink lips showed just half a smile—a measured and thoughtful one as her intuition attempted to discern the truth.

“Your marriage, Charlotte,” her father stated with a pleasant grin.

“What!” She could not have been more aghast—at least her outward appearance betrayed that idea.

“Yes, your marriage,” Sir Malcolm confirmed in a voice as constant as the pillars of oak that held his walls proudly. “The days are ripe for it,” he went on in a softer vein. “Your younger sister, Lara, is already betrothed to Sir Rodney. And now it is your time as well. You have but one duty in your life—to make a marriage that will magnify the fortunes of your kinsmen, and leave a legacy to your progeny. In that regard, I have fashioned a union that will give honor to this household. You cannot reject it at this juncture.”

Charlotte was reluctant to agree. “Oh, if you’ve made a miserable match for me, Father, I will take lovers,” she scowled, turning what had been a pretty smile into a wretched looking expression—though one that reminded Castile of her mother. The furious ache in his heart would not subside. “Or, perhaps,” she stopped her scowling, “I’ll not take your gentleman at all.” She swept around him haughtily. “At the very least, I’ll need to spend some time with this knave to decide if I desire him.”

“Certainly, my darling,” he said in a most placating voice—any real objection from this stubborn child needed to be softly answered as a tantrum could impede his plans.

“And why wouldn’t you have told me before now?” she twirled around declaring, the ribbon of gold on the bottom of her skirts shone like the sun as it rippled in the light.

Castile’s inspection of his daughter almost stripped off her clothes it was so purposely executed. Taking note of the shapely figure of a woman—breasts resplendently pouring from the bodice of her deep cut gown, and hips that flared into the pert but abundant pillows of her ass, gracing the air as she walked; how could a man see anything but a creature ripe to be plucked from maidenhood and made a woman bound by the obvious carnal passions she so ardently manifest? “Ah, Charlotte, you must have guessed by now. Eighteen? You are so… so ready.”

She sighed dolefully in reply, “Perhaps.”

“I see the lust in you, my dearest one. I cannot harbor you forever in my tiny fiefdom. Better you should go to the nobleman who’s earned the right to have you.”

“Earned the right?” she snapped off arrogantly.

“My, yes. He and his predecessors have protected my lands for years. I can think of no more apt tribute in this dangerous world than to offer him the finest of my female offspring.”

“You sound as though I were property.”

“Indeed,” he reminded her gently. “Not so much property, but a prized jewel.” His eyes lit in wonder as he spoke this truth, then his expression changed growing more pensive and somber. “You will go with them quietly, Charlotte. The pain of your refusal would weigh so heavily on me, I could hardly bear it.” He looked to her for some response and when there was none, went on, “But I would bear it. That is a father’s task, to bring his daughters to good marriages, or have them disappear in the holy orders, unspent women.” Castile worked hard at his convincing. “Ah! If he is a sour man, then take your lovers. Frolic behind arcane doors, spirit your passions away with as many sturdy bucks as you like. You can have your stable boys, your penniless riffraff, your silly princes. But you’ll have your title, too, and power with a husband who carries the fate of your ancestors’ land in his iron grip. Love him if you will. Hate him if you like. But accept the winds of destiny with grace. There is no purer act that a woman can perform than this one. Accept this union graciously, my darling. You bring honor to me, to my fathers, and, yes, your poor mother. She would have wanted this excellent alliance.”

Charlotte was visibly moved by his passion. The reality of her present circumstance could not have been more profoundly stated. But how it bit like a mad dog at her ankles!

She should run from this like she would run from that mad dog. But instead, she would walk calmly, head bowed, behind her father to his private quarters and receive the gift of her uncommon birthright. What she’d give now to be one of the tittering maids attending the gardens, or selling wine, or cloth or cheese in the market!

Sir Malcolm’s quarters were hardly small. His drawing room easily accommodated the contingent of noblemen and their servants from Ilusia’s northern province. This tiny hamlet was too far from Lord Nor’s eye to be bothered with by this sovereign ruler. With this territory governed by the powerful Mountbane, Nor had nothing to fear at his borders. This remote realm kept the fierce warrior Mountbane content. That he seemed to have little desire to conquer lands beyond his was another reason to leave the man and his passions alone. Once every two years, Nor would appear at the northern fortress for several days of revelry and leave more sure than ever that Mountbane was no threat to his absolute dominion over all the territories in Ilusia. This lusty leader was too taken with his carnal passions, which like an opiate engaged his senses in the real business of living.

The room stirred as Castile entered with his daughter at his heels.

She was a proud one. The six in Mountbane’s retinue eyed Charlotte’s efforts amusedly knowing that the harsh sting of truth would soon crush that pride before it would be rebuilt—in their Lord’s design. Such an exhilarating rush of power it would be to take a woman—nay, still a girl—of such prestige and naiveté, and transform her into a worthy subject for an Ilusian sovereign!

She would be a challenge, certainly. They could see her arrogance billow like a cloud about her robust body. Just as they feared, her doltish father had hardly prepared her for what changes lay before her. Then, too, if she’d come meekly, they would have been astounded. No man wishes for himself anything but vitality in his daughters, and so, that is what they breed into them from birth. If Sir Malcolm had been smart, he would have contemplated her fate more keenly, and given her a disposition more suited to the task of service that would be required of her in her new home.

Just as well for them, however, this would be an enjoyable diversion until they deposited the chattel into their master’s hands.

“Castile,” Harrow bowed obsequiously with his smile dripping off his lips.

“Oh, this cannot be,” Charlotte cried, turning away from the wizened face of this hunchback elder.

“Ah, no, my love,” her father rushed in, “Mountbane has sent his emissaries to bring you back to Ilusia.”

She breathed more easily now.

“She will be inspected and properly shackled before we leave,” Harrow continued.

“Shackled!” Charlotte drew away, only to find her father’s long arm reach about her waist and draw her in.

“Shall you quiet your daughter, or shall I?” Harrow inquired.

“My dear, this is customary in such matters. A husband of Mountbane’s stature deserves a virgin.”

“He would inspect me so?” She blanched in fear.

“Tibor is quite gentle, so I’m told.” The old man turned to one of his companions, the doctor stepping forward as a dutiful servant. “I see no need to tarry.”

“No, sir, and I assure you that my daughter is as pure as fresh snow on Mount Elb.”

“Of course, kind gentleman. But, we have a duty to our master.”

Castile bowed as he pushed Charlotte forward into the hands of two burly men—these two not dressed in the fine array of the gnarled Harrow, or even the more sedate and scholarly clothes of Doctor Tibor. Each was clad in rough brown pants, held at the waist by belts of thick animal hide. Their hefty arms fit into sleeveless leather jerkins, which, due to their broad and hairless chests, could not be closed. Their beefy legs seemed rooted in their black boots, which, in turn, were planted squarely on the smooth floor beneath their feet. Charlotte, daughter of Sir Malcolm Castile, was no more than a feathery flower in their fists.

Grabbing her by the arms, they led her to an oaken dining table in Castile’s quarters, laying her back against the surface as she struggled uselessly against their grit.

“I shall quit you, sirs, until your inspection is over,” Sir Malcolm announced. “I fear I am too soft on this one. Please, do your duty.”

“Father!” Charlotte shouted as she watched him leave. “Father, come back here now.”

“Hush!” The decaying nobleman, Harrow, pressed his face toward hers so closely that she could feel his breath on her cheek and smell something retched in that stench. “Your first duty, daughter of Castile, property of Mountbane, is to obey,” he wagged a finger toward her eyes. “You do anything else, you will be severely punished. You follow my order, this examination will be brief.”

Charlotte settled just so the foul man would pull away. And so he did; though she was hardly happy about the next ten minutes of humiliation. She’d heard about such dastardly rituals, conducted by the ancients—no doubt to satisfy their prurient lusts. But never, never would she have believed that her fate would one day find her lying prone on her father’s table, her skirt being raised by cold hands, and a second pair of hands yanking down the only slip of cloth protecting her personal treasure from the eyes of these gawking men. She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, pretending she was elsewhere—in a meadow, wading in a mountain steam, anywhere but in the midst of this horror. Yet, she couldn’t ignore the sensuous feel of the wind on her exposed vulva where her Venus mound was being thoroughly examined.

With Charlotte’s skirts tossed above her navel and stripped of her underclothes, she was prepared for Tibor. The soft bush of hair at the helm of her female portal glowed warmly, even as the trace of her perfume lifted into the musky air.

“Part her thighs,” Harrow ordered, motioning to another pair of men to his left and right. These two had not the bulk of the brutes that held the woman in her place—nor were they as crudely dressed—still, their task was as malevolent. Striding forward they each grabbed one of Charlotte’s thighs, then bent the knee and pulled her crotch wide open. The effect alarmed the girl to tears as she contemplated the embarrassing exposure. Rent apart, her feminine privates were no longer private at all, but on display before this gazing company of witnesses.

The Doctor remained between her legs as the four fellows commandeering the young woman heaved her to the very end of the table, so her ass was almost falling off the edge. Parted wider still, her hips were lifted so the proper inspection could begin. Tibor thrust with fingers that poked here and there, and spent some time stroking the delicate hymen guarding this virgin’s vital path.

“She appears intact,” he finally lifted his head and announced. “And a most suitable specimen to present to our grace. He will be glad to note that her genitals were made with the idea of breeding lust. Fully flowered, her lips swell even as she struggles against us. The bud between these plump lips,” he said as he squeezed her fat labia, “is engorged with blood. A very good sign.” He stared at her pained face, himself grinning. “Humph, how she gives herself away.”

The company nodded on hearing the Doctor’s decree, while the smile on Harrow’s thin lips transformed his mouth into a lecherous sneer. “I should be so lucky to have one as ripened as this one.”

“You should be so lucky as to have one at all,” the doctor declared. “The belt and harness please.”

This comment caused the now withering beauty to take note. Turning her head square, her eyes shot open as another indignity was thrust on her. A belt of smooth metal was affixed around her waist and locked with a clasp. Henceforth, a chastity girdle was then attached to the waist belt; the entire device cinched tight and secured with a tiny padlock. This thicker metal split her cleft apart in a way designed to ensure that no man—nor Charlotte’s own hand—could have access to the delicate flesh of her proven virginity. While the chastity belt allowed for her natural bodily functions, that was all the freedom she would have in her nether regions. Save being transported by eunuchs, she was safe from rape, lust and her own probing while on her journey to her new home. The disconsolate young woman gazed on her audience, her expression replete with fear and the painful degradation this clumsy apparatus afforded her.

“You’ll come to hunger for the feel of this garment, slave,” Harrow declared in a voice rife with mockery. “I’m told this fits like the clouds of heaven compared to the crude devices that will follow.”

Unable to contain her rage, Charlotte spit in the old man’s wrinkled face as he lowered his visage to glower more.

He retorted, slapping her cheek brusquely. “Bring her father back here now!” The old man stomped away, grumbling under his breath.

On her feet again, Charlotte’s dress covered her embarrassing attire—though the physical effect of this bondage made it seem as though she were nakedly exposing the vile chastity belt. The result was alarming when she moved even the slightest bit. How would she walk? Or sleep? Or sit inside this miserable thing?

“Oh, my father, what have you done to me!” she exclaimed, as Sir Malcolm moved back inside the room while his keen eyes cast a reproving glance her way.

“Your examination has been successful?” he inquired of the entourage.

“Indeed,” Doctor Tibor acknowledged.

“But too much spunk!” Harrow immediately chimed in. “She should be punished now for her insolence.”

“Father, please!” Charlotte moved awkwardly toward her father, though he kept her at arm’s length.

“Accept your fate, fair one. I have given you all I can for these eighteen years—you’ve enjoyed the fruits of my labor, lived in this luxury, sucked life from this bounteous land. But now, it is time… your service to me begins from this day.” His arm swept wide acknowledging the waiting assemblage. “These men are not here to squash your spirit, or tread on your freedom. Their Lord Mountbane is not a monster to fear, but a husband to love and cherish as I once did your sweet mother. Your life will change, my darling daughter, but think it not some horror, instead an adventure.” His eyebrows raised and his complexion flushed as his lofty words inspired him, while his fellows appraised his speech with amusement in their hearts. Certainly Castile was not so daft as to believe this babble… perhaps it was just the wishful thinking of a foolish father, or the machinations of a cunning one who’d try to sway the listeners. They would hear this twaddle and joke on it by nightfall when they made camp. “Charlotte, Charlotte,” Sir Malcolm’s emotions rose in the face of his daughter’s grimacing countenance, “you will accept. And trust me, as you do accept this change, your life will find some peace, I swear.”

“And do you swear as well that you’ll come claim me if I should hate this place, Ilusia?”

He shook his head condescendingly, taking her into his arms for a last fatherly gesture of affection. Once kissing her fair cheeks, he pushed her off. “Gentlemen, please be gone. Though I rejoice in the outcome, this is a sad day for me.” He held his fist to his heart, a single tear about to fall from his one damp eye—the other eye was sharply focused on old Harrow.

“Yes. Best not belabor this day,” the fellow glowered miserably. With a rude jerk, his bony hand grabbed for Charlotte.

She instantly shook him off, saying, “If this is my fate, I will attend it on my own accord. You certainly don’t need to abduct me.”

“Mind yourself, daughter of Castile,” Harrow started in, but one of his fellow nobles moved forward to interrupt.

“We have a long journey ahead. I’m sure we’ll all be glad to quit this place as soon as we can garner a decent meal.”

***

The first afternoon of Charlotte’s new life might have been spent pleasantly. The day proved sumptuously temperate—with blue sky, the hint of a southerly breeze, and traces of honeysuckle blossoms in the air. It might have been a welcome journey considering the young maid’s fearless sense of adventure, but every second of the trek was destined to be met with discomfort. The mean cart that bore her from her father’s home jostled against the ruts and valleys of the rough and rarely used road. With each jarring bump the metal girdle fused to Charlotte’s body cut into her flesh. There was not one comfortable position on the hard wood bench. Her rough predicament was made worse seeing the expressions on the faces of her captors. They seemed to hold her in contempt mixed with a leering lust. Perhaps Mountbane was wise to insist on this chastity belt considering their obvious fascination with her.

Listening to the quiet conversation among them, she learned that there was a single key to the device protecting her groin; that key in Mountbane’s keep, many miles from them now. Though that key seemed a symbol of her freedom, she feared what that freedom might mean—or even if there would be any freedom at all. Harrow’s comments about the “other” devices would haunt her every moment of the trip.

When she wasn’t thinking of her future in Ilusia—as if she could actually piece together a decent picture of that reality—she thought of escape. All wishfully, of course. They hardly needed to bind her more; running seemed nearly impossible in this miserable belt, though she hadn’t been given the opportunity to try. Walking was difficult enough. She couldn’t imagine what it might be like to traverse this uncivil landscape. But escape was never far from her thoughts. Perhaps in the dead of night, when they were sleeping—perhaps then, she mused.

The company stopped for the night at a small forest encampment in the heart of Ilusia’s wilds. Sometime during the day they’d crossed the border, though Charlotte’s companions gave her no clue when this occurred. The air seemed pleasant, the sky as blue, the sun as bold, and her heart as empty from the beginning of the journey until the incessant bump, jolt and grind of the wagon ceased for the day.

Taken into the woods, she was given the opportunity to relieve herself. A messy task it was, and an embarrassing one as well, with one of Mountbane’s beastly henchmen attending her. By that time, however, she was so in need of release that she forgot herself as a gentlewoman and completed the job quickly.

Back inside the camp, she was given food and drink, and shown where she would sleep for the night.

“Would it be all right if I took a short walk,” she asked Harrow, politely.

“And why?”

“To stretch my legs.”

“I’d think you’d find the prospect difficult?” he eyed her with the same obscene amusement he’d shown her all day.

“I need to move about.”

“I’ll take her,” one of Mountbane’s noblemen announced. Coming to her side, the man gently took her arm.

This one was named Tristan, so her careful observations told her. He was the one who held her during the awful inspection; and though she’d not noted any faces during that sad hour, she noted now that he seemed more amiable than his companions were. And certainly, he was the most comely of the group. His stance was fierce, though it generated a power that lured her sex in an amazing fashion. A strong face, well-cut jaw, keen dark eyes and artful brows could hold her fascinated if she were inclined to gaze on him—,which she wasn’t for fear she’d give her feelings away. Perhaps, however, it was the kindness in his eyes that tempted her most—something that he only briefly offered her. And yet, when he did, he wore the kindness well as though it were a natural trait. A rare man, indeed, to be immovable and vibrantly carnal, as well as temperate with a frightened woman.

“Your father has either misread the truth, or lied to you about his knowledge of Ilusia.” These were his first words directed to her. The two strolled as pleasantly as they could along the side of a small brook of clear water. No, it was not easy to walk, but it was pure bliss to be away from Harrow and the surly animals in this repugnant band of cohorts.

“He has, sir?”

“I am afraid so.”

“In what way?”

“Your place in Ilusia as a woman is likely to be far different than you anticipate.”

“Why would you tell me this now?”

“A warning, miss. Be on your guard. Your father is right to say your life will change. Truly, its pleasures and its pains will be of a different sort than what you know in your homeland. Though we live quite close in distance, our customs are exceedingly contrary.”

“I see. And how does a woman of Ilusia conduct herself?”

“Submissively. I’d advise you to be compliant, observant, and resourceful. And guard against your shrewishness. That trait is not looked on favorably within our borders.”

“I will take your council, sir, and remember it well.”

The moon over Ilusia was fully round, glowing yellow at this dark time hour. With the sun set, the sky was inky black, dotted with a million stars all ominously appearing before her eyes, suggesting that the constellations might be aligned toward an uncertain mischief that would test her in ways she could not even fathom now.

“Thank you,” she added, feeling oddly nurtured by the man. His manner had been straightforward and respectful, but without any obvious warmth. Though, the very fact that he said anything at all suggested some affection, or perhaps pity. Perhaps it was nothing at all, just this stranger, Tristan’s way.

There were two more days of grueling passage before the company of seven reached the gates of Mountbane’s lair—a stately castle: grey and important, rising so high above the maid Charlotte that for the foggy gleam of morning air, she could not make out the tallest spire.

Inside the gates, Mountbane’s bride gazed on sights she’d never witnessed before. Surely, the nobleman Tristan was right. Seeing collared women wherever she turned, others tethered by their masters, led on leashes through the market, she shuddered nervously wondering if these were signs of things to come. This was not her homeland—no home at all, she thought despondently.

Chapter Two

“My, my, aren’t you a lovely thing. All fresh washed. Did they remove that dastardly chastity belt?”

“Only so I could pee, sir. And to wash, of course. And who are you?” She eyed the splendid man with some degree of interest. His brown hair flowed to his shoulders and his beard was trimmed, not scraggly like so many men she’d seen in Ilusia so far. A pair of sharp, cinnamon-hued eyes peered at her from under his cunningly arched brows. He was a lean man of average stature, and though his clothes were unremarkable—leather britches and a simple muslin shirt—he wore his body, and his attitude, and even his humble attire with some suggestion of nobility.

He eyed the flaxen-haired maid with a degree of deference, slight as it might be. And yes, there was that haughtiness in his aspect she’d come to expect from Ilusian men. He was a bit of a scoundrel, Charlotte decided.

“Ah, yes, we haven’t been introduced, have we?” he was reminded.

“No, sir. I was led to this room with no explanation. In fact, I’ve had no explanations of anything. No answers to my questions. I’ve been forced to remain in a paltry room, in this frightful chastity belt for two days with no company at all.” She stopped her strident complaint abruptly, asking again, “So, who are you?”

“I was told you were impertinent, and so you are. Quite so.” He chuckled. “But that will change.”

Charlotte took offense at that remark. “I am myself and will always be so, no matter how you or anyone else attempts to mold me.”

The fellow stroked his chin thoughtfully, pacing about the wondering woman as Charlotte followed him with her eye, finally turning herself.

“I am your husband, Mountbane,” he finally announced.

She was speechless. Eyes, ears, mouth, feet—aye, even her heart, frozen.

“Cat got your tongue?” Mountbane quipped. “It seemed to wag so easily these last days.”

“I thought you…”

“Older. I’m sure that you imagined me some wizened fool like Harrow, or perhaps a man of your father’s years, or even some brutish boor. I am, dear Charlotte, just ten years your senior; and I assure you, my bride…”

“I am not your bride! I have made no vows, nor will I,” she thawed instantly, stamping her foot in a hot rage.

Mountbane laughed while she remained nearly in tears from frustration.

When he finally settled, his voice had lost its mockery and was quite courteous, “I’m afraid you’ve been mislead. Once you left your homeland and crossed our borders, an agreement that was signed days after your birth became fully executed. That agreement between your father and mine was signed with blood, binding you and me in a political marriage.”

“That is not true!” she exclaimed.

“You may check the documents; you know your father’s signature?”

“I do.”

“Then you can inspect them yourself.”

“Why would my father do such a thing?”

“To save himself,” Mountbane’s speech turned disdainful.

She closed her eyes to close him out, while he remained before her, the two wrapped inside a breathless quiet. Not even the mice inside the castle scurried the floors at this thorny moment. When Charlotte’s eyes popped open, she stared into Mountbane’s in perplexed wonder. “Why would you agree to such a marriage, sir?”

He smiled. “Because, Charlotte Castile, my spies have been gazing on you for several years, and finding you a pleasing female specimen, they suggested that I would enjoy your flesh.”

“My flesh and nothing more? Is that all there is to marriage in Ilusia—locked loins and fornication?”

“Hardly. It is gracious servitude for its women and contentment for its men.”

“And you would seek some contentment from me?”

He caught her joke, grinning, though his expression quickly turned grim. “Properly trained, daughter of Castile, you will serve me.”

“Never,” she turned her back on him.

“All this was written years ago,” he spoke plainly. “You can accept it now, or later. If you’re determined to fight me, so be it. But I am determined to win, and so I will. I like you. And even more, I fancy what my metal harness hides between your thighs—the warm fresh dew, the grasping muscle of your channel—and indeed, the puckering rear entrance that will soon gape with desire and drip with my seed.”

“Oh, how you disgust me,” she pulled back horrified.

“Disgust is only a creature of desire, my dear bride.”

“I will not desire you! And I am not your bride!” She turned around to make her point face to face.

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. You already are my bride. Women do not consent, allow, or agree to anything in Ilusia. They submissively accept their status and obey.”

“And if I don’t?”

He shrugged. “Then they are trained to do so.”

“And if not then?”