Stealing The Baroness

Chapter One-2

The thought cheered her, and she continued on her impromptu journey.

Once outside the manor, she found it simple to sneak away amidst the bustle of the Lord’s coming and going. No one noticed the young woman in the voluminous black cloak who made her way through the milling serfs. The season was autumn, the air crisp and chilled at midday, and a servant on an errand, perhaps to town, was a usual sight.

The sun was bright, and Rhiannon felt the tension ease from her body like water spilling over rocks to foam at the bottom of a lake as she strolled through the woods that prefaced the journey to the ocean. She hadn’t been out here by herself since she was a child. Such things were forbidden to young ladies of noble birth. They were expected always to travel with a retinue, in order to protect their precious virginity and their purse from being stolen. She cared little for her purse, since she wore none, and she was brave enough to have no thought of a brigand taking from her that which a husband would demand as his right.

She enjoyed the sound of leaves underfoot, dry like stale bread, and the quiet that allowed her to hear them crunch beneath her soft slippers. Quiet was a luxury at the manor, as was solitude. Sometimes she wished that she had not been born to a nobleman, but rather lived a simple life as a shepherdess or goose girl. Imagine, this kind of peace allowed to her every day. No servants, no suitors, just the sun and the leaves and the beauty of the day hers to enjoy.

The path she walked was wide and well-used, for her father was a generous man and did not charge toll to those who used his roads. Therefore, Rhiannon was not alarmed when she heard hoof-beats behind her, the slow clip-clop of an approaching steed. It was only when an ugly voice addressed her rudely that she turned to face Lord Bletchley. Gone was his soft, insipid smile, replaced with a sneer. He reined his horse in beside her, the beast so close that she could feel the heat rising from its body. She placed her hand upon its flank, to show she was not afraid.

Rhiannon looked up at him, with bold eyes meeting his, waiting for him to speak. There was an uncomfortable silence that Bletchley finally broke.

“Well, the witch walks alone,” he snorted, fingers tightening around his riding crop, almost as if he wished to s***h with it. He leaned forward, the material of his fine green doublet straining across his plump middle. “Tis not a wise thing to tempt the fates and mortal men so carelessly.” He reached out a hand to her, and she stepped away from it, unwilling to bear his odious touch. She had seen what he did to serving girls, and the thought of his fingers slipping within her bodice sickened her. She would certainly strike him if he tried such a trick with her.

He noticed her moving away, and his face changed, as if he was disappointed. “You are a quick one, but I could surprise you; I am quicker and stronger than you seem to believe.”

Rhiannon laughed at him. “Dost threaten me? Think twice before thou dost, and remember my father is not a gentle man, though he be a gentleman.” She was proud of her wordplay. She knew that she was very clever, more so than most of the people that she met, surpassed only by her mother and father. Certainly, this fool was no match for her wits.

If possible, Bletchley’s mouth grew smaller. “You need to be taught your place, wench, since your father has not taken the time to do so on his own. A pity,” he scowled. “Had I the time, I would do so gladly.” Again, his hand clutched the crop. He raised it. He lowered it. “As I have another appointment to attend to today, such matters must wait until we are married. Then you shall be a dutiful wife. You may show me the correct route to town. And quickly. I will not wait for your childish pranks.”

Seething inwardly, Rhiannon gave him what she believed to be the smile of a dutiful wife. “That way,” she said, pointing him in the wrong direction. Bletchley nodded and graced her with one last glare. He galloped past her with a clumsy style that almost cost him his seat. She stifled a giggle at his lack of riding skills. Yet another example of how ridiculous the great Lord was, who could not even ride a horse at a simple canter. His buffoonery was only countered by his lechery. What a disgusting man he was!

That unpleasantness behind her, she continued on her way, wanting more than ever to reach the ocean and purge herself of the day’s distasteful events. Ugh. She would hang herself before she ever allowed the Lord Bletchley to even think that she would marry someone such as him. She was tromping along the path when she heard noises from the woods.

She stopped. The noises were intriguing – sighs and moans, the rustle of bodies within the leaves. She decided to look.

Surreptitiously, she crept to the path’s edge, peeked from around a tree. Two peasants lay there, a man atop a woman. The man wore his shirt and his trousers were pulled down so that his muscular buttocks showed. They were clenching and unclenching, moving him forwards and backwards. The sight of his strong muscles was fascinating. She had never seen a man’s naked rear before.

The woman beneath him had her skirt pulled up and her head was listing from side to side, her eyes closed. On her face was written either extreme pleasure or anguish. Soft cries escaped her.

What was this? Rhiannon watched, entranced. They continued in their odd dance, moving and moving, as if trying to accomplish something by the simple act of going back and forth. The woman’s legs, thick and hard from years of working, were clasped around the calves of the man’s legs.

The woman’s breath was coming quicker, her movements more frenetic. Suddenly, she tensed, her face contorted and a wailing sound issuing from her open mouth. The man held his hand over her mouth, muffling the sound.

“Quiet, Nessie, or the whole forest will hear ye ...” he hissed, but she continued to make noises against his palm. Nessie? That was a pretty name. The woman would be pretty, she thought, if she wasn’t contorting her face as she was. Stretching her mouth to the limit, her eyes screwed shut – such things seemed to detract from the even features. There was something oddly beautiful, though, about the paroxysms that she was experiencing. The man continued to exhort her to silence.

He continued his pumping action, faster and faster. Rhiannon was enthralled by the smooth movement. It was somehow intimately graceful, yet base and animalistic, like watching a deer run through a glade. There was a purity to the movement that appealed to her.

She supposed that this was the marriage act of which she had heard the servants whisper; this was what she had to look forward to in her marriage. She did not understand it, truly. What exactly were they doing? Why were they making those sounds, and why the faces?

The man stiffened, sank his face into the woman’s shoulder as his buttocks shuddered and the motion slowed. Finally, it stopped altogether, and he lay atop the woman, both somehow wilted yet infinitely sated. Their breathing seemed to match the others, slowing down as if they had taken a long, fast walk and come to the end of it. Somehow, they seemed to be joined by the act, as if it connected them by the soul to each other. Was this love? She certainly couldn’t envision allowing Lord Bletchley to be atop her like this man was, but when her imaginings were rampant and she dreamt of strong, handsome men, she could certainly see herself beneath one of the men of her fantasies.

Before she could be seen, she slipped away back onto the path, somehow stirred by what she had witnessed. Once she had seen her stallion mating, but this was so much more wild and exciting. She quickened her pace. She did not wish to be found observing so private a moment.

The walk invigorated her so that when she reached the wood’s edge and faced the verdant meadow that preceded the cliff face, she wanted nothing more than to run like a child through the tall stalks. She settled for hiking her dress up about her calves, letting the grass brush her legs as she waded through. Her hood blew back in a sudden gust, and long wisps of hair escaped from her tight bun, framing her face in waves that reached past her waist. When she finally reached the precipice and the salt wind caressed her face, she gasped a bit, her breath stolen by the chill and the sheer magnificence of the sight that greeted her.

The bluff overlooked the ocean, providing an unencumbered view of a vast expanse that seemed to stretch on into forever. The grey water churned upon the rocks beneath her, singing a song centuries old. She noted a few sailing vessels near the coastline. They were a familiar sight; this was a popular shipping lane to London, and many merchants used these waters to approach the capitol.

When she thought of London, Rhiannon’s throat tightened in longing. She had never been there, but dreamt of seeing the richly garbed nobles with whom she should be sharing company, who did nothing all day but bask in the glory of His Majesty, Henry VIII, and discuss politics. Perhaps her father would choose a lord who was a court follower, who would present her to all those wonderful, beautiful people she longed to know. That would almost be worth not selecting her own husband.

She broke from her reverie and began to pick her way down the steep path. Twice she stumbled and caught herself, heart pounding. The trail seemed more treacherous than she recalled, and Rhiannon reconsidered the wisdom of her decision to escape the house in this manner. It was a rash action, not one worthy of a woman nearly twenty years old. What if she fell? No one would miss her until she was not present at dinner, and by then, night would have overtaken the day, and she would be trapped on the beach in the cold.

She decided that once she reached the ocean, she would stay but a moment, then return. The trip here had taken longer than it should have, and soon it would be dusk. She did not like the idea of traveling through the woods once night had fallen. This might be part of her father’s estate, but robbers and brigands lurked about. She had heard the frightening tales the maids told in hushed voices. Their lurid stories had made her breath catch in her throat, and left her feeling oddly empty, as if part of her wished to be captured. She would never admit this to any, but the thought of a brigand’s hands upon her, tearing at her clothes and forcing his mouth upon hers, created a warm sensation between her legs that she knew the priest would say was the work of the devil.

However much the idea titillated her, she knew such a thing would mean that her precious virginity would be gone, and that she would never have a noble husband. That would crush her father. No, she would go home before dark. And she would be very careful, so that she would not fall.

When she reached the shore, Rhiannon looked back up the way she had come. She had forgotten that as a child she would dress as a boy to facilitate her climbing. It seemed she had lost her good sense as she grew older. The return trip would no doubt be even more treacherous and arduous. Ah well.

She resolved not to fret things that couldn’t be changed, and take advantage of the reason she came to this cove in the first place. She walked down the rocky beach, enjoying the sound of the water hurling itself against the huge boulders that lined the shore and the prickly scent of the ocean air. Foraging birds hurled their piercing cries, darting in and out at the water like dancers.